1993

You've been true to this rockstar lifestyle ever since your big public breakup back in '88. Sleeping when the sun rose, hooking up at least six times a week, smoking, snorting, drinking, partying, starting songs just to never finish them, thrashing, you name it.

It started when you used to obsess over what the tabloids were saying about you. More than half the public of America on his side while a smaller percentage was all for you. After your other band members convinced you to leave it alone, you took to another way to cope. Well, ways, plural.

They worry about you even though you insist you're better than ever before. Even if you've been showing up to the studio later than usual, not picking up the phone, not calling back, leaving your pager at home, coming back to the studio in the same clothes you wore yesterday because you went home with someone that night... Everything is fine!

Bucky Barnes didn't ruin you! He made you better. You haven't put out mini albums en masse like you did post-breakup. And you were charting like crazy, so could they really complain?

Yes. Yes, they could.

You groaned as you rolled over in a bed that wasn't yours. Butt ass naked and sore. You couldn't recollect a damn thing that happened after your gig at some dive bar last night. You looked to your right, where the sun was shining through the dingy blinds of whoever's place this was, and the spot next to you was empty.

You got out of bed with a big stretch, scratching your head and looking for your scattered clothes. You could only spot your underwear, so you put them on and grabbed a cigarette before walking out the room.

The rest of the little grungy apartment smelled like bacon and eggs, and the man you assume you hooked up with while stupid high off cocaine was cooking. Zero clothes on. Not bad, you thought. You lit the cigarette and leaned against the wall with your brow raised.

"Where are my clothes?"

"Drying now," he casually said and glanced at you with a small smirk. "Shit, forgot your panties. My bad."

You shrugged and took a drag before blowing it out. There was something going off in the back of your head. Like you had something to do today...

"What time is it?" you asked as you looked around for a clock. He hummed and checked the time on the stove.

"10:43."

Your eyes widened. "Fuck!" you exclaimed and ran to snatch your half damp clothes out of the drier. The guy looked over his shoulder with no urgency and watched you frantically throw your clothes on, clearing his throat.

"Could I get an autograph before you go?"

You paused and stared at him before thinking about it. "Sure."

You grabbed a sharpie from the dining table and signed a random piece of paper lying around, darting out the door with one shoe on. You flagged down a cab--trying not to look like a crazy person--and went on your way to the studio.

You ran in, chest heaving and hunched over once you got in. The room suddenly got quiet.

"My bad, guys," you huffed and stood upright. "Seriously, that one's on me-"

You paused.

"Fun night?"

Bucky fucking Barnes...You have got to be kidding.