“This is not what I had in mind at all.” John turned his nose up, not only at the rain but the impending disaster in front of us. Maybe I could use my umbrella as a weapon. You always see it done in movies, why not in real life? Would I get sued?
“You are telling me. All I wanted to get was some hot glue.” John laughed his first laugh of the day. Technically we’re still at work, we just took a business trip to Walmart.
“You are the one that has caused all of this Mrs. Superstar.” I shoot this look at him that tells him to crawl in the corner and die. It’s been exactly a week. It took exactly one week for this shit to go down. I hadn’t expected it at all, not even thought about it. I guess the past week was the calm before the storm because this is definitely the tornado.
“Is that a death wish?” I could go on, but I’m interrupted by bright lights. Terrible bright lights right in my face. Whoopsie. My umbrella just stabbed somebody right in their gut. One down, four to go. All of these shouts, I can not make anything out. I look over at John, and he is trying so hard not to bust out laughing. However, he holds back no longer when we get in the car.
“Damn. I didn’t know being Justin’s girlfriend gave you this kind of treatment. Maybe I need to screw him.” I flip him the finger. This is beginning to be utterly ridiculous.
“For the last time,” I’m interrupted by my screeching cell phone. I look to see who it is before I answer. It could be ANYBODY these days. I smile at the name on the ID, “Hello.”
“Listen Ms. Popular, I need a favor.” I smile at his voice. He always wants some kind of favor. Ever since I met him, it’s always about favors. This boy better be lucky I’m having a semi good day.
“Yes Trace. Go ahead,” I’ve always had trouble talking on the phone and driving at the same time. You can tell this now because there are people honking at me. What is up with America and road rage?
“Justin will need your services this weekend.” I huff at this. Since when does Justin ‘the bastard’ Timberlake need any favors from this bitch. Or this whore, as he would so conveniently call me. I seem to recall me being pushed on a plane by a big burly guy at the request of Mr. Timberlake just a week ago. I just got back into my apartment and settled in again.
“Are you kidding me? Is this the same Justin that we are both talking about?” Trace snickers on the other end as if he is hiding some sort of devious secret. Well, I’m not about to play around with his secrets.
“He doesn’t know you are coming. But he does need you. He’s hassling me about the new material, and I need you to fly out some stuff. We’ll be in Miami, so it’s warm!” He says this cheerily at a big roll of my eyes. One day my eyes are going to get stuck there.
“Trace, I thought you were going to come back with us. So are you just going to be with Justin the whole tour? I mean, isn’t this supposed to be your job?” I’m kind of flustered for many reasons. When I told Trace I would do this “adventure,” as he described it, he said nothing to me about flying out every weekend. Nor did he tell me about his bitchy ass girlfriend by the name of Justin Timberlake. Some things I just can not forgive him for.
“I’m loving this vacation time. Besides, you need the time off too.” Excuse me?
“Time off? Dealing with hell on wheels is not time off. It’s like waiting to die and waking up to Satan.” Trace laughs at this too before telling me when my flight leaves. Can somebody explain to me why Trace is always making me flights before he even asks me anything? Anybody?
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It just dawned on me that I’m in a club watching this little performance, if you could call it that, without so much as an ounce of alcohol in me. Maybe that’s because this is strictly business. I’ve already been accosted by five different people, and I got here five minutes late. Hey, you can be late when you don’t even want to be somewhere. No big deal.
And apparently Justin’s security has all been warned about me, because nobody would let me backstage. I tried to tell them to get Trace, but they said no way in hell. I don’t know if it’s some sort of joke, but I’m not laughing at all. Because Trace should know how dire my situation is. It’s so dire that I shouldn’t be in the middle of a sea of over sexualized females lusting over some guy they will never have. And for there sake, that’s a good thing.
This is partially due to the pictures that showed up in this weeks US Weekly magazine. They were pointed out to me by Samantha at work. That depressed me. Apparently little miss slut whore Justin was trying to fuck the night before I left, went and sold some bogus story about how I was his secret girlfriend and caught him cheating on me. Or hell, it could have been Justin just to fuck with me. Either way, my life has been somewhat miserable since then.
“Shit!” The worst part about these little packed shows is you manage to get every bit of liquor there ever was spilled on you. You smell like shit by the end of the night and if you plan on being “friendly” with anybody, it just went out of the window unless they are drunk and don’t care.
I’m too busy looking down at my clothes, which are reeking at the moment, to notice that somebody has caught sight of me.
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I’m singing, not a care in the world, looking at all my lovely admirers when somebody in the crowd peaks my interest. It can’t be. Can it? I’ll be damned. Who is responsible for this? I almost falter, but I don’t. Stupid bitch. Does she know what her being here will do to me?
When the story about us came out, I realized I fucked up. Not about her yelling at me and all that shit. I hate her with a passion. I shouldn’t have acted like I did in front of anybody. Hell, I shouldn’t be fucking random women. So in actuality she probably saved me, but I’m still seething. This had to be Trace. I’ll kill him later. There is too much riding on my career for her to be around. Next thing you know, the magazines will print that we’ve shacked up together.
“TRACE! WHAT THE FUCK?” As soon as I dip off stage, I’m heading for him. I startle him as he’s just backstage fucking around with Guitar Hero. Doesn’t he know who the fuck he is messing with?
“Justin, what the hell is wrong with you?” He turns off Guitar Hero and sees the expression on my face that probably would tell anybody to duck and run, whichever one suits me.
“Why is Madison or whatever at my show?” Trace’s eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. I knew it was him. He did this. He must be delirious. Did I not get across to him earlier that I hated her? Was it the shouting, or the whore part he didn’t understand?
“She’s here? Why didn’t she come back?” Okay, he is either dumb or delirious. I had my security block Madison from my guest list the moment she blew up on me and got on that plane. I plan to keep it that way.
“Because in case you haven’t been paying attention, she’s not on my nice list.” I love Trace, but this is crossing the line. He just stares at me as if I have become the next fucking wonder of the world. What the fuck is up with this chick and why is she all up in Trace’s dick?
“Justin! Get your shit in line. She works for you. Hell she practically runs most of your company. What the hell is wrong with you?” Oh yeah, I forgot about her and William Rast. My head is starting to pound. Maybe I should be nice and let her back, but as soon as she gets here I’m disappearing. I don’t like her…at all. I tell Lonnie to get her ass back here. He looks as if he’s ready to punch me. I’m sure he would rather be trapped in a room by himself than go out there in the crowd fishing out some girl for me.
“I still don’t like her Trace. But maybe I can act some sort of civilized. How long is she going to be here?” Trace looks excited when I tell him I’ll give her a chance. It’s as if I’ve just given him permission to take her to the prom or something of that sort.
“She’ll be here for the weekend. I had her fly out that new jacket we’re working on. Remember the idea we had like a month ago? Well I had her do a demo line. Technically, it’s been ready for awhile, but somebody was too busy bitching at somebody to even ask,” I want to hit him. Can I hit him? I mean I can just imagine his face flattened and him crying out for mercy.
“Okay, not only have I just learned that about ten girls could see a little bit of Justin’s penis through his pants onstage, but I have had enough liquor spilled on me to last me a whole year. And one giganto bitch flogged me with her shoe because I’m supposedly marrying your ass,” I stare at her as she just plops down on the sofa. She looks dreadful. Her hair is mussed to all hell in back. There isn’t an inch of her little black dress that isn’t wet. And I’m just staring because she acts like nothing has ever happened between us. Does this chick have multiple personalities? “If only she knew I would rather die than even be in the same room as you.”
I knew there was a catch to that shit. I don’t care, I’m not apologizing. At least this time she didn’t walk in and aim straight for my junk. I’m still recovering from the last time. I’m about to walk out of the room without even saying as much as hey when Trace pops me one in the stomach. Again, what the hell is wrong with this midget?
“Me and Justin were going to go get something to eat if you want to come.” This is the first time I’ve ever heard anything about me and Trace going out to eat. Since when does he tell me what to do? I am starving though. I probably should eat something. But with the spawn of Satan sitting on the couch across from me?
“As much as I’d love too,” I almost start praising the words that are coming out of her mouth.
“Come.” But then that piece of shit comes out of it. What the fuck is wrong with me? Did I invite one of my enemies to eat? Jesus, I’m coming down with the Trace disease.
“I can’t. I look like a drowned rat, and I absolutely just want to get in the shower, crawl into bed, and go to sleep. But you guys have fun! Now please excuse me.” And she walks out just like that. Let me get this straight, I get a bit of nice bug and she turns me down? What the hell? Nobody really turns me down that often. It’s something I’m not used to. It just makes my hatred for her boil over.
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So I really am famished. My stomach has been eating itself for like the past two hours. But not giving that bastard the time of day is worth all of that pain. Taking a shower makes me feel better about the food issue.
I love showers. They are the best time for reflection. I use it to reflect on most of the good in my life, and cleanse me of the bad. I come out feeling like a new person every time. Except, when I get out this time I still have the stomach ache of the century.
The best solution to my problem is just to go to sleep and forget all about it. My thoughts are running with me as I try to go to sleep. The room is pitch black, except for a light that is coming from across the street.
I start asking myself why the hell I am here. I have no clue. For Trace I guess. Actually, more importantly for my job. I do a hell of a lot for Justin Timberlake. He obviously doesn’t realize just how much I do. Without me, there probably would be no William Rast. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. There would be a William Rast, just with somebody else in my position. And I think I’m the best person for the job. He obviously doesn’t realize the all nighters I pull just to make sure everything is going just the way he wants. He doesn’t realize with all the bastards I deal with, besides himself, on a daily basis.
He’s lucky to have me. I’m very confident of myself…right now that is. It goes up and down most days, but I’m a very strong woman. I think I’ve given that impression to Justin, except for the altercation of sleeping with him. But that was just a one time thing that we can just forget about. Yeah, forget about it. Damn it!
Who the fuck is that? There is a knock on the door. Don’t they know I’m sleeping? It’s like 2:00 in the morning. Shit. I’m in my secret pajamas. I throw back the covers and use the peep hole. What the hell? I open the door and let the person in. He does what he has to do and then he leaves. I didn’t do this.
I’ll be damned. Sitting in my room now is room service at two in the morning and the note on top is signed Justin.
This still doesn’t mean he isn’t a bastard. I think. Damn it!
