Chapter Five: Highway To Hell
One Week Later
I swear if the car in front of me switches lanes, just to switch back ten seconds later, I’m going to have a bad case of road rage. How is it possible to be able to switch lanes in the middle of this mess called the four oh five? It’s five thirty seven on a Friday night and I’m sitting in the middle of traffic. You’d think that having six lanes would control this misery but it only adds to the frustration that is, Los Angeles traffic.
I normally would be one of the lucky people that are heading toward the other direction away from the city, but today isn’t a normal day, by far. Today I am working overtime and while that isn’t anything new, this is my first time out of the office to fulfill that time. I’m extremely ecstatic about that and this is the part where you insert the sarcasm. I’m on my way to San Diego, that is of course, if the mental case also known as the lane switcher, stops changing lanes. I have a schedule to keep and I have to be where I need to be in two hours. By the look of this damn traffic, it looks like it’s not happening. I’m never late and the fact that I will be, only adds to the shitty week I’ve had at work.
I don’t necessarily need any more shit from anyone, so when the fucking car switches lanes again, I flip out. I curse loudly out of the convertible I am driving and honk my horn repeatedly. What a fucking jerk! The guy in the car behind me honks his horn uncontrollably as well and I turn to give him a piece of my mind as well. But he’s simply trying to get my attention with a wink and yells his number at me. He does realize other people can hear him, doesn’t he? Like I’ll really call the moron.
It’s only till about twenty minutes later that I’m finally able to get my car out of coasting mode. At this point I’m about an hour behind schedule and yes, I’m speeding. I don’t get pulled over and I’m proud of myself for it. I make it to San Diego in record time although I’m still late to my standards. I’m annoyed that I’m late but I’m professional enough to take that shit out on the punching bag in my gym when I get home. I have bigger fish to fry, like the reason I’m in San Diego on a Friday night, for example.
I get settled into my hotel room as quickly as possible and manage to take a shower and dress in about forty-five minutes. At eight thirty I’m in the lobby, waiting. I hate waiting normally, but since I’m waiting for this specific person, I really hate it. When I said I was late, I meant my own sense of schedule. I don’t do late and late doesn’t do me. When I’m late, I’m still early. That’s my motto.
So when twenty minutes pass and I’m still waiting, well you can see why the judge would give me a pardon. Because I’m ready to kill someone, one specific person actually.
I’m heading toward the elevators, I think the concierge can see the steam coming from head and I smirk at him. I’m stopped by the sudden call of my name. It’s actually yelled across the lobby and I’m thankful it’s a little late in the night, so the lobby is fairly empty. The mere presence of this individual screams, unprofessionalism and irresponsibility, neither of which I am fond of. I try not to let my distaste for the twerp show as I walk with her to the front entrance of the hotel. She’s going on and on about how sorry they were for being late and blah, blah, blah. I’m over her!
There’s a blacked out Cadillac Escalade waiting outside and silently, in my head, I grunt. Sport utility vehicles are for men who need to compensate for something they’re lacking. It’s a known fact, I swear. What is also a known fact is that sport utility vehicles aren’t for women who’s wardrobe consists of ninety percent skirt. Short ones.
A large burly black man greets me politely with a smile and I smile back when he takes my briefcase. He opens the rear passenger door for me and I’m greeted with the face of a disgruntled passenger, Mr. Timberlake. Out of the corner of my eye I see the look the large man gives Mr. Timberlake and I don’t miss the roll of eyes the pop star gives back. Chump! Carefully I climb onto the large vehicle, taking the first available space. The empty spot happens to be next to the apparently annoyed passenger. I can tell he’s aggravated for having to stop his recording session to do this but a deal is a deal.
I’m not to keen in doing this either but I’m not slumped away to the side of the door acting like a little bitch about it. He better keep his distance tonight because after all the shit he had Johnny go through this past week, he’s lucky to be alive. I’m a professional woman though, so I smile politely in greeting and face the front of the car. He’s looking as uncomfortable as I feel, as we ride silently in the car.
Ms. Bomar has opted to ride in the front with the large man and I’m thankful. She’s concentrating on something on her Blackberry device and I hope is that damn scheduled I’ve sent to her a million times. How can one not keep up with something that is clearly stated for her? I can’t fathom being that unorganized. How can she keep up with the demands of the dickhead sitting next to me? I bet a million dollars she doesn’t and the only reason she’s still his assistant is because he’s doing it to spite me. Tisk tisk, Mr. Timberlake. What did I say about challenging me? Not good.
When we arrive at the radio station, I’m surprised but not impressed when Mr. Timberlake extends his hand to help me out of the car. I don’t take it, I can get myself out of the car thank you very much. He rolls his eyes at me and I don’t wait for him or his two companions. I stop briefly only to take my briefcase from the bodyguard and I continue my walk toward the door in the back lot.
The listeners don’t know the ’Egotistical Bastard’ is coming to the station tonight and I arranged it that way. I personally didn’t need to be mobbed by his fans at this time of night, or ever for that matter. So, it’s fairly quiet as we enter the building and check in. An intern of some sort shows up in record time and she makes google eyes at Mr. Timberlake. I threw up inside my mouth at the display. What’s so special about this guy? I’ve seen better at a….umm well I’ve seen better. The intern seems to be talking a mile a minute and I’m bored. I walk ahead of the group, heading toward the room the intern already told us we were going. She has to be tripping on something because I swear she told us the history of the building in the time it took to take fifty feet across a hallway.
“Are you doing this interview yourself, Your Highness?” So much for keeping my cool tonight. He had to go and open his mouth, didn’t he? “Since it’s obvious that you’re eager to get to the room before I am.”
The intern almost runs into my back when I stop walking and I can’t help it this time, I roll my eyes. I realize it’s a bad habit, but when times get critical, shit happens. The intern takes the sudden moment of hostility from Mr. Timberlake to tell us the room was to our left at the end of the hall. I thank the lovesick puppy as politely as I can before she walks away.
Mr. Timberlake tells his assistant that she could go do whatever she needed to go do and that he would call her if he needed anything. What can he need at ten o’clock at night from his cousin? Kind of creepy if you ask me. Meanwhile, I turn and walk toward the room without waiting for anyone. When I enter the room, I cross my arms and wait for him. I’m keeping my cool and that’s something I promised Johnny I would do. But tonight might be a long run because it’s the first time I’ve encounter Mr. Timberlake since he threatened to leave WEG. So tonight might be hard for me, just like Mr. Timberlake’s fucking head.
He doesn’t look at me once he makes it to the door with his bodyguard. Ms. Bomar was apparently eager to leave because she’s not with him anymore. He tells the large man that he’ll be in the room and that he’ll be fine and to not let anyone other that staff inside the room. He’s not going to be fine in this room, if I have anything to do with it.
“Can I speak to you for a minute, Mr. Timberlake?” I ask but I don’t really require an answer since it wasn’t much of a question. I was going to speak. He closes the door behind him and I raise my eyebrows in question when he locks the door. Did he really want to be in a locked room with me, right now? Not a smart choice, Mr. Braveheart.
“Don’t get your panties in a twist, V,” he says mockingly as he strolls over to the sofa and takes a seat. “I’ve been to this station before and I know for a fact that fans do get in and roam the halls. I didn’t lock it to trap you in here with me. You’re welcome to leave. In fact, you‘re recommended to leave.”
If only he knew the risk he was taking by simply speaking to me right now, he wouldn’t be so cocky. He’s acting as if he’s supposed to be intimidating me. Like I said, as if.
“First of all, Mr. Timberlake, please let that be the last time you make a reference to my underwear. You don’t know anything about them nor will you ever. Let’s get that understood. Second, if you really wanted to lock me in a room with you, you’d have to plan a little better and pick a room with less weapons.” I say looking directly at him. “Third, I would appreciate if you would refer to me by my name. Vanessa or more preferably, Ms. Martinez. You Highness isn’t a very professional way of addressing me, although you may think it fits,“ he rolls his eyes at me and I’m forced into an even bitchier mode. “And while we are on the subject of names. V, is not a proper name to address me by either. It’s a personal name given to me by MY personal friends and family. We DO NOT have a personal relationship nor are we friends and we will keep it that way. This is business, Mr. Timberlake and if you’d like to succeed you must succumb to the rules. I’ve given you the respect of addressing you properly I expect the same from you. And by expect I mean demand, Mr. Timberlake.”
“Is that it, Ms. Martinez?” he’s mocking me now and the way he says my last name almost makes me tell him he should just call me Vanessa. Almost.
“No, it’s not. In regards to your comment about me doing the interview,” he looks up at me as he stretches across the sofa and pretends not to listen to me. I know he’s listening and I don’t give a damn if he burst a vessel while pretending or not. When I speak, everyone listens. It’s the way the cookie crumbles in the Martinez empire. “If I was allowed to do your interviews for you, I would. And not because I would be doing you a huge favor, but because I would be doing myself an even bigger one. It would save me the aggravation and headache it takes to cover up bad interviews. Or the constant apologies it takes for a radio station, magazine or television to reschedule something that someone didn’t show up for. But as we both know, I can not do the interviews for you and please believe me, Mr. Timberlake when I say that if you didn’t have to be here right now, you wouldn’t be. Trust me. Now, is there anything else you’d like me to verify, explain or demonstrate for you?”
“You can explain why you’re such a bitch, for starters.” I don’t even flinch at the comment because nothing he says is new to me.
“I was born this way, Mr. Timberlake. I’m good at what I do and I don’t take anything less from people who claim to be professionals. Anything else?” he accommodates his long body on the sofa and closes his eyes. Someone needs to tell him that he isn’t sexy. At all. Not even a little bit.
“I have my own theory on why you’re such a bitch, V.” He smirks when he uses the damn nickname again and I want to throw my shoe at him so that I can be as ignorant as him. But I’m not, I’m better than that so I listen although I‘m uninterested about his theory. He didn’t know me nor will he ever. He could take that theory and shove it. “You need to get laid.” Ha! That’s his theory? Why do men have the same lame ass theory when they feel intimidated by a professional woman?
“Don’t be confused, Mr. Timberlake. You will never know what I need,” I’m now leaning against the table across from him, my ankles are crossed and my arms are holding me up. I’m not phased by this conversation at all.
“And yet you seem to think you know what I need,” he replies and he opens his eyes to look at me. I’m not blind nor an I stupid, so I don’t miss the visual run-through he gives my legs before focusing on my face.
“Personally, Mr. Timberlake, I could give a rat’s ass about what you need. But it is my job to give a rat’s ass about your career and most importantly, your image.”
“Tell me, why did you choose to work with my image, when you clearly don’t want to,” he sits up and looks at me and he honestly looks tired. I’m not worried that it will come through on a live radio interview, though. Although his taste in women lacks, he does have bad interviews, when he does show up, that is. But I’m not telling him that. I’m surprised I even said it to begin with.
“I’m sorry to burst your bubble, Mr. Timberlake, but I didn’t choose you. You were given to me, so to speak. And at no time have I indicated that I didn’t want to help your image. Quite contrary of that. You, Sir, where the one that came into this working relationship with that mind frame. While I don’t necessarily enjoy having conversations with you, personally,” he opens his eyes wide in shock when I say that but he doesn’t say anything. “I do enjoy my job immensely. Anything else?”
“You know, you have a lot of nerve treating people the way you do,” he’s actually pointing a finger at me and if I hate one thing in the world is when someone points a finger at me, accusingly. I’m not a child. “I don’t know how you’re getting away with all this shit with Johnny but it’s fucked up.”
“Are you insinuating something, Mr. Timberlake? Because personally I like having conversations that don’t beat around the bush. If you’d like to ask me something, please do. As I will do the same, if ever the time would come that you would know something that I don’t already know.” Now he’s really pissing me off but I’m not giving him the satisfaction of actually knowing that. I remain nonchalantly, leaning on the table. I cross my legs once again and Mr. Timberlake is right back to his drooling over my legs. I’m used to people looking at my legs, I’m a model. I admit I’m feeling a bit unnerved and I don’t really know why so I shrug it off. I remain cool, raise my eyebrow in question. Is he going to ask the million dollar question or not?
“I know for a fact that you aren’t doing ‘favors’ for Johnny. He loves and cares about his wife entirely too much.” he looks at me to see if I give any indication that what he’s saying is false. I don’t.
“Mr. Wright does have a beautiful wife that he adores, Mr. Timberlake. I agree.” I’m not volunteering any information, so if he wants to keep fishing till he’s blue in the fucking face, he’s welcome to. I haven’t been asked the question about my relation to Johnny, so far and it looked like Mr. Nosy was about to ask. I don’t have anything to hide and technically, Mr. Timberlake doesn’t work for me. The ‘secret’ would be fine with him, I suppose.
“Then who made you the Queen of WEG, Ms. Martinez? And why?” It seems as though he has as many names for me as I do for him. I’m not telling him but I’m flattered by the queen comment. Just a little.
“I’ve looked at my business card, Mr. Timberlake, and none of them say Queen of WEG underneath my name. What it does say is Public Relations Director. The why would only be proven to you in time, I can’t explain that to you without showing you results. And results only come when a party of two agree to disagree and work together.” I shrug my shoulders. “I’m not the queen of anything so I can’t explain something that isn’t true.”
“Now who’s beating around that bush?”
“I’m not accustomed to beating anything,” I look in the direction of his crotch and smirk. “Like others do when they’re lonely. If you have something specific that you would like to know, professionally of course, I suggest you ask now. Your girlfriend should be here to take you to the studio shortly.” I sounded jealous with that statement and I’ve learned that Mr. Superstar is quick and dare I say it, witty. He’s going to try to make me swallow those words in about three point two seconds. I’m not jealous in the least, she was just annoying. He’s just a guy. What is it with women and this man?
“My girlfriend?” Here it comes. He gives me a shitty smirk that I want to wipe off his face with sandpaper. “Be careful there, V. If someone heard you, they’d think you were carrying around the big green monster.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Timberlake, you aren’t my type. At all. Period.” I’ve had enough of standing in these stilettos so I sit across from him on the vacant couch. Purposely I cross my legs and he follows his glaring routine. “You should be careful where you direct those blue eyes of yours, Mr. Timberlake. You wouldn’t want someone to think you were checking me out,” he doesn’t look embarrassed that he was caught checking out the merchandise and I must admit that I respect that. Fess up or shut up, another one of my mottos.
“Don’t you go flattering yourself, Ms. Martinez.” he goes back and forth with my name and it’s irritating me. “Your attitude is shitty and that is not MY type. At all. Period.” At least he pays attention when I speak. He gets a kick out of mocking me, I guess. I get a kick out of making him feel like an ass, so we’re even.
“See, that’s where you’re confused. My attitude or my shitty attitude as you so cleverly put it, have nothing to do with my legs.” Of course I’m not his type. I’m not blond, I don’t snort coke and my mouth isn’t as big as a whale.
“That’s how you got this job, wasn’t it? You wore an equally distracting skirt to your interview?” Yes, he has me figured out! Fucking idiot!
“I’m flattered that you think my legs are worthy of employment, Mr. Timberlake. But I didn’t have an interview,” put that in your pipe and smoke it, Superstar. “I didn’t need one.”
“So you’re not doing ‘favors’ for Johnny. You didn’t have an interview. And you’re not family because I know basically all of Johnny’s family. I would have remembered you, or heard of you at least. How did someone like you get a job like this?”
“By someone like me? Ouch, Mr. Timberlake.” I just stare at him with a bored expression. “Clearly you’ve assumed a lot of things. All of which are dead wrong. You do know the consequences of assuming, don’t you? Except this time you only made an ass of yourself, not me.” There’s a knock on the door and he quickly gets up to answer. His new girlfriend is on the other side and he turns up the infamous Timberlake charm. The girl almost melts before him like an idiot. Stupid girl! I think he actually winked at her when she said she’ll be out in the hallway whenever he was ready.
“I’m going to do this interview now, Ms. Martinez, as per your request. If you don’t mind, of course.” he still has a bad attitude after all the lectures he endured this past week. Shame, shame! I just know he better drop it before entering the studio’s door.
“If I minded, Mr. Timberlake, you wouldn’t be here. I would have simply given your schedule to your assistant and count on her to forget to remind you,” I smile sarcastically and I can see the anger clearly when anything negative is mentioned about his cousin.
“Fuck you,” he says before opening the door to leave.
“Now, now. Mr. Timberlake, be careful. If someone hears you, they might think you actually want to,” I don’t know what got into me but I actually give him the same lame ass wink he gave his new girlfriend. I almost throw up my lunch. Which reminds me that I haven’t eaten.
“Bitch,” he mumbles as he walks out of the room. Thank God! Another minute and I would of hit him.
The interview should last a good half hour and I take that opportunity to do some paperwork for Joanna Levesque. That girl is heading in the wrong direction and I’m planning to steer her in the correct one, whether she likes it or not. I’m also planning a nice stint in a rehab center in Australia, far far away, without the media finding out. When I look in my briefcase, I realize that incompetent temp that I fired earlier today didn’t get a chance to prepare my take home work. She’s lucky she was just a temp! Moron!
I have to listen to this interview going on with Mr. Dickhead anyway so I kick my shoes off and stretch across the sofa. The radio station has been broadcasting on the speakers located in the ceiling and they’re playing one of the superstar’s songs. It’s a slow number and although I fight my eyes to stay open, they seem to have a mind of their own. They drift closed and I’m out for the count.
Obviously I was more tired than what I thought. I’m being awaken by being tapped on my big toe. How awkward is that? Why would he pick that particular body part to get someone’s attention? I mean it worked, but still. I say he because I open my eyes to see Mr. Justified hovering over the armrest. He has my shoe in his hand, looks at the four inch heel, at my foot and then looks at me.
“You have incredibly small feet for how tall you are,” thanks for the memo, Mr. Manolo Blahnik. He places my shoe neatly next to the other one. I for once don’t have anything to say. Not because of his stupid comment but because I’m embarrassed. I fell asleep on the job? Jesus! I fucked up! I don’t even know what to do with myself. I don’t know what happened at the damn interview. I don’t know anything right now. How could I have fallen ASLEEP!? I keep asking myself this question as I go to stand to slip into my shoes.
I must still be asleep because for a minute I loose my balance and I stumble. I don’t fall to the floor because Justin has got his hands around my waist, holding me up. Now I definitely know I’m half awake because I just referred to him as Justin.
I’m jolted awake when the contact of his hands on my waist occurs. What the fuck? Was he dragging his shoes on the rug on his way here? I swear I felt a burst of shocks going up and down my spine. I jump a little and take a seat on the couch to put my shoes on, while sitting this time.
“Thanks,” I’m obligated to say although I’m not sure how to feel about the fact that I can still feel his hands on me. I’m feeling like a complete weirdo here.
“Be careful, Vanessa. Someone might hear you and there goes your reputation,” he says before opening the door and walking out.
I get myself together quickly and head out the door. The stupid intern is waiting for me. She hands me a cd and I’m guessing right now, that it’s the interview that I slept through. She gives me a clipboard with a few release forms I’ve seen before, thank the Lord. I sign the papers and say goodnight. She’s not even cute!
When I walk out to the car, I find the bodyguard outside. He’s holding the front passenger door open for me. Ms. Bomar has taken my previous seat, I see. Completely fine with me!
We get on the highway back to the hotel and somehow the ride seems longer. I’m completely baffled. I have this feeling of anxiety coursing through my veins. I can blame it on the fact that I fell asleep, while I was supposed to be working but I know that’s not it.
It seems as though hell has frozen over because, god forgive me for this sin, but I’m feeling anxious about having Justin’s hands on me again. Yes, Justin. What the hell?
I knew this was the highway to hell as soon as I jumped on the four oh five. The fucking lane switcher made me take the wrong exit, now I‘m in horny hell. Literally speaking, of course. Son of a bitch!
LoveStoned by Lynn
Story Tags: interracial wallsex celebrityj enemiesturnedlovers
