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.