#c.layla

She used to go entire nights without being recognized---Hell, there were even some days when she was all but invisible to the public eye. Nowadays her privacy was becoming more of a privilege than a right, and the way she frequently found herself wishing she could move about the world like she used to, without eyes on her, made her sick. 

All she wanted was to slink down to the bar and see a local band play some music. The last thing she expected was a skirt torn by a drunk so-called fan. Her presence had caused a kerfuffle between sets, the likes of which had thrown her into a panic attack. 

Nova shoved her way to the ladies room and locked the door behind her. 

With her eyes closed, the muffled sounds of the bar crowd almost sounded like being underwater. Though oddly calming, it did little to keep the moisture from her eyes. 

Everything comes at a price. Her loyalty to the band did, and so did the stardom. She’d expected it somewhat, but coming to terms with the fact that she would soon belong more to the public than she did to herself felt like a grip around her throat. 

She lightly stomped the bottom of her platform against the gross floor of the restroom, and took a deep breath, though upon doing so she realized she wasn’t alone. 

“Shit,” she breathed and swiped the moisture from her cheeks. Thankfully it didn’t seem like the other was too bothered by her mild breakdown. 

“You look really cute,” she mewled. “I love your outfit.” 

Ten hours of listening to the same drumbeat over and over again by a drummer who’d been too wasted the night before to get the tempo right was enough to do a man’s head in. 

He knew they’d get it right eventually, but, my God, at what cost? And speaking of ‘cost’, every minute re-recording shite was another minute wasted, and another minute wasted was more company dollars wasted. 

He needed some a break, some air, a beer, or something. 

The studio door shuts behind him as he enters the hall, but phantom drums play in his ear, still. The side of his fist makes its own little beat against the wall as he takes a breather, but the creaking of door hinges pulls him out of his peace. 

“Oi!” He shouts down the hall at the young woman perched in the doorway, laughing with some rando in the parking lot outside. Boots thud against the black and white checkered floors as he stormed down the hall to her. 

Goddamn groupies. No respect for confidentiality. 

“Hey! Peaches. You can’t be there like that. In or out. Are you even supposed to be here?”