Chapter Four: The Feeling’s Mutual
I’m sitting inside one of my trucks and like I have been all day, I’m quiet. Trace and Mike are sitting up front, no doubt trying to ignore me. I’ve had a bad day and if I don’t have a drink within the next twenty minutes or so, I along with everyone else, were in for a bad night as well.
We’re riding down Mulholland Drive and I grunt when Mike makes a left onto Laurel Canyon Boulevard. I know he’s planning on going to Parc, a new club down on Hollywood Boulevard. By my grunt I’m sure you can tell that I don’t really want to go there. Trace turns the stereo on after my grunt and for the millionth time indicates that he was still mad at me. I don’t give a shit really if he’s still mad but I don’t say anything in regards to the choice of club they both have chosen either. I’m regretting the fact that I said I didn’t give a damn where we went as long as I was able to drink this fucking sick feeling out of my gut.
It’s been seven hours since Cameron left to Toronto again and it’s been four since I’ve turned my cell phone off. I’m under a lot of stress right now and all I want to do is be able to have a drink and forget shit, at least for tonight. I can’t believe this is happening to me again. What the hell is wrong with me?
Apparently I’m spacing out as we drive down Sunset Boulevard because I see Trace turning from the front passenger seat and he’s saying something to me. At first I don’t realized he’s handing me his phone but then he throws it at my chest. Picking up the cell phone from where it lands on my lap, I look at the screen and smiling bright at me is a picture of Cameron. She called Trace’s phone, damnit.
“Hey,” I say and I’m saddened when she gives me the same lame-ass response. She doesn’t say anything so I’m left with no choice but to speak again. “How was your flight?”
“Same as always,” she responds and damn it if I can’t hear the sadness in her voice. I love this woman with all my heart but it’s just that well …I’m bored.
“Did you get to meet with the director?” I’m trying to avoid the issue at hand and she can tell. I can tell she can because she sighs and mumbles a yes. “Listen, Cam...”
“I know Justin, I know. I wasn’t calling to argue, I just wanted to hear your voice before heading to bed. I’ve got an early shoot in the morning, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I don’t know what to say, I feel like if I say anything else I’m just going to feel worse. But I tell her that I love her and hang up. I’m not lying to her when I tell her that I love her but I’m feeling like shit anyway. Before she left we got into the biggest argument we’ve ever had to this day. I can’t even tell you why we did and how it started but it happened and it was my fault. She’d come to see me for two days and all she’d ask was if I would be coming to Toronto to visit her on set, next time we saw each other. That’s it! And I had been an asshole, I AM an asshole. I told her that I needed to record and that I couldn’t be following her everywhere she went. Why would I say that? I’m an asshole, I know, we’ve established that fact.
We’ve been together for over two years and she never once protested about following ME around when I was promoting Justified. Yet something today triggered my boredom meter or something. I don’t want to go to Canada; I have to record, I thought before I actually said out loud. I have what I think is a great relationship with a person who has taught me a lot and care about deeply. But I’m bored. Sometimes I feel trapped and confined and I know it’s not her fault. As we make a right onto Hollywood Boulevard my head is brimming with thoughts about my recent dilemma.
As soon as the black truck I’m in comes to a halt in front of the red velvet ropes of Parc, the other shitty part of my day comes full force to smack me in the face. The flashes go off in a frenzy as soon as Trace steps out of the passenger side. They know I’m here.
Paparazzi.
Stepping out of the car, Mike’s in front of me and I wait for him to start moving. I pull the hood of my black sweatshirt over my head and I look down at my feet as we start walking past the line of club goers. I hate this part.
Someone grabs a hold of my sleeve and pulls, making me stop in my tracks and look up. What the fuck? I’m annoyed but I look up to find an overzealous woman smiling at me. Only because the flashes continue a million flashes per second, I smile back. She says something about saving her a dance and or something before Mike brushes off her hand from my arm and we’re walking the short distance again. Why do they do that? Why do they have to grab at me? All these years and I can’t figure this shit out. If you were someone’s fan, why would you launch at them? It doesn’t make sense.
Normally, I would have growled some nasty remark to her but I’m stressing out enough. I don’t need another fucking lawsuit. The phone call that I received from Johnny today still plays clearly in my head. Sometimes I hate when other people are right and I’m proven wrong. Even if it’s just a little bit wrong. He lectured me on being professional and courteous to those who do their jobs to make mine easier, for about an hour if I may add. That was right before I flipped on Cameron as a matter of fact. And before that, I’d left the studio because I just couldn’t work after that stupid ass meeting this morning. That right there was the set-off for the rest of this shitty day. I should have known better than to try to have a good day. Who the hell was I kidding?
Making our way to the VIP area, I’m greeted by Olivia Wilde, who walks toward me on her way out. She aggravates me with the look she gives me and I try not to hurl. I’m passing on the offer she clearly gives me as I bend down a little to kiss her cheek. I have a girlfriend. A girlfriend who I’m growing bored of, mind you but I have a girlfriend nonetheless. And it’s because of my highly publicized relationship with Cameron, that flashes of cameras catch us in the brief exchange. I shake my head disapprovingly as I walk with Trace who’d been saying hello to Olivia, as well.
There’s a circular booth with a coffee table in the center of it waiting for us. When the host hands a bottle of Coors Light to me and I take a seat, I feel much better, atleast I try to. The music is blaring and I can see the dance floor clearly from where I sit. Mike pulls the dark curtains surrounding the area back, the way I like them to be and I relax against the soft cushions of the booth. Trace is already in conversation with a girl on the adjoining VIP room and only after chugging down half my bottle do I realize its Lindsay. I really don’t want to have to talk to that girl tonight, so I stand and walk to the railing overlooking the dance floor. A few of the clubbers down below look up and I give a fake smile to some girls that wave at me. I should have stayed home with a few beers and my Xbox. But I need to unwind and as I grab a fresh beer from the coffee table set up for us, I tell myself to have a good time and relax.
I’m turning around to tell Mike I was going downstairs but instead I’m face to face with someone else. All thoughts of having a good time and relaxing come to an abrupt halt and vanish, it’s official. My shitty day has turned into an even shittier night.
“Night out on the town, Mr. Timberlake?” Is this bitch really in my face, right now? And is she wearing the shortest skirt known to mankind? What the hell?
“What are you doing here?” I ask and I take a big swig of my fresh beer, flashes of cameras go off. Fuck. Give me a fucking break. “Oh, that‘s right, the freaks do come out at night.”
“I’m flattered, Mr. Timberlake but I would ask you the same question. Or better yet I would ask this. Don’t you have a radio interview early tomorrow morning, say around six-thirty?” I really detest this woman and I’m about to tell her so, when her friend from this morning interrupts.
“V, come meet Lindsay,” she says. “Hey, Justin.”
To spite this bitch in a short skirt, I turn the charm on before turning to her friend. “It’s good to see you again.” She smiles back at me and even though the area is fairly dark, I notice how pretty she is, and tall. Tall and pretty like Cameron and….
Before I even think it, I waive my bottle in front of the other tall woman and I walk past her toward the stairs. I’m sure I can find someone to dance with down there. I just hope Mike saw me leave and has followed suit. I’d hate to be caught in a mob scene if one of these bitches starts shit. I pray to God they don’t. If I was in a bad mood earlier, I’m beyond words right now. It’s takes about three seconds before I’m dancing with about seven hundred different women it seems, but the only thoughts in my head are the past two weeks and the fact that I can see flashes going off and they aren’t from the strobe lights.
I had been completely submerged in the studio with Tim, completely concentrating on our musical connection when Rachel informs me of some changes. She hands me a list given to her by Trace. Apparently while I was busy trying to record an album, Vanessa Martinez happened in a big way. Before I knew it, I was being interrupted in between sessions of recording for measurements and fittings. Apparently my new ’look’ was being crafted by the new devil in a skirt. I was flabbergasted, to say the least, so I called Johnny. Needless to say I vented. Loudly. Then he’d told me to trust him and that was a huge request because he’s already asked me to trust Ms. Martinez and well my response was loud as well. That had been the first time I’d heard about my new ‘look’ and to be honest, it didn’t bother me as much after listening to some brief details about it. A few changes would be good, since I was working on a completely different sound. I was feeling that, I must admit. But then I was sent a package and I was face-to-face with a suit. I don’t even have to say this, but Johnny’s phone rang once again. What the hell was I supposed to do with a suit? I wasn’t going to wear a suit? Period. What was this woman trying to do to my image?
I’m still aggravated, although I must say that the suit did fit good. But a suit? Come on, I’m trying to start fresh again not crucify my career. Apparently my mother thinks is a swell idea as well. At the moment she’s in Tennessee thinking I’m upset with her, I’m really not. But I think the whole thing with me wearing a suit for the promotion of this album, tickles her. She’s always wanted me to stop wearing baggy clothes and dress up more often since I was twelve. This is her revenge against my style, I swear.
But my mother’s agreement in wardrobe isn’t the biggest problem I have. I have two bigger problems. One is that my relationship is starting to fade away. Completely my fault, I admit. My second problem is that I actually like the suit idea now that I think about it. So that’s not really a problem, more like a revelation at the moment. So my biggest and shittiest problem is the woman standing in the VIP area I just left. She’s in conversation with her friend and Lindsay and the sight of her angers me.
I don’t realize I’m even walking towards the stairs to the VIP room until I run smack into the crazy girl from outside. She’s smiling like there’s no tomorrow and I cringe. Is she high? Probably. She tells me that I owe her a dance before winking at me and walking down the stairs. That was easy enough and as far as I’m concerned, I don’t owe her shit. Not a fucking thing.
On my way back to my seat I stop to briefly say hello to Robin Thicke and his wife on their way in. They seem cool and any other night I would have bought them a drink or something, but tonight isn’t any other night. Tonight, I’m not being myself.
“Where have you been?’ Trace asks from the other side of the booth. I point with the bottle in my hand to the dance floor and he shakes his head. I hate the fact that he knows me too well. I dance around on a stage for a living; I don’t usually go to clubs to dance. I should be relaxing and having a good time with my friends right now, instead I’m nearly buzzed, not talking to my friends and dancing with a bunch of underdressed groupies. He knows I’m in a shitty state of mind, right now, which is why he gives me the shake of the head. “Barker is hot, huh?”
“Who?” I don’t have the slightest idea what the hell he’s talking about, right now. I’m spacing out, great.
“Barker, V’s friend,” he says and points to the ‘hot’ girl herself laughing with Lindsay about something. I’m not really interested and I barely glance.
“Who the fuck is V?” I ask taking a long gulp of my sixth beer.
“I meant Vanessa, wake the hell up!” he says with a chuckle before swigging his own beer.
“V? What kind of a name is that? That’s fucking stupid,” I’m being so ignorant right now. The three shots I took downstairs must be kicking in. “It’s not even a name. It’s fucking letter!”
“Umm okay,” Trace laughs and shakes his head.
“What? It is! It’s the fucking stupidest name I’ve ever heard, she’s a bitch with a fucked up name. V! Ha!”
“How many of those have you had, J?” he laughs and chugs his beer again. “She’s not that bad, J. She’s actually kind of cool, J. Lighten up, J. Don’t be such a dick, J.”
“Why the fuck do you keep saying my name after everything you say, dickhead?”
“Do you mean when I say, J? Well that’s not your name, Justin. It’s just a fucking letter! J? What kind of a stupid name is that? Fucking J? How ridiculous!” I get it, I get it, whatever!
“Fuck you,” I say giving him the finger. Ironically the flashes go off again. Who the fuck let pap inside the VIP area? Jesus, can a man give someone a bird without being photographed? Apparently not!
“I’m going to chat with the women, stay here and be a dick if you want to,” Trace says before getting up and walking toward the ‘women’. What a prick! I’m drunk.
“I sure hope you know how to deal with hangovers, Mr. Timberlake,” this fucking bitch has actually taken a seat across from me. Wasn’t she laughing it up with Lindsay two seconds ago?
“I sure hope you swallow that toothpick with that olive you have in your glass,” I’m not positive I actually said that out loud and the blank look she gives me doesn’t give me any indication that I did. I’m really drunk, actually.
“Tisk tisk, Mr. Timberlake. There’s no need to wish harm on someone trying to have a friendly conversation,” I look at her after grabbing another beer and drinking half of it down and she’s actually smiling at me. Bitch!
“Shouldn’t you be organizing my life, V?” I can tell she’s taken back by the use of her personal nickname but she recovers quickly. She seems to be good at that, I notice.
“Contrary to your beliefs Mr. Timberlake, your life is not part of my agenda, your image is.”
“Really?” She’s about to get the shitty end of the big ass stick, I’d like to call my day. “Tell me this, V. I’m positive you have seen the fuckers with cameras across from us. It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to be caught on film, wearing what I’m guessing you call a skirt. What will the world think?” I ask in mock shock as I drink another shot of I don’t even know, grab another beer from the endless bucket next to me and I keep my gaze toward her.
“This is the moment where I give you a short lesson, Mr. Timberlake. Shorter than my skirt, even,” she smirks at me and crosses that long-ass leg over the other one. She’s disgusting! “Do you see all these people around? Don’t answer that, Mr. Timberlake; I’m going to give you the benefit of a doubt on that one. The flashes haven’t gone off since you last flashed your finger. There’s a crowd of people around and right now a flash can go off and my short skirt wouldn’t be the topic. It’s called blending in, Mr. Timberlake. I don’t look any different than the crowd that surrounds you. We don’t even look like we are having a conversation right now. It‘s my job, it‘s what I do.”
“Well why pretend to not have a conversation? Let’s not,” I really hope she swallows that toothpick.
“Ohh Mr. Timberlake, such harsh words toward someone trying to help. One thing I must mention though, before leaving this enlightening conversation your highness. Ms. Diaz sure looked happy to see the director when she arrived in Toronto earlier. Guess someone in her camp or in her bed wasn’t doing their job, wouldn’t you say Mr. Timberlake?” she says this before smiling and walking toward her friend who was in conversation with Trace and Lindsay.
What the fuck was she talking about? See, now I’m really pissed. First she sends over suits. Then she insults my assistants. She stands toe to toe with me like she’s crazy. And now…now she’s wearing a scarf as a skirt thinking she’s fucking hot. She’s not! She’s the ugliest bitch I’ve ever seen actually. She just had to go and mention some bullshit about my girlfriend, Carrie. Carmen? Carol? Cameron! This tall, leggy bitch in a scarf has crossed the line. I’m telling myself to get the fuck up from my seat and let her have a piece of my mind but I can’t. I seem to weigh seven hundred pounds and I’m one hundred and ten percent more aggravated than what I was ten seconds ago. I’m passing out. Great!
-------------------------------------------------------------------
Jesus! What has happened to me? Why is that light so bright? Who goes there?
I can hear someone walking around what I’m hoping is my room. I can’t make out the silhouette and I’m praying to God that I didn’t die and go to hell. I squint enough to see that I am actually in my room. I’m still dressed in my previous attire including sneakers and I realize it’s just the result of another late night. The silhouette is still at the far end of my room where the entertainment center is and I can hear music from Halo being played.
“Who goes there?” I actually say this out loud and I realize that I must still be drunk. What time is it?
“It is me Sire,” the silhouette responds with a laugh and I can tell is Trace. “Get up, you’re late!”
“Huh?” I ask but not before pulling one of my pillows over my head. “Late for what? What time is it? Why didn’t you take my sneakers off? Will you turn that shit down? You’re making my ears bleed. What time is it?”
“Let’s see! You’re super late for the radio interview you had at six thirty. It’s nine thirty five. I’m not your fucking maid to have to take your sneakers off; I have my own to take off. The game isn’t even loud, you sensitive bitch! Your ears are probably bleeding because you’re about to explode, from all that shit you’re full of. And it’s now nine thirty six. Any more questions?”
“Why are you in my room?” I try throwing the pillow I had over my head across the room, instead it lands at the end of the bed. I’m tired.
“Waking you up,” he says but he still hasn’t even attempted to do what he said he was here to do. Such a great assistant. He probably didn’t wake up on time for this stupid radio interview either. Where’s Rachel?
“Where’s Rachel?” Why does it seem like I’m asking everything twice? Why am I asking myself about asking myself a question? I need to sleep!
“She’s at a meeting with V,” he says and yells something at the game. I’m momentarily confused. Rachel is at a meeting with V? Who the hell is V? That’s a stupid name.
“Who?” I ask and my head hurts every time I speak, I feel like shit.
“V,” he simply states and slams the wireless controller against the floor. I swear it’s because he’s replaced so many of those fuckers that I have a case of them in the closet. He needs anger management or something.
“How many pieces did you break it into this time?” I ask and I’m wondering who the hell V is, still. “Who is Rachel meeting with?”
“Four pieces, that’s a record, I think. She’s meeting with Vanessa, I said, for the millionth time, Justin,” he has an attitude as he picks up the controller and throws it in the waste basket with three other broken ones.
“Vanessa? I don’t know a Vanessa,” it’s too early to be thinking about Rachel’s friends, as hot as they may be. But then I have a moment of sobriety. Vanessa? Cruela? That bitch is in a meeting with MY assistant? I get out of bed entirely too quickly and if I wasn’t about to blow a vessel I would have probably passed out from the action. She’s requested a meeting with my PERSONAL assistant without consulting me? Vanessa Martinez? You’ve got to be fucking shitting me. “You did not let Rachel go to that meeting by herself. I know you didn’t, Trace!”
“Nope! I let her go with Mike!” he yells so that I can hear him from my bathroom where I am currently brushing my teeth. I almost swallow the toothpaste in my mouth when he said it. I’m pretty sure I’m still drunk because I didn’t just hear that. This bothc did not do this while I slept. No way.
I look in the mirror and the bags under my eyes remind me that I have a hangover from hell, once again. I have a million scenarios running through my head as to why this bitch is in a meeting with poor Rachel. My mind is running like crazy, it’s actually spinning and the headache from hell has just kicked in. I need a shower.
I take off my clothes as quickly as I can as if my life depended on this goddamn shower or something. Why am I rushing and why can’t I stop? It takes me about five minutes to shower and when I step out of the shower my clothes are already on the vanity counter by the Jacuzzi. He let Rachel go to a meeting by herself, the dumbest thing ever, and I’m pissed so the fact that he managed to get my sweats and t-shirt ready for me doesn’t impress me. I didn’t even notice when he came in here. I don’t even want to wear sweats and a t-shirt today but I put them on anyway. When I leave the bathroom he’s still in front of the damn TV and opening a new controller.
“Were you serious about Rachel meeting with Vanessa?” I ask and I’m hoping that the fresh shower I just took has cleaned out my ears and I had heard wrong.
“Why wouldn’t I be serious?” he asks and is actually aggravated as he puts batteries on the controller. He really needs Xbox AA or something.
“What is she doing there?” I’m really interested in his answer but he’s still fucking with the damn controller.
“Rachel needs to start doing these things on her own, Justin. She can’t be babied by us for much longer. Can you get this fucking battery in here?” he tosses the thing at me and my reflexes aren’t on point so it hits my chest and lands at my feet. “Pick it up!”
Who the fuck died and made him think he can tell me what to do? I’m not dead. “Midget, please!” I say and turn towards my door, grabbing a Nike box from my closet on the way out. “And tell me why the fuck I have to go to this fucking interview if I’m like three hours late already?” That just didn’t make any sense to me. Don’t they schedule these things? I missed it, they filled the spot, I should’ve been free and able to sleep in. Fuck this shit. Life is getting worse by the minute.
Speaking of life getting worse, my phone rang before I could get out of the door and you can guess who it was. Cameron. I really don’t have time to walk on eggshells during a conversation right now. I honestly just have a blank mind at the moment and I can’t think straight. The relationship’s fading, at least on my part, and she’s working overtime to try and get me interested again but it’s not working. I have enough people trying to get me to do shit already, why would I need my girlfriend to be doing the same? If anything it’s only pushing me away.
Thinking fast, I tossed my phone to Trace, who caught it thank God, clumsy ass. “Tell her I’m in the shower,” I told him as he gave me a knowing look.
Fuck him. Fuck everybody. Except my mom, who I am mad at but not as mad as at everyone else. By the time I put my sneakers on, he’d hung up with Cameron. He informed me that I wasn’t going to the radio station anymore, something I was very happy about. Unfortunately, he then told me that we needed to head over to WEG because Rachel had taken it upon herself to go talk to that bitch and apologize for not getting me there on time. That bitch would eat Rachel for breakfast so I put some pep in my step. So she hadn’t requested a meeting with MY assistant? I’m still pissed about it though. Rachel needed rescuing and I would just love to give the bitch a piece of my mind about it. Notice I’m starting to refuse to use her name, not that I did it much before. But the bitch title suits her, I think. Rachel’s just starting out and she’s going to make mistakes. Everybody does. She’s a sweet girl and she means well and she tries really hard for me so the least I can do is stand up for her. Since afterall she’s at the office doing just the thing for me. And if it meant cussing out the bitch, well, then so be it.
I finally made it to the kitchen and I grab a breakfast health drink bullshit, the trainer gave me, before grabbing a set of keys from the drawer on the kitchen island. Eric was sitting on the couch watching cable, waiting for me as he so rudely told me. What the fuck do I pay these people for if they’re going to treat me like this? Then again, I know it’s because of my attitude that they act this way. They feed off of me; if I’m in a good mood then all is fine. If I’m in a shitty mood, like now, then they’re shitty too. I need to try to get out of this attitude but the bitch is making me crazy. I can’t get her and her demands out of my fucking mind. Today is going to be a new day, though. I’m going to be civil and not let her screw me over.
At least I’ll try anyway. That’s the plan, for right now as I tell Eric I was going to drive myself. He tried to give me a fucking lecture about going out on my own at that time of day but then he quickly shut the hell up after I gave him a look. He knows better than that shit. I informed the genious that Mike was already at the office, so I would be alright. Thought so!
“You ready?” I asked Trace, who had time to actually grab a bowl of cereal. When did he find the time? When I was rushing around. He set the nearly empty bowl on the counter and followed me to the door. .
We got in the truck and took off with me behind the wheel. Trace in the passenger seat, slumped down as if he was the one with a hangover, listening to the radio so I wouldn’t feel the need to actually speak. He’s in a shitty mood as well and I could tell it was in anticipation to me being an asshole. Rachael trying to meet with the bitch was only going to be a disaster. We continued in silence, with Trace keeping his fucking mouth shut and pretty quickly we arrived at WEG.
“You gonna be civilized right?” Trace asked, knowing a fight was about to happen.
“You want Rachael chewed up?” I responded. “I’m going to just go in and talk to Ms. Martinez and lay down the line.”
“It’s your call,” was all he said as we arrived at the floor. I got out and walked straight to the bitch’s office without bothering to deal with her secretary. They know by now not to fuck with me considering the mood I’d been in lately. Knocking on the door twice, I opened it without waiting for a response. They work for me; it’s time Miss. Thang, realized that.
Just as I thought, Rachel was huddled in a chair and Sargeant Martinez was in the middle of tearing her up a new asshole.
“If you can’t perform your duties and get him to his appointments on time, then maybe you need to think of another line of work,” she was saying, which made my resolve to be civil go right out the fucking window. It wasn’t Rachael’s fault that I wasn’t on time; it was mine. She didn’t deserve to be talked to that way. Nobody curses my cousin out. Except me and even then I have a difficult time doing it.
Cruela finally acknowledge me as if she hadn’t heard me knock or burst into the office. She really thinks the world revolves around her, doesn’t she? She smirks at me and leans back on her chair. “Mr. Timberlake, you finally decided to join the land of the living, I see,” she said as she stood and walked from behind her desk to show off her obscenely short business suit. If the buttons cut down to nothing putting her cleavage on display, was called a suit. What is with her and suits? Not that I care, I’m just saying. “You know you missed your interview this morning. Since you can’t seem to take care of your priorities yourself, I would think your assistant could do it. Obviously I was wrong.”
Bitch. “Wait a minute,” I said. "Don’t blame Rachel for me not getting up. I had a late night and you know it. So I missed a fucking radio interview; they won’t die or anything. Reschedle it.”
She continued smirking. “Let’s get something clear here, Mr. Timberlake. I will not or will I ever take orders from you. No exceptions. Period. And if you’re not going to follow through with publicity then why are you even bothering with your career? You’ve given every paparazzi the finger, you don’t show up for work, and you barely work in the studio. A week here, a week there. The album should be finished and you just seem to be messing around. And it is Ms. Bomar’s job to hustle you along and it’s not working, quite frankly. Have you considered keeping Mr. Ayala on? Because God knows you need him,” she says looking at Rachel, who doesn’t say anything to my surprise, then looks at me with that fucking smirk that makes me want to actually hit her.
Hell would freeze over before I would admit that Cruela was right; Rachel needed more training while Trace had everything down from schedules to how I like my water. But he’s busy working on the clothing line and I am not jeopardizing that for him. He’s worked day and night on that project, he deserves it. Speaking of, he’s sitting at the large conference table we had that other shitty meeting at. He’s not talking. I’m on my own. Great best friend!
“Trace is busy right now, I‘m sure you can understand that! Asking him to stay is not the right thing to do. Rachel needs more time and nobody sits and browbeats my assistants but me. As a matter of fact, you don’t lecture anyone in my camp anymore, including me, understood? I’ve had enough of your high and mighty shit, calling useless meetings so you can parade around in fucked up shoes and embarrass all of WEG’s clients. Either I deal with Johnny from now on or I’m moving to another management company.”
Nothing. She still stood there smirking, and then she walked back to her desk and rummaged around in it for a few seconds, pulling out a sheaf of papers.
“What I have right here is what is called a contract, Mr. Timberlake. You signed it; you’re stuck with us. And you’re stuck with me, and the sooner you get used to that idea the better things will be for you and all of us. I’m not trying to ruin your career; I’m trying to fix it. You can’t come back out with the same image; you’re a grown man now you’re not the fifteen year old boy you once were, things aren’t going to disappear and things need to change. Like I said before, the sooner you accept that, the smoother things will be. Now, feel free to leave. I have work to do. Good day, Ms. Bomar. Trace,” she nodded at him and went and sat down, ignoring us completely.
This was complete and utter bullshit. No way was I putting up with this. My first instinct was to go see Johnny and give him hell, but then I thought I needed to really sit down and think things over. I needed some peace and quiet, first to get rid of this hangover and then just to think, period. Then I was going to think about my representation and if I could ever manage to work with this bitch. I had to give it to her, the more she talked the more sense she made. But I wasn’t firing Rachel “ I’d talk to Trace about helping her out more, teaching her my wants, needs and expectations and how not to be intimidated. If anyone gave her shit, she needed to know how to use MY name to get what I wanted.
I’m having these thoughts in a matter of seconds and my head is bounding. I can’t really deal with this shit right now. As much as I want to stand here and tell this bitch off, I physically can’t right now. I turn and walk out of the office without another word. How unlike me. What the hell?
Because this is all about what I want. And what I don’t want. Vanessa managing any part of my career is NOT what I want. God this was going to be a long day. Again.
As I make my way past the fucking employees who seem to be more like fans, as they women drool and the men stare, I only have two questions in my head.
Why the fuck did she call Trace by his first name and insists on calling me, Mr. Timberlake? And why the fuck am I jealous?
LoveStoned by Lynn
Story Tags: interracial wallsex celebrityj enemiesturnedlovers
