If you don't know who this cocky son of a bitch is, then why are you reading this? 

Lauren Walters 

 Trace Ayala

Neal Feat 

Melissa Moore 

1.    The Meeting

 I feel like my heart is going to get ripped out of my butt.

 First, this traffic is killing me. I’m trying to maneuver my blessed vehicle, an old Plymouth Station Wagon, through evening rush hour on the 101 and it isn’t going exactly to plan. People are cutting me off, slowing down in front of me, getting on my ass for no good reason other than this is Southern California and it is everybody’s right to drive like a complete moron.

 Second, I’m on my way to meet my new employer and I want nothing more than to be there early so I can collect myself before meeting him. But no, I’m probably going to be pulling up to this dance studio exactly on time and will have to run in and will have no time to calm myself down. He will probably think I’m a nutcase.

 “Calm down, Lauren,” I mutter to myself as I catch my own gaze in the rearview mirror, “You are a twenty-two year old graduate of Stanford who kicked butt in this job interview and you’re going to be an amazing personal assistant.”

 How I know that when I’ve only had about six months of personal assistant experience under my belt is beyond me. And this isn’t being a personal assistant to a co-executive of a fledgling movie production studio - this is the big time. This is something that I would never expect to happen – assist someone who’s been in the entertainment industry since he was twelve years old. Assist someone who could very well help me get a leg up in the world of record companies. Assist someone who could shape the fabric of my future in this industry.

 And he’s less than two months older than me.

 “Oh come on, please move faster!” I plead with a pick up truck that’s in front of me. I have no idea why this clown will not pick up speed since there is no one in front of him that warrants him to go twenty miles an hour on the freeway.

 I quickly swerve around him and press on the gas, hoping that Bentley Lexus the Fourth (that would be my car) won’t have his transmission fall out of his butt.

 I cheer loudly when I notice my exit and try to move over to the right lane. A loud honk rips through my Queen playlist and I turn around quickly and notice I’ve cut someone off in his beamer. I raise a hand to apologize but the driver passes me quickly, lowers his window, and sticks his middle out and waves it around for all to see. I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks as he zooms ahead, cuts me off, and proceeds to take my exit.

 Whoops. Sorry. My bad.

 It takes me another ten minutes, but I finally park Bentley in the lot of the dance studios where I’m supposed to meet my new boss. I can feel the butterflies flip-flopping in my stomach, I want to open the door, poke my head out and vomit all over the asphalt. But I know I’m better than that and I’m going to go inside, be professional, and show this Justin Timberlake that I will be the best personal assistant he’s ever had.

 I smooth out the wrinkles of my pantsuit as I walk inside the building. A receptionist looks over her desk and I notice two very large men standing by the hallway that will take me into the recesses of the studio. I can hear a pounding bass in the background and I hope I don’t contract a headache.

 “Can I help you?” the girl looks so disinterested I feel like she’s going to drop dead from boredom. She’s holding onto a nail file and looking at me as if I’m a speck of dust.

 “Yes. I’m here to meet with Johnny Wright and Justin Timberlake. I was told he’s rehearsing tonight.”

 “I can take you back,” one of the enormous men, who looks like he’s made out of brick, interjects. “I’m Eric, one of Justin’s bodyguards.”

 Wow, why the heck does this guy need bodyguards standing at the entrance of this dance studio? This place is so unassuming; you couldn’t even guess there was a popstar rehearsing here.

 “Thank you, Eric. I’m Lauren Walters, it’s nice to meet you.” My hand looks like a doll’s in Eric’s as he shakes it soundly and begins to walk down the hall. There is no getting past him he is that enormous. I can’t even see where we’re going.

 “Good to meet you, too. So you’re the new assistant then?”

 “Yes, I am,” I say proudly. I’m going to be so awesome at this it isn’t even funny.

 “Well hopefully you’ll last longer than Susan,” Eric remarks and I don’t have any time to try to digest that comment because he’s opened a door and pointed me inside.

 The throbbing bass hits me full force before I even step into the room. It’s sweltering and I want to turn around and walk right back out because the room is musty, and the dampness of sweat is hanging in the air.

 Gross.

 There are a group of people in the middle, dancing their butts off and it looks like fun, but I have two left feet and there’s no way I would ever, ever be a dancer, not in this life or in the next.

 Well, in any life for that matter.

 There’s a couch in the back and I see Johnny perched on the arm, completely ignoring the scene. He’s looking down at his Blackberry and doesn’t look up and notice me until he’s finished with his email.

 “Lauren, hi!” Johnny calls out and motions for me to join him.

 “Jesus Christ, Johnny, shut up!” a voice in the middle of the room exclaims. I can’t make out who said it exactly, but that doesn’t stop me from scampering over to where Johnny is and taking a seat next to him.

 It seems like everyone is ignoring the outburst and the dancers continue doing their thing and Johnny continues to do his. My heart is pounding along with the bass and I want nothing more than for the music to stop so I can meet my new boss, get acquainted, receive my duties for tomorrow, and get home so I can watch Flavor of Love.

 “They’re just going to finish up this routine and then they’ll take a break,” Johnny whispers to me and I nod to show that I’ve heard him.

 The dancing is really good, really complex and everyone is hitting their mark like they’ve been doing this for years. It’s actually a really impressive thing to watch. The music comes to a crescendo and everyone drops to his or her knees except one guy who strikes a pose and looks straight at himself into the mirror.

 Hello there, boss.

 He’s got delicate curls all over his head that are plastered to his forehead and the nape of his neck with sweat. I can see his chest rising and falling in the mirror and you can tell this guy has been working hard for the majority of the day.

 The music’s ended and most of the dancers are getting to their feet and reaching out for towels and water bottles. I raise my hands up to applaud their efforts, but Johnny reaches over and pushes my hands down with his – he hasn’t even looked up from his Blackberry.

 “Justin,” he calls out before he looks up from his phone and shoves it in his pocket. Johnny gets to his feet and heads over to my sweaty employer. I really hope he wipes his hands on a towel before he shakes mine. I really, really, really hate sweat.

 “What the fuck, Johnny? You can’t be yelling shit out in the middle of a dance routine, I could have fucked it up and you know how ridiculous Marty is about that shit. He’d make us run through the whole thing again.”

 It seems like this guy likes to complain. Okay. Duly noted.

 “Sorry about that Justin,” Johnny says with a chuckle before he slaps him on the back. God, now Johnny has Justin sweat all over his hands. This is so disgusting. “I want you to meet your new P.A.”

 I stand up immediately and throw my shoulders back so I don’t look like I’m easily intimidated. I offer my hand for him to shake – sweat or no sweat – it’s no use being impolite to the man who is going to be giving you a leg up in the industry. My most winning smile is on my face and I’m ready to take this plunge as he reaches his hand out as well.

 “Justin this is…”

 “Good job, Justin!” the two voices ring out at once and Justin is immediately more interested in the person giving him praise. I look over to see who is complimenting him when they know he should be busy, and it’s one of the dancers who’s heading out of the studio.

 Really?

 Justin’s hand has already been extended and I’ve already grabbed onto it to shake. I can vaguely hear Johnny giving Justin my name, but I’m more transfixed on the fact that this man is shaking my hand and completely ignoring me.

 Again. Really?

 “Justin, did you hear me?” Johnny interrupts the conversation Justin is having with one of his dancers, “Your new personal assistant?”

 “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I did,” he says letting go of my hand and throwing his own up in defeat, “How you doing, Wiggins?”

 “It’s Walters, actually, Lauren Walters,” I correct him.

 “Eh, whatever.”

 No. It is not whatever. Is this guy for real? I’m going to be working very closely with this man for who knows how long and he doesn’t want to get my name right? Is he serious?

 But I don’t say anything, because I don’t want to start out on the wrong foot with this guy which is why I don’t correct him again as he walks past me and lounges across the couch.

 “So,” he begins as he rests an arm behind his head to prop himself up so he can leer at me properly, “You’re the person my record label sent in because they think my own P.A. can’t handle it.”

 I open my mouth to say something, but close it, because what he has to say is true. From what I understood from the six interviews I went on to secure this job, Justin’s personally hired Personal Assistant was making him run late, dropping phone calls, and basically just dropping the ball on everything.

 From what the record label told me, Justin’s assistant also happens to be his best friend, so I’m sure they have a good time yucking it up and living the fast life instead of actually getting things done.

 “The label just thinks you need a little bit more guidance,” Johnny intervenes and I quickly throw him an appreciative smile.

 “Oh what the fuck ever. What makes them think that she’s going to be different than the last one that left in tears? Sarah, or whatever the fuck her name was.”

 “Well Susan was doing fine, until you told her you wanted the last Harry Potter book and she couldn’t deliver because it hasn’t been written yet.” Justin grins at his own little prank and swings his legs off the couch so he’s sitting up and looking at me with interest.

 “If I may, Mr. Timberlake, I’m more than qualified for this position and I would be more than happy to work with your current assistant on anything you might need,” I explain quickly and I want to scream in frustration when he actually yawns in the middle of my speech.

 “Really then? Okay. Well tomorrow I’m going to need you to pick up my assistant at the airport. I don’t know what time he gets in and I don’t know what airline. I’m pretty sure it’s before lunch. You’ll need to pick him up and bring him here and bring me lunch in the process. Then I’m going to need you to take my dogs to the groomers, pick up my dry cleaning, and you’ll need to do my grocery shopping. What kind of car do you drive?”

 “Pardon?” but before I can get anything else out, Justin is on his feet and out the studio door. I cast a look towards Johnny but he merely smiles and shrugs as if this erratic behavior is an every day occurrence.

 “Come on Wiggins!” I hear him yell in the hallway and I have no choice but to follow him.

 The minute I hit the hallway he’s already outside and I find myself running towards the exit so I don’t keep him waiting. He seems like the kind of person that when he wants something done he wants it done right away and there is no down time allowed.

 “Where’s your car?” he asks me as he surveys the parking lot in the setting sun.

 “It’s over here,” I point towards Bentley Lexus and for once he’s following me.

 “Where is it?” he asks once we stop right in front of my car.

 “It’s right here,” I explain and I rest my hand on the roof of my precious vehicle.

 “You mean it’s behind this piece of shit, right?” I guess he thinks I’m joking that this is my car. But there is no joking when my car is involved.

 “No. This is my car,” I say slowly so maybe his brain can catch up with his mouth.

 “Well, you can’t pick Trace up in this. Fuck no. Come over to my house tomorrow and take my Escalade. Jesus, how do you get yourself around in this?”

 “It’s a great car it runs…”

 “That was rhetorical. Nice meeting you Laura, see you tomorrow.” 

 And he’s walking back to the dance studio before I can tell him that my name is Lauren Walters and that I am not an idiot.

 I watch him walk past Johnny and into the building, Johnny laughing under his breath. I don’t know what’s so funny. I’m about to get into my car, but I see that Johnny is walking towards me with an enormous binder in his hands.

 “This is for you,” he explains and I nearly drop the thing. I feel like I’m holding a newborn, if said newborn weighed fifteen pounds, “This is Justin’s schedule for the next four months. Your work cell phone is inside as are the keys to Justin’s house and all the access codes for his security systems. If you have any questions, you have my number and everyone’s numbers are programmed into the work phone. It’s nice to have you on board, Lauren.”

 He reaches out to shake my hand and I have to juggle my purse, keys, and a binder that contains an almost-twenty-three year old’s entire life. I take his hand in mine and smile, “Thanks Johnny, won’t let you down.”

 I throw my belongings into the car and close the door once I’m inside. I lean back in my seat, letting my head rest against the back. Letting out a huge sigh, I start my car and take a deep breath.

 Something’s telling me I’m in for a wild ride.

I stifle a yawn as I shift my weight from one foot to the other and look out amongst the sea of people leaving baggage claim from LAX. I look down at my poster board sign for the millionth time to make sure I’ve got his name correct. I assure myself that I’ve got it right and to stop freaking out about this.

I have this in the bag.

To pass the time, I go over Justin’s schedule once more in my head.

Wednesday, January 18 – Radio interview from 5 AM until 6:30, then a second interview at another station from 7:15 until 8. Meeting with Christina Aguilera and her people to discuss upcoming tour from 10 AM until Noon. Break for lunch. 2 PM until 8 - dance rehearsal. 10 PM until midnight, promotion opportunity at whatever club Justin chooses. Thursday, January 19….

I spent most of my evening locked in my room trying to memorize his schedule to the best of my abilities. The better I know it, the more prepared I’ll be. I’ve familiarized myself with all his people through the use of my new work phone and Google search. I’m pretty sure my roommate, Melissa thinks I’m some kind of maniac trying to get all of this memorized.

But I have a feeling that I cannot fall shy of the mark in the slightest or he will hang my butt out to dry.

I just don’t know how one person can be in that many places in just four months, and this is just his tentative schedule. It is all subject to change at the drop of a hat and when it does, I have to make sure it all flows effortlessly.

Granted, I don’t know what his other assistant is like. I’m about to meet him for the first time, and I hope that he’ll take some of this burden off of me. I feel like I’m Atlas carrying this guy’s world on my shoulders and it’s only my first official day of work.

I am not going to have a life for my own.

That’s okay though. If the record label can see what a good job I’m doing, maybe four months is all it will take for them to offer me a position in their offices, maybe even doing assistant work for the CEO.

Hey, a girl can dream, can’t she?

I’m just glad I got down to this airport in one piece and in a car that wasn’t Bentley Lexus or my parent’s pick up truck.

I arrived at Justin’s house this morning to trade off cars and my mouth could only fall open in complete shock. He lives in paradise. Enormous house with a Mediterranean style to it, luscious landscape, what I’m sure is a killer view in the back of the house of Hollywood and downtown Los Angeles, and a four-car garage.

I parked in an area where I hoped I was out of the way and put in the access code to the garage. There was his Escalade, a BMW, more motorcycles than I could shake a fist at in one bay, and some European sports car that I’m sure costs more than my family home up in Montana.

I knew this guy had money, no idea he was this loaded.

I entered the house and walked past what I’m sure was the laundry room, storage, and maybe even a home gym. His was a vast cavern of state of the art appliances and granite countertops. It looked spotless, like it hadn’t been used since the place was first purchased.

On the counter were the keys to the Escalade. I didn’t even bother to see if he was awake. Justin had the morning off, and judging by his schedule for the next few days, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was trying to get as much sleep as humanly possible.

So I grabbed the keys and left Bentley’s on the counter. I turned to go, but immediately did an about face and lifted the keys off the counter. Don’t ask my why, but I had a feeling that if Justin woke up and saw those keys I’d never see my car again.

I’m still a bit miffed he called Bentley a piece of shit.

The P.A. system in the airport beeps and I look up at the television monitors that indicate what flights have come in and where the baggage is arriving.

I guess Trace was in Memphis for a few days, visiting family. I know he and Justin have been best friends since forever and that is the extent of my knowledge of one Mr. Trace Ayala.

The screen flashes a few times and my posture immediately stiffens when I see that the Memphis flight has arrived and has already been delivering bags to Carousel Three.

Taking a deep breath, I head in that direction, still holding my sign in front of me like it will offer a beacon of light to my client. ‘I’m here! I’m the new girl! Let’s join forces and be in this together!’

I stand off to the side of Carousel Three and watch as people anxiously wait for their bags. This is the worst part of flying – especially if your bags aren’t priority and get off the plane first. I always start to get nervous when my bags haven’t shown up within the first ten minutes. I hope this guy isn’t the same way.

People come and go with bags and loved ones. Some businessmen walk over to where I’m standing with a bunch of other drivers and pair off. I’m still standing in the same position, trying to maintain my I-will-not-be-intimidated-I-am-strong-and-awesome posture while I hold up the sign baring Trace’s name, but after another fifteen minutes I’m starting to get worried.

Did he miss his flight and I didn’t get a phone call? Did he lose his bags and is he trying to deal with that nightmare? Did he decide to not come home?

Something tells me Justin won’t be happy if his best friend isn’t delivered to him.

I’m about to do a perimeter check of the carousel when my work phone starts to ring.

I pull it out of my hip holster and see Trace’s name lit up on the screen. I raise the phone to my ear and before I even get the chance to say my name, someone else is already speaking.

“Is this Laura Wiggins?”

“It’s actually Lauren Walters. Am I speaking with Trace?”

“Yeah it’s me. Dude, where are you?” there’s a hint of frustration in his voice. I turn around quickly, holding the sign over my head, waving it profusely.

“I’m right by baggage claim.”

“You are? Do you have a sign? I don’t see you.”

I start to wave my sign more frantically, garnering strange looks from weary travelers. I must look absolutely mental.

“I do have a sign. I’m standing by carousel three.”

“Dude, Wiggins, there is no carousel three at Burbank.”

I drop the sign and it falls on my head before it continues its journey to the floor. I know all the color has drained from my face and I really want to throw up the banana I had earlier this morning.

Burbank.

Not LAX.

Burbank. Bob Hope Airport

Not Los Angeles International.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God.

“Dude, Wiggins, you there?”

“Y-y-yes,” I stammer as I snatch my sign off the floor and begin to run like the dickens towards the parking garage, “I’m terribly sorry. I’m twenty minutes away. Just sit tight, I’ll be there in twenty.”

And before he has time to respond, I’ve jammed the phone back into its holster, bypass the elevators, and head straight for the stairs. I know I’ve parked on the fourth floor, but I don’t have time to deal with slow moving airport elevators.

My butt is totally on the line.

And why the hell did I tell Trace that it would take me twenty minutes to get to Burbank when I know full well it will take me close to forty if I have to go from the 405 to the 101 to the 134?

I manage to come peeling up curbside at Burbank in thirty minutes. I know I did some serious illegal driving (you know, going into the carpool lane and doing over ninety miles an hour) but I don’t really care. I need this job and I can’t afford to screw it up.

Of course I do the stupid thing and leave the car parked on the curb. I yank out the sign and start to scan the crowd frantically for anybody that could possibly look they’d fit the name Trace Ayala.

“You must be Wiggins,” a voice says directly to my left. I turn to face him and am immediately taken aback by how short he is. He has to be the same height as me when I don’t have my work pumps on, so the fact that I’m looking down at him is kind of comical.

He’s wearing some sort of hideous trucker hat with skulls and gilded lilies on it and he looks like he could do with a shave. His jeans have a myriad of tears in them and I think he’s wearing an Ed Hardy shirt.

Not at all what I was expecting.

“Hello, yes. I’m Lauren Walters, I can’t apologize enough…”

“Hey, don’t apologize to me,” he says as he passes over a duffle bag. It hits me squarely in the stomach and I try to not show him that he’s knocked the wind out of me. What the heck does he have in here? Bricks? “Apologize to your boss for being…” he glances down at his watch and then looks up at me, “over thirty minutes late.”

Oh God. I am so dead.

I hoist his duffle bag onto my shoulder as best as I can without falling over and lead him towards the Escalade, which is getting dubious looks from a police officer. I give him a friendly wave as I open the trunk of the car and drop Trace’s bag inside. I can see that my charge has already gotten into the front seat and I run around quickly and get into the driver’s seat.

“Might want to grab that,” Trace offers as he points to a piece of paper stuck underneath the windshield wiper.

I did not just get a ticket.

Opening the car door, I get out and quickly run to the front of the car, snatching the ticket from the windshield and casting a dirty look towards the police officer. He merely smiles and waves me on.

“Well,” Trace begins as I start towards the exit of the airport, “that’s going to come out of your paycheck.”

Is this guy serious right now? How about a little bit of sympathy?

But then I realize that I went to the wrong airport and was over thirty minutes late picking him up; I should really be hoping that he isn’t going to give a bad report to Justin.

Thankfully the drive from Burbank into West Hollywood isn’t as strenuous as it would be from LAX at this time. Traffic is just starting to hit and it’s with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I realize I have yet to pick up Justin’s lunch.

Up until now, Trace has been very quiet. He’s been attached to his cell phone like it’s a new appendage and is treating me like I don’t even exist. That was fine up until now, but I need his help.

“Um, Trace?” I begin and he looks up at me with a surprised look, as if I’m speaking Swahili or something.

“’Sup?”

“Where does Justin like to eat?”

There’s silence in the car as Trace looks at me incredulously. I really want to stick a stalk of wheat in his mouth what with that ludicrous looking trucker hat perched on his head and all.

“You’re his assistant, you tell me.”

“You’re his assistant, too, I figured…” my voice trails away and I feel absolutely ridiculous, “I figured we could help each other out.”

Trace gives me a dumbfounded look before he throws his head back and starts to laugh uncontrollably.

“Help each other out?” he repeats, “Are you serious Wiggins? Justin told me you were a bit weird, but he didn’t tell me you were fucking hilarious.”

“And what makes me asking you to help me out so ‘fucking hilarious’?”

“Don’t do that,” Trace interjects quickly.

“Do what?” I ask as I try my best to look at him, but keep my eyes on the road at the same time.

“Swear. You sound fucking weird when you do it. And I’m going to tell you the big difference between you and me when it comes to assistant work, Wiggins…”

“It’s Walters,” I correct, but he waves his hand in my face.

“Whatever,” he dismisses me. Is this guy Justin’s clone?

“You’re hired help. I help Justin out because I’m his brother from another mother and his partner in crime in every thing. We go hand and hand and nothing will keep us apart. We’re like Han Solo and Chewbacca. Justin is Chewbacca since he’s hairier and I’m more dashing…”

This little twerp wishes. I’m sure he could braid his back hair.

“…But we can get rid of you in a heartbeat. You are disposable. So when you ask for help, it’s like a loony asking for an audience with the Queen of England. It ain’t gonna fucking happen. Capice?”

I say nothing during his whole monologue. If he isn’t going to help me, then I’m just going to have to do things myself. My job just got ten times harder, but I’ll have to make do.

“This place looks good,” I say with a noncommittal shrug, acting like I didn’t hear Trace’s affirmation of his infinite Bromance with Justin. Trace says nothing as I pull into the drive-thru of Burger King. “Could you at least tell me what he likes from here?”

“Whopper.”

“Wow!” I say with mock appreciation, “Thanks for your help!”

I know I shouldn’t take an attitude, but Trace isn’t my boss, and I don’t know…I just don’t like his face. I have a feeling he’s going to do more bad than good while I’m working for Justin.

Awesome.

We’re in and out of the BK Lounge within minutes and before Trace can open Justin’s bag to get a whiff of the French fries, we’ve pulled up to the dance studio.

“Fucking finally!” Trace exalts as he throws the car door open and rushes inside. I can only guess what he’s going to tell Justin about me when he reaches him, so I quickly grab Justin’s lunch and hurry after his tiny best friend.

When I reach the studio they’ve been scheduled in, I’m met with a stony silence. Justin is sitting in the middle of the floor, surrounded by his dancers and his choreographers. Security have perched themselves on the black couches where I was sitting last night. Everyone has their lunch.

Except Justin.

Trace is standing just to the left of the circle of dancers, watching me intently. It seems they’re all waiting for something and I have no clue what it is.

“Wiggins,” Justin begins quietly as he gets to his feet. I can feel the room starting to tense up, except for Trace who looks like Christmas has just come early and will continue to repeat itself daily for the next three months, “What the fuck?”

And within minutes, Justin has weaved his way through the throng of dancers and is standing a few feet away from me, hands on his hips, face drawn, with his head shaking back and forth. He looks like a petulant child.

“Do you know how late you are? Don’t answer me,” he seethes when I open my mouth to apologize, “Do you realize that I’ve had to sit here and watch everyone else eat their lunch while I’m fucking starving? What did you think I was going to try and trade lunches or some shit like I’m in the third fucking grade? Oh, sorry Kim, I can’t give you my cookies for your pudding snack because my fucking assistant is over forty minutes late with my god damn food.”

So this is why everyone was watching the door intently. They were waiting for me to come in so they could watch the Lunch Hour Show – and I’m the headliner.

“I should have told you he gets cranky when he doesn’t get his lunch on time,” Trace interrupts with a wicked smile on his face. I want to go punch his teeth in. Justin gives him a dirty look and that seems to shut his friend up.

“Where’s my lunch, Wiggins?”

I don’t say anything about why I’m late. I don’t try to offer to apologize. It seems like it’s too late for apologies. I just hope Trace didn’t lie when he told me Justin liked Whoppers.

I present Justin with the paper bag and he looks at it as if I’ve given him a bag full of dog poop.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Your lunch,” I state as a matter of fact. The room is bathed in silence with the exception of Trace trying to hold back his sniggering.

“No, seriously, is this some kind of a joke?”

 “No it isn’t. I was running behind schedule and – “

“Oh, oh you were running behind schedule!” Justin says, mock concern lacing his voice, “You were running behind schedule so you decided it would be beneficial to get someone who is in dance rehearsals shit from a fast food joint?”

I really don’t know what to say or to do, really. I know that I want to burst into tears because I have never been more embarrassed in my life. I want to tell this entitled brat and his friend that they can shove it because this is not how normal human beings treat one another.

But I know that giving him a reaction is exactly what he wants. So I stand up a little straighter and look him square in the eye as he continues to berate me. I can feel my bottom lip start to tremble, but I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. Losing my cool in front of this loser is not going to help things. Just keep calm and take the beating.

“Do I look like the type of person who would eat at Burger King?”

“No,” I say and thank God my voice comes out strong and not trembling like I thought it would, “You do not look like the type of person who would eat at Burger King and I’m truly sorry for the mix up. If you’d like, I can go get you a salad or something else that would suit your interests. And I also apologize for not being on time. It will never happen again.”

Judging by the way his eyebrows rise ever so slightly in surprise, leads me to believe that he isn’t used to his hired help addressing him in such a way. But this guy strikes me as the kind of person who just gets even more agitated when someone starts to beg for forgiveness and also get emotional.

“No,” Justin says after a few agonizing seconds of silence, “Trace can go get me food. You can go finish the shit I told you to do. And give this,” he shoves the bag of offending food back in my direction, “to my dogs.”

I turn around to go, still trying my best to hold my head high. It seems that everyone in the room is breathing again and I’m glad for that – now they can go back to dancing around like ballerinas or whatever the hell they do and I can get on with my work.

“You can unpack for me,” Trace calls after me as I open the door, “My room is on the bottom floor next to the game room!”

I make no indication to Trace that I’ve heard him. Instead I walk as quickly as possible down the hallway, out the door, and make it to the Escalade just before the first wave of tears begin to fall.

Even though my boss has reduced me to tears, I will never give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

I have a lot of favorite things.

First – sex. Hey, I’m a twenty-one (almost twenty-two, hey!) year old man. What do you think the first one of my favorite things was going to be? My dogs? Fuck that shit.

Second – performing. Nothing else comes close to it - a bunch of horny girls screaming your name and wanting nothing more than to fuck you. It’s awesome. And I get to meet some pretty fucking awesome people and work with them too. And, even better, if they are a member of the opposite sex, I probably get to fuck them.

Three – Driving Lauren Wiggins absolutely bat shit insane. It is, like sex and performing, something I happen to be really good at. And something I can do all the time when I’m not having sex, performing, or sleeping. Or taking a shit – although there was that moment in New York last week and I called her instead of hotel maintenance to unclog my toilet from the massive deuce I left behind.

It was truly a glorious, glorious moment and something I will cherish until I do something else that will cause Lauren to wake up at two in the morning to handle shit I could very well take care of myself.

But hey, if she’s getting paid, why the fuck should I have to do it?

I really think the only reason I keep this chick around is because I love it when her eyes bug out of her head when I ask her to do something bordering the impossible.

Like two days ago when we were on the jet coming back from a promotional tour in New York City. I casually told her that I needed her to plan my birthday party that I wanted thrown for me in LA in three days time. I thought her eyes were going to pop right out of their sockets.

I guess she didn’t read the memo that I always have a birthday in Los Angeles, schedule permitting, and I always have the after party at my house.

Which is why she’s running about my home like a fucking gerbil trying to clean it up because Trace cancelled the cleaners since they come ‘too early and wake the whole house up.’

There is something really, really funny watching Wiggins vacuum my living room in her cheap ass business suits and high heels. So Trace and I have set up camp on the couches with chips and dip, watching her intently when the commercials come on for Sports Center.

“Dude, Wiggins,” Trace begins as he lobs a chip over the coffee table and onto the floor, “you missed a spot.”

She ignores us as she pushes the vacuum over the offending chip and continues with her work.

And look, I’d be fucking lying if I said that she didn’t get shit done. Sure she had that fuck up the first day of the job, but now Trace and I just tease her about it without mercy every chance we get. But she was on fucking point in New York, and sure my late night party schedule and my sleep time were severely cut down, but I was on time for everything and somewhat functioning most of the time.

Does she know I kind of appreciate her hard work? Hell fucking no. The fact that I haven’t fired her ass and continue to pay her should be enough gratitude.

Trace continues to litter the carpet with chips and I would be joining him in this endeavor if I weren’t high as a fucking kite. Chips on the floor only to get sucked up by Lauren’s vacuum are not helping the wave of munchies in my stomach.

“Knock it off, Trace. At least throw them into my mouth if you’re going to be chucking them anywhere.” And for the next five minutes Trace is trying to throw chips into my open mouth. Most of them are just landing onto the couch and I know Lauren’s going to have to clean it up later, but what the fuck ever, man. This shit is funny as fuck.

Once the laughter has subsided and all the chips have made it from the bag to either the floor, the couch, or one of our stomachs, I turn to Lauren who has just finished her sweeping of the massive living room.

“Anything else?” she asks as she leans against the cleaner.

“Yeah. You need to pick my mom up from the airport tonight,” I explain before I start to giggle, “And it’s Burbank airport, so don’t wind up at LAX again.” Trace’s eyes widen and he begins to cackle and soon I’m joining him.

I’m sorry, but that shit is never going to get old.

“Sure, no problem,” Lauren responds and soon she’s wrapping the cord of the vacuum cleaner up and storing it wherever we keep the vacuum cleaner. I don’t know, I just paid for the damn thing; do you really expect me to use it?

But that’s what is so dope about Lauren. She’s so submissive I fucking love it. She’s nothing like my old PA, who was basically afraid of my shadow and would be reduced to tears every time I tried to give her a fucking task to do.

Lauren just puts her head down and does the work. No task is too difficult and if it is, she doesn’t let me or anyone else know. And the best part is, every time I insult her it’s like she looks at me and says ‘thank you sir, may I have another?”

And that is fucking AWESOME.

--

You know, I’m going to take the time to give myself a pat on the back.

Sure, I feel like an idiot rushing down the hallway where the bathrooms are patting my right shoulder (and I play it off like I’m working a kink out when I get a weird look from some scantily clad woman), but I have managed to pull off this party without Justin yelling at me or Trace screwing it all up.

But that might be because Justin has not left his position since he arrived a few hours ago and is still sitting on a plush couch surrounded by a bunch of people blowing smoke up his ass.

I have to admit he’s been pretty tolerable for the majority of the evening, but I’m sure that will change once he makes his announcement that everyone is to head back to his house for the after party.

For the life of me I can’t understand why he’d have another party. It’s almost three in the morning and by the time everyone gets over to his house it will be closer to four. And I will not be happy if he decides to cancel the party; I spent all day cleaning his house and dealing with setting up for this party.

“Lauren!”

I turn around and see Trace stumble out of the men’s room. He is absolutely hammered and I’m surprised that he’s still standing. But then the door to the bathroom opens again and a girl prances out in six-inch heels, wiping the corner of her mouth.

Oh God, gross.

“I’m going home to fuck this chick,” he yells over the music. It doesn’t seem like the girl heard him because she’s currently staring in the large mirror on the opposite wall, fluffing her hair, “Call us a cab.” Well, at least he’s being responsible and not trying to drive anywhere under the influence.

Trace and his lady friend follow me out onto the main floor as I make a quick phone call to the cab company I have on speed dial. It seems like the party is starting to wind down, the crowd on the dance floor has definitely thinned and there aren’t as many people by the bar. So hopefully this after party won’t be some huge thing. I can handle babysitting a handful of drunks, not an entire club.

“Trace! Wiggins! Get your asses over here!” I turn around and see Justin standing up from his couch. His little throne room is raised above the dance floor, allowing him to survey the entire area.

I grab Trace by the collar of his shirt and drag him away from the girl who is currently gyrating all over the little weasel. She shouts out in indignation and I’m glad the music is loud so I can’t hear her stilettos clacking on the floor.

“’Sup, man?” Trace asks when we reach Justin. He’s returned to his seat on the red suede couch and there is currently a redhead perched on his lap, nibbling on his earlobe.  His hands are resting on her upper thighs and I want to vomit when I notice that he’s started to massage them.

If you have never seen your boss in a sexual situation let me tell you, it is not pleasing, at all.

“Birthday shots!” he proclaims and that’s when I notice five shots of I don’t even know what resting on the table in front of the couch. Trace yells out in jubilation and sits down next to Justin’ his gal pal hot on his heels. She squeals in fake protest as he pulls her down on top of him.

God these two are the biggest morons.

I watch as Justin, Trace, and their women for the evening grab the shots on the table. There’s one left and everyone is looking at me expectantly.

“Well?”

“What?” I ask as I look at my boss with trepidation. He can’t be serious, can he?

“You’re taking a fucking shot, Wiggins,” he demands, his words slurring together.

“No. I don’t drink on the job,” I insist. I would really appreciate it if the cab would call me back to let me know they’re here to pick up Trace. That would be very beneficial to my interests.

“You’ll do what I fucking tell you, and you are going to take this shot for my birthday. I’m twenty-two, Lauren, it’s all down hill from here.”

“Not exactly. I mean, you have to be twenty-five in order to rent a car without extra insurance,” I blurt out just as the DJ stops the song to change a record over. So there is no doubt that everyone on the couch heard me.

“Dude,” Justin says as he shakes his head, “you are so fucking weird, Wiggins. Just do the fucking shot. You know I won’t leave you alone until you do it.”

He has a point, the bastard.

I reach over and pick up the shot and try to hide my smile when everyone cheers. I’m not going to lie; it’s nice to be included and to be considered like an actual party guest instead of running around all night like a woman possessed.

“Happy birthday!” we chorus before the shots are downed. I immediately make a face. I hate vodka. It tastes like straight alcohol to me, but it seems like everyone else has enjoyed it profusely.

And then I’m watching Justin’s redheaded Flavor of the Moment shove her tongue down his throat while she simultaneously straddles him. This is so awkward, and I know he won’t remember this in the morning. And the shot I just took will definitely not make me even the slightest bit tipsy, or buzzed for that matter.

“Wiggins,” he manages to gasp out as Big Red travels down his neck, “Go get the car. We’re…. we’re going home. Now.”

--

It’s another twenty minutes until I manage to get Justin and Big Red into the Escalade. Trace and his harlot rode off into the sunset in a yellow cab heading for whatever crack den she crawled out of. And then Justin felt the need to announce to the entire party to fuck off and not show up at his house. 

So, you know, I cleaned up the whole house for nothing.

There’s a thump in the backseat followed by a crescendo of giggles. Justin and Red are in the back, all over each other. Since the last birthday shot, they have gotten progressively drunker and it has apparently led them to believe that they are being driven home by some magical entity that doesn’t notice the hardcore making out and heavy petting going on in the backseat.

Just keep your eyes on the road. Do not look back. Ignore it. Eyes on the road, Lauren, eyes on the road.

This becomes my mantra as I try to stay as focused as possible. It’s not that I’m interested in watching my boss make out with some hussy; it’s just really distracting to my driving. And the last thing I need is to get into a car accident with my boss in the vehicle.

I continue to drive down Sunset, going through every single Queen song lyric in my head. It takes me another minute to realize that the sound in the back has died down and it’s actually silent.

My eyes dart to the rearview mirror when we stop at a red light, and I see Justin, but not Big Red. He’s leaning back with his arms behind his head, a look of pure satisfaction on his face. It seems like Big Red was drunker than I thought – she’s passed out in the back and that’s why I can’t see her in the mirror.

Thank God.

The light turns green and I step on the gas, thankful that things won’t progress in the backseat.

“Oh fuck, yes…” Justin gasps deeply.

And then I hear the slurping noises from the floor of the backseat.

Oh my Sweet Gentle Jesus and Moses. Oh my God. 

“Hey, Lo-ho, eyes on the road,” Justin manages to snap out and my eyes immediately fly away from the rearview mirror and to the road in front of me.

I cannot believe this is happening. Thank God it’s dark because I can feel the heat rising up in my face to create, what I am sure, is a very deep blush. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

I cannot believe my boss is in the backseat getting a blowjob right now. I cannot.

“Lo-ho,” Justin pants, “I-I need you to pull over…oh fuck. I need you to pull over and get me protection.”

“Excuse me?” I find myself saying incredulously. I know this guy doesn’t like any of his requests questioned, but I’m still trying to wrap my head around that I am involuntarily witnessing a sexual act in the back of the car.

“You heard me. Go to a gas station and…” his voice falls away as he moans and I want to die, “condoms! Just get some fucking condoms.”

I still cannot. Oh sweet Lord Almighty.

And of course I happen to be on the one stretch of Sunset Boulevard that has decided gas stations are a bad idea. Of course.

“Oh yeah, you know Daddy likes that…”

Dirty talk. Of course I would have to listen to dirty talk. And ‘Daddy?’ Seriously? Who the heck is this guy? I knew I was working for a schmuck, but not the biggest one on the face of the planet.

“Does Daddy like this?” Oh! Big Red, she speaks!

Wait, why am I listening to their conversation? Or lack there of? Why am I even in this car? And where the hell is a gas station?

I see the sign of a Shell station in the distance and I don’t care that I speed up and cut a sedan off as I try to reach the station in record time. I cannot get out of this car fast enough.

We pull into the lot, and I try to park as far away from light as possible. I know that Justin will not listen to my requests that they put their love fest on hold while I go get their prophylactics and avoid getting seen due to the blinding fluorescent lights.

I swear to God I have not exited a car so fast in my life.

Walking into the station, I head straight for the counter. There’s no need to browse the store and make it look I’m here for something else. This is what boyfriends must feel like when their girlfriends ask them to go to the store to buy them tampons.

“What can I get you?” the clerk asks. He’s about two hundred pounds overweight and looks like he hasn’t showered in three days. I can see the sweat stains around his neck and armpits and his long black hair that’s shoved under a trucker hat that’s more ugly than Trace’s, looks greasy and unkempt. You could probably cook a burger from the stuff you squeeze out of his hair.

“Um, can I get a pack of Trojans, please?”

He turns around and grabs the standard box off the wall and turns back towards me. I hand him the cash and as he presents me with the receipt he gives me a smirk and a small nod.

Gross.

‘Actually, these are for my superstar boss who is currently contracting some form of STD in the back of his car,’ is what I want to tell him, but I’m pretty sure that would be breaching my confidentiality portion of my work contract.

I walk back across the lot towards the car and stop dead in my tracks when I realize it is rocking back and forth like there is no tomorrow. If I didn’t know what was going on in there, I would suspect someone had decided to throw an impromptu dance party.

But with Justin and Big Red screaming like sex banshees in the backseat, it isn’t hard to decipher what they’re doing.

And I refuse to go back in the store. So I knock on the window of the backseat and I’m not surprised that I’m completely ignored.

Good to know that I risked my dignity to buy you condoms and you aren’t even going to use them, Justin. I really hope he doesn’t blame me when he ends up with crabs or syphilis.

I can totally see that happening.

So I try to drown out the noise by muttering Justin’s schedule under my breath. When that doesn’t work (because hearing Justin’s voice, albeit muffled, yell out ‘give me more, give me more, I’m going to cum,’ is incredibly distracting and embarrassing at the same time) I start to sing Queen, loudly.

I don’t care if I look like a lunatic singing ‘Under Pressure’ at the top of my lungs at a gas station in the middle of the night in the heart of Hollywood while there’s a very expensive car rocking back and forth feet from me. This has to be an every day occurrence in LA so I’m not really bothered.

But I am bothered by the fact that my boss thought it was a good idea to engage in sexual activity while his employee was still in vicinity.

Then again, when does Justin ever think?

There’s a big crescendo of moaning in the car and it finally stops moving. I immediately stop singing and ignore the applause from a group of college guys who were filling up the tank of their car.

I jump as the back window rolls down and Justin’s face appears, a huge shit eating grin on his face. I can’t see Big Red and I really hope she isn’t going for round two.

“Never mind about those condoms, Lauren. But we need to take Kelly…”

“My name is Tina!” Big Red interjects from the other side of the car before she giggles drunkenly.

“Yeah, Tina. We need to take Tina home.”

“So get a move on it Lo-ho!” Tina exalts and Justin starts laughing as I get in the front seat.

“I like that. Lo-ho. I like that a lot,” Justin muses as I pull out of the gas station.

Yeah? Well, I hate you.

I am in hell.

I am in hell 30,000 feet above sea level and there is no way I can escape. I’m trapped in a plane shaped coffin and I’ll be stuck here for six more hours.

When the record company told me they were springing the cash to pay for a huge private jet to fly me and my crew over to London, I was fucking over the moon. Drive right onto the tarmac, no security lines – just get on the damn plane and leave. Don’t even have to deal with people staring at you as you get on the plane because it’s all my people and I can be myself. No act for the general public.

But now I wish I was on a plane with random strangers because at least Trace wouldn’t be annoying the shit out of me.

“Dude, Lauren, guess what? Lauren guess what? Hey Lauren? Guess what?”

Trace is doing his best to get Lauren to answer him, but instead of getting her annoyed, it’s really fucking me off.

I’m trying to be the studious artist, reading up on my schedule and to come up with some answers from questions predetermined by my publicity team. I don’t want to go into these interviews with these English media people blind. That happened in New York and I thought Ken, my publicist, was going to have an aneurysm.

But I think I’m going to have one anyway because Trace will not shut the fuck up.

I would put my headphones on, but someone forgot to charge my iPod last night. Okay, so that someone is me, but I would much rather blame Trace or Lauren than myself; it’s more fun that way.

Trace continues to chant Lauren’s name, and I tear my eyes away from my stack of papers to see Lauren with her nose stuck in a novel, completely ignoring Trace. She’s doing a pretty good job, if I were in her shoes I would have snapped a long time ago. But I know Trace has an ulterior motive. He’s in the middle of his favorite game –

Get Lauren Wiggins Walters to swear.

And it’s kind of my favorite game too, but not when Trace has to go to insane lengths to get her to utter a single word.

“Come on Lauren, say something. Lauren? Hey Lauren? Lauren, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren, Lauren Lau-“

“Jesus Christ,” I interject and I can hear a few of the guys in my security stifle sniggers. Mostly everyone else on the flight has disappeared with their music players, work, or have downed a couple of sleeping pills. Sadly, I have to stay up so I can adjust to the time change because the last thing I need is to be jet lagged and not on top of my game, “Lauren, will you swear so Trace can shut the fuck up and return to his cave?”

There’s a brief silence, as Lauren turns a page of her book, “No.”

“Come on Lo-ho, I know he’s bugging you as much as me. Please?”

Another silence. I want to close the distance between Lauren and I and rip that fucking book out of her hands. “No.”

“Lauren, I’m not fucking kidding,” I growl. I swear if she’s going to grow a pair and act stubborn to piss me off then we’re going to have a big fucking problem. “Just swear and get it over with and we can all get back to work or whatever.”

“Fine,” Lauren concedes without looking up from her book, “fuck you.”

There’s a split second silence and before you know it, Trace and I are sniggering under our breath. I’m sorry, but it is so funny listening to this girl try to swear.

“Okay, no. See, you’re doing it wrong,” Trace explains, “You aren’t putting the passion behind the word. You need that passion to really make it work. Look at Justin and say it.”

I look up from my work just as Lauren does and our eyes meet. I give her my most winning smile because I know she is going to screw this up. Especially when I look this charming – no one can resist my million dollar grin.

“Fuck you.”

I feel like the collective population of the United States has just flipped me the bird in one go. It felt like there was probably a million pounds of napalm behind Lauren’s voice and I was the full on recipient of it. I can only look at her with my mouth agape; I don’t think I have ever been given a ‘fuck you’ so amazing in all of my life.

I mean, shit, that would be awesome if I wasn’t the receiver of such a telling off.

“Dude, Lauren, that was fucking on point!” Trace exalts before he’s out of his seat and heading towards my assistant. I can see the small look of pride behind her eyes as Trace sits next to her, both of them facing me, but not really caring that I’m staring at Lauren like she’s grown an extra set of tits or something.

Not that I stare at her tits or anything.

“Oh my God. You could be really good at swearing, Lauren. Here try this…”

And soon their corner of the plane is erupting in so many obscenities it would make Dave Chappelle or Chris Rock take notes.

“Say, ‘you mother fucking piece of cum gargling dumpster trash…”

I watch as Lauren, ever the dutiful student, repeats Trace. He hoots with laughter and claps his hands like he’s a seal asking for a piece of tuna or some shit. I’m glad some of us can be so easily entertained.

“How about, ‘you’re a no good titty fucking son of a herpes infested prostitute.”

I’m starting to get peeved. Not because they’re breaking the silence of the airplane, but because every time a new string of curse words fly past Lauren’s lips, I can’t help but feel they’re being directed towards me.

And I do not like being the brunt of a string of insults, no matter how creative.

“Lauren, I’m not paying you to learn how to swear and have a good time. Don’t you have paperwork to do or something?”

She and Trace finish their swear-a-thon and look at me with curiosity. She smiles at me and shakes her head.

“I’ve finished it all.”

Dammit. I do not want to hear them cussing at each other for another six hours. That is bullshit. I wrack my brain trying to figure out what stupid thing I can make Lauren do, but seeing as we’re 30,000 miles up in the air there really is nothing I can send her into a tizzy over.

Except…

“Well I’m glad you finished it all, Wiggins, because there’s been a change of plans. I don’t want to stay at the Dorchester anymore. Get us rooms at the Cavendish. And I don’t want to have to wait at the airport while you get this shit done. I want it finished as soon as possible.”

I almost want to laugh as her eyes bug out of her head when I’ve finished relaying my request.

She’ll spend the rest of the flight in silence trying to figure out how she’s going to change reservations for over twenty people without cell phone service.

Good lord, I am a genius.

--

I never realized how fucking liberating swearing is.

I mean, I’ve never been put in that position before, of needing to swear, but holy shit does it take off a load of stress.

And I can’t believe I have Trace to thank for that. I never thought I would be thanking Trace for anything except for being a waste of space.

But he definitely helped me out when I ended cursing up a bluestreak when Justin told me he wanted to switch from the Dorchester to the Cavendish. I busted my ass the minute the plane started its descent when we were over Ireland.

Thank God we were on a private plane with cell service. I still have the feeling that if we were on a domestic flight the bitchy flight attendants would have given me shit for trying to make calls while still in mid-air.

But I managed to get everyone moved over to the Cavendish without any incident. I have to admit I was a pretty smug girl when I told Justin it had all been taken care of as we were landing onto the tarmac at Heathrow.

So you can imagine the thoughts and the swear words running through my head when we loaded up into the cars that would take us to London and Justin announced that he wanted to move back to the Dorchester.

He’s such a fucking ingrate. I swear to God.

And right now he’s a drunk fucking ingrate and I have been doing my fair share of swearing the past three days in London trying to take care of his sorry ass.

“God fucking dammit, Lo-ho, don’t push me!” Justin yells as I gently urge him out of the elevator and onto our rented out floor of the Dorchester.

Justin decided it was a good idea to go out to some random club tonight and drink himself into oblivion. I tried to tell him it wasn’t a good idea, not with the BBC Radio One interview tomorrow at, oh you know, eight in the morning, but he refused to hear me out.

And I’m terrified that I’ll piss him off enough that he’ll give me a bad report to the record label and I will be fucked out of ever achieving my dream job.

“We need to get you to bed, Justin. Come on.” I grab him by the forearm and start to lead him down the hallway.

“Stop pulling me, god dammit!” his words are slurring together and he rips his arm away form me. “Jesus, I just wanna dance, Lo-ho! Lo-ho Wiggins! Wiggins Walters Wiggins!”

Well, isn’t he just fucking hilarious?

“You can dance tomorrow for your interview, Justin. Right now you need to get into bed.”

“Fuck bed! Let’s go to a strip club! I miss the smell of strippers!” he exalts as he stumbles down the corridor. His feet aren’t working too well and he stumbles into the wall, laughing hilariously as he presses his face against the brocade wallpaper.

Babysitting a twelve year old was not in my fucking job description.

“And what, pray tell, do strippers smell like exactly?”

“Dollar bills and jiggity-jizz.”

And this is the man who has captured the hearts of thousands around the world, ladies and gentlemen.

“You can go shove money up G-strings and other stripper’s orifices as much as you want as soon as you’re done with your promotion,” I approach him cautiously wishing more than anything that Eric or Tony were here to pick him up and force him into his room.

I reach out for him again and this time he allows me to grab onto his forearm and tug gently. He peels himself off the wall and stumbles after me, laughing at something under his breath.

We near his suite and I pull his room card out of my pocket. Thank God I had the sense to get it from him before he got too inebriated. I would hate to imagine the shit he would give me if I had to go digging through his pockets to find it.

“Lo-ho,” he mumbles, and I’m hoping he’s getting ready to go down for the count. As long as he gets into his room and to a couch or a bed, I don’t care. I just want to do my job and get the fuck out of here and into my own bed.

“Yes?”

We’re finally at his door and it takes me just a moment to open the door and yank Justin inside. I turn the light on and turn around to see Justin trying to pull his shirt off his body. It gets stuck over his face and now he’s stumbling around the foyer of his suite, banging into side tables and vases filled with plants trying to get the offending article of clothing off his body.

“Lil help, Wiggins?” he giggles and I want nothing more than to tell him to fuck off and to undress himself.

I walk over to assist him, but thankfully he manages to get the shirt off and has thrown it off into the corner of the room.

Too bad he’s now looking at me, his assistant, coming towards him with outstretched arms. It looks like I’m trying to wrap my arms around his naked torso.

Well, this isn’t awkward or anything.

“Someone’s a bit eager, eh?” Justin giggles before he staggers past me, “No offense, Wiggins, but you aren’t exactly my type.”

Good, because self entitled pricks aren’t exactly my thing, either.

“Come pull my bed back so I can go to sleep, Wiggins.”

I want to scream in frustration – this guy is impossible! 

Entering his bedroom, I let go a sigh of relief. I forgot that maids came in and offered turn down services. Justin has forgotten all about my pulling back the bed and he’s already trying to secure himself under the covers.

I head towards his bedside table to set his alarm for seven. I know he isn’t going to like that wake up call, or the one that will be calling him five minutes afterwards, or me banging on his door at 7:15, but it’s his own damn fault that he decided to stay up until three in the morning and party.

Alarm set, I turn to go, but Justin reaches out and grabs hold of my arm, forcing me to stay. I roll my eyes and turn to face him, what the fuck now?

“Hey Lauren?” he mumbles into his pillow. His eyes are opened and glassed over, but he’s managing to look at me and not over my shoulder like he’s done in the past.

“Yes, Justin?” I ask with an exasperated sigh. Can he not just let me go so I can get to sleep? I’m fucking tired too and have to be up even earlier than him.

“It’s really cool that you’re helping me right now. Most of my old assistants would have let me fend for myself. Thank you.”

What in the actual fuck?

“I’m freaking out,” he suddenly blurts out and I realize that I’m in for Drunken Confessions of a College Aged Popstar.

“Why?”

This is so weird. Its almost like Justin is a normal human being and I don’t quite know how to handle this. I’ve been around him when he’s been drunk before, but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him acting decent.

He most definitely isn’t like this with me when he’s sober.

“Don’t wanna fuck things up. It’s all on me now. Don’t have other people to blame. Glad Trace is here, though…and you, too.”

His words are clipped and I wish I could blame it on the fact that he has the mental capacity of a two year old. But really, it’s because he’s fighting the jetlag as much as I am, he’s drunk, and like he just said, he’s under a lot of stress.

“You’ll be fine, Justin. Just get some sleep,” I mutter awkwardly as I pry my arm away from his weakening grasp.

“Thanks Lo-ho. Goodnight.”

“Night,” I say quickly before I turn his light off and make a beeline for the front door.

It isn’t until I’m safely in my room down the hall and in bed that I let my thoughts wander back to Justin and his drunken rambling.

What in the hell was that?