I’m beginning to wander what the hell I am doing. I never dress up for anything. It doesn’t matter what job I have at the time, I will never dress up for it. So I’m standing here, waiting to meet my big boss in jeans and a t-shirt.

“OUCH!” And this is what is wrong with this picture. So I don’t dress up, but I wear heels? I mean what was I smoking this morning? I can barely function in tennis shoes, much less some pretty tall heels that I haven’t bothered to measure.

I’ve gotten absolutely no sleep the past two nights. The first night because I was worried about my prized chastity belt being ripped apart, and the second night because I was too shaken up to move my eyes away from the ceiling.

It’s starting to get cold in the Big Apple. Being the dumbass I am, I’m out here freezing my ass off because I’m wearing short sleeves. I mean who doesn’t look at the weather before deciding what to wear? Me obviously. This is why I should have stayed at home and been one of those people who work out of their own house for a living. Would have been much better at that. I mean even when I get inside it’s fucking freezing and people are staring at me like the idiot I am.

“TRACY!” That’s a happy shout by the way. I haven’t seen my friend in ages. Well if two weeks counts as ages I guess. Which it so does in my nonexistent world. I watch as my friend whips around and stomps over to me. I stifle what could be a very loud giggle. And my giggles do have some obnoxious snorting involved. Suddenly I feel a slap on the side of my head. The look on the person’s face standing in front of me is priceless. Where is a camera when I need one?

“The name is TRACE! With a fucking E on the end…nothing else,” He looks almost adorable standing there in front of me with his arms crossed. He has that anxious pissed look down to a tee.

“Exactly, an E on the end. Making it Trac-E,” I receive another blow to the head. Thank God I’m over my hangover from two nights ago. If I had still had it I would be on the ground begging for mercy or some lame shit like that.

“I’m going to disregard everything you just said. Why the fuck have you not been answering your phone? I’ve been calling it for the past two days. I KNOW that you got into town two days ago,” I almost choke on my spit. How the hell would he know when I got in town? Does he know? Does he know what a magnificent night I had with his friend? Oh God kill me now. I have got to get my mind off anything and everything sex or else I have half a brain to throw Trace down on the ground and fuck him senseless right here in front of everybody.

“It’s been off. How the fuck do you know when I got into town?” My stare can be one of those that can make a rabid dog back down and run away. It’s what I’m known for. Everybody hates me for it. It’s what gave me my priceless title of Queen Bitch. I like it that way too.

“Because I called John, and he told me he personally saw you off himself. I’ve been waiting for you to show up for days. And what the FUCK are you doing wearing heels?” Thank God, just one of my many minions. John told him. Remind me to kick him for telling my business when I get back to that wretched place where I spend most of my time slaving away.

“Oh thank you God. I was trying to let you know I truly cared, but now that I know you don’t,” And I pull out a pair of tennis shoes from my overly sized bag. You know you’ve seen those annoying huge ass bags that most celebrities carry with them on a daily basis. I’m carrying this one right now so that I can stuff all of the clothes I have inside. It also comes in handy for shoes.

“I’m just shocked you even tried,” Oops. There goes my damn shoe. I don’t know how it just flew out of my hand and hit Trace in the chest. Now you may be wandering what in God’s creation I am doing standing here chatting away to Trace Ayala like it’s nobody’s damn business. And in that thought I just took the Lord’s name in vain in a weird ass kind of way. I’ll have to wash my mouth out later.

Anyway, back to the whole Trace situation. Trace is my boss. Yeah, I don’t know many people who talk to their boss this way either. But Trace is a very good guy who happens to have become one of my good friends. And as much as he would like to think he pulls a lot of rank on me, he doesn’t. Certainly, my job lies in his hands but I’m pretty highly ranked on the totem pole. We’ve known each other for a year and then some change. Granted, we didn’t hit it off at first. Actually we bumped heads. We had quite a few screaming matches, or bitch fits as he likes to call them, before we finally threw in the towel and decided to be friends. However, there is the random occasion where I still throw food or any kind of object at his head.

“I swear to God, that better have not been your shoe that you just chunked in my direction,” I roll my eyes briskly, tying my last shoe lace to my brand new tennis shoes that I brought yesterday. I sigh with joy at the feel and throw the other heel in Trace’s direction. I don’t know why I pick on the booger so much.

But all I get is an unfamiliar yelp of pain as a retort. I didn’t even throw it that hard. I look up and see another being crouched down holding his privates like he just has some sort of vasectomy without any pain medication. My face goes beet red, which is a rarity. Trace, who obviously dodged my shoe, is trying so hard not to laugh.

Oh goody. My first trip out here and not only do I manage to sleep with him the first time I meet him. But the second time I meet him I basically castrate him? What the fuck is wrong with me. It’s all Trace’s fucking fault. It always is.

“JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!” I would shout some more obscenities, but I’m pretty sure that one did the trick. Besides I’m about in tears. So get the record books because Justin fucking Timberlake is about to cry. This needs to be documented. Who the hell just threw a red spiky heel at me? It’s probably one of those evil bitches looking to incapacitate me so that they can have their way with me. I don’t know because right now I can’t look up. I don’t know why when you get hit in the balls you cannot move your body, but you just can’t. If you were a guy, you would understand.

But, I do have ears. My ears are currently hearing my best friend cackling like this is the funniest damn thing he’s ever seen. If he’s laughing he must be behind this. Wait until I regain composure. He is going down. I have half a mind to pick up the heel and throw it back in his direction, except making sure he can’t make babies in the future. But how the hell did Trace get his hands on a high heel?

All I wanted to do was come out from the meeting I was in and stretch my legs because I’ve been holed up in a room for the past two hours. Much of the discussion has been about nothing I am even halfway interested in. I think Johnny even hit me in the head a few times to tell me I was snoring, but whatever. I don’t even have time to see what is going on before I get nailed in my beef with an unrecognizable object at the time. Now I know it to be a red high heel. And even though Trace does some pretty kinky shit, I’m sure wearing high heels is not one of them.

I can finally lift my head to see what the commotion is all about. Trace is still laughing his head off, and I think I actually do see tears from him. Then I notice a girl sitting on the floor, legs spread out looking beet red, but for some reason I think she wants to laugh too. Well I don’t give a fuck. I was just hit in my junk with what obviously must be her shoe. I still haven’t found my vocal cords, or I would seriously rip her a new one. Does she know that the sperminators are not replaceable? I finally get the nerve to clear my throat a little bit, and then it’s like a fucking tornado.

“I am so sorry. That was not meant for you. It was meant for Trace, so blame him. He obviously dodged it and landed you in the predicament that you are in,” And I’m starting to kind of like this girl. That or she’s pissing me off. I like her because she was really throwing it at Trace, who deserves it far more than I do. And I like her for the fact that she has the balls (something I don’t have much of right now) to blame Trace for the entire thing when it came out of her hand.

“Um…who the hell are you?” And it doesn’t come off as smooth as I meant it to sound. Yes, I meant to sound rude and cocky and whatever the hell else I sounded. I did not mean to sound as shaky as I did, but that can be explained by the recent images of death I have just seen. The girl jumps up and has the audacity to stick out her hand for me to shake. This has Trace laughing even harder. Oh that stupid bitch. So let me get this straight? She wants me to take my hand off of protecting my junk to shake her evil hands? Who the hell is this chick?

“Madison West. Um…head of production for William Rast.” Is this bitch crazy? Who the hell hired her? Oh wait, that was probably me. But you mean to tell me that she is practically running a lot of MY company? This is what I get for Trace Ayala taking over while I’m out playing, getting drunk, and scoring girls? This must be God’s way of getting back at me. I do notice that she has put her hand back by her side. I know I’m being a dick, but she just threw a shoe at my junk.

“Justin, Madison will be in and out during the tour so as to get you involved in the clothing line seeing as you will be busy.” So what this twip (yes, my word for Trace. It’s a cross between twerp and twit) is telling me is I have to put up with shoe thrower all tour? I feel for my little ones already.

“Well she’s quite the antagonist I see.” I manage to get up off of the floor that I fell onto previously. Her face turns more red, and I can’t imagine it could get any redder. She lets out this half sigh half groan, and it makes me pay attention. There is something familiar about it.

“Listen, maybe I should come back later when I’ve had time to secure my heels.” Does this bitch think this is funny? Obviously Trace does because he starts heehawing again. I’m so frustrated with everything that has just happened that I don’t even know how to think. Where do I know this girl from? Maybe I’ve met her before on a trip to one of the offices. I’m in space trying to figure this out. Soon enough Trace is going to start doing alien voices. It’s what he always does when I space.

“Actually, now that you are here, you can show me the statistics for the west coast. I haven’t heard anything recently, and I would like to know what’s going on.” I’m waiting for her to throw up her hands and run out of the room. That was a pretty ballsy request on my part. I just did it as a tease. I’m well aware of the WR west coast sales. To my surprise she starts pulling stuff out of the enormous bag she brought with her. I’ll be damned. She just handed me a paper clipped and sticky noted up folder. Although I’m not focused on the folder, I’m focused on the bracelet she has on that is currently twinkling under the lights. Ah-ha!

“Everything you need to know is highlighted,” She paints this grin on her face like she’s so smug about herself. Conceited whore. I will give her this, I didn’t think she would be so professional and organized after her little stunt. But I’m not thinking about that right now.

“Nice bracelet. I’ve seen one of those before.” Caught red handed. Her eyes falter, and that’s when I know I’m right. She’s not even looking up at me anymore. I’m going to tell Trace as soon as I can that I don’t want her here anymore. I’ve never faced anybody that I’ve just fucked for no reason afterwards. I’m not about to start now.

“Yes. It is. And I’m sure you have Mr. Timberlake. I brought it yesterday at Tiffany’s.” Who does she think she’s fooling? She may have brought it at Tiffany’s, but she didn’t just buy it yesterday. I know this because now I’ve even matched that unmistakable voice. Yeah, she’s going to be on the first plane out of here.