I'm exhausted. We were up so damn early this morning, we've been travelling all day, and they expect me to do this show tonight. I'm not sure I have the brain capacity to remember my own name right now, let alone an entire set list. Now we're pulling up to the hotel and already I can see a crowd of fans and photographers. That's just great. I wish people wouldn't camp outside these places; it makes coming and going a real pain in the ass. I don't need this shit when I'm already exhausted, and when I have to rush past all these fans are going to think I'm an ungrateful ass who's blanking them.

Great.

"Is he already checked in?" Chelsea asks Tiny.

"Yeah, we're good to go. Eric's in the lobby waiting with the key, room 2245," he tells her.

I don't check into hotels myself. It's not something I particularly miss doing, but on principle I wish I could stand in a lobby for as long as it would take to get it done without causing a stampede. Usually somebody gets there ahead of me and checks me in so that I can sweep straight through and just check into my room. Johnny likes to send somebody as instantly forgettable looking as possible so that no bystander works out they're doing it for me. It figures Chelsea would know about this stuff, she probably does it for Sophie.

Not that I mean she's forgettable looking… fuck, it's a good thing I don't say half the shit I think in my head out loud. Like my foot doesn't already have permanent residence in my mouth.

Speak of the devil, Chelsea shifts in her seat and turns to face me. "We're already running way behind schedule Justin, so I'm thinking that down time we had planned for you will have to be just shower, change and go. You gonna be okay with that?"

Not really, but it's not like I have a choice. Even when all is seemingly running on time I'm always late out for these club shows (not something my tour manager would ever let me get away with in arenas), so if we're already late then I'm just going to have to move my ass. I shift my backpack onto my shoulder in readiness, and I just nod at her in response. We've pulled to a total stop now, and Tiny is already opening up my door for me. I step out to some screams and a lot of flashes. I never understand why these girls will just scream in the middle of a street. The hotel has thoughtfully put up some barriers so at least I've got a clear run through, though. The photographers are all yelling at me to look their way, but I just keep my head down and eyes fixed to the floor. I feel like sticking a finger up, but I don't want any fans getting the impression it's aimed at them.

I almost forget there's anything but the door in front of me until I hear one dude yell out "Chelsea! Where's Sophie?"

You know, for a moment I'd almost forgotten she was Sophie Lumos's personal assistant and not mine. Being Ms Professional it took her all of five seconds to get up to speed - with a few helpful phone calls from Trace - so nobody's really batted an eyelid at her up until now, my security all know her from the set anyway. It really hadn't occurred to me when I thanked Sophie for the favour (I thanked Chelsea more) that people do actually know who Chelsea is and who she works for. I never considered the repercussions of that. Now there's a rumble in the rest of the crowd as they all recognise her too and suddenly the yelling increases threefold. They're all screaming out: asking where Sophie is and is she travelling with me, or did Chelsea quit, did I poach her. The fans are all turning to each other and speculating that I'm boning Sophie.

Shit. I really should have thought of that earlier. Chelsea being Chelsea is just keeping her head down and ignoring them, and soon enough we've been hustled into the safe harbour of the hotel. I've stayed at Hotel 71 in Chicago before, and any time I'm here they immediately set guys on the doors. They won't let anybody in without a room key, unless they're obviously checking in. I've known them insist on visitors having to prove that they know somebody staying in the hotel, which has led to some very irate customers storming down to the lobby to verify that somebody's there to see them.

"Shit," I say quietly to Sophie as we're hustled straight through to the incredibly slow elevators (one thing I do despise about this hotel). "I hadn't thought of that."

"It doesn't matter," she replies, pulling her ponytail out and redoing it as Tiny and Eric stand at the doors and quietly dissuade a couple of girls from getting in with us via glaring. "Once they realise that Sophie's nowhere near her the sex rumours will fizzle out, and there's no way Enrique will let anybody think his daughter got ditched for JT. Don't worry about it."

How is she always so calm? You know, apart from that Marco incident where she nearly got her nose broken, I've never seen this girl anywhere even close to panic. It's freakish and unnatural.

"How much time have I got to shower and everything?" I ask.

She looks at her watch and purses her lips. "I'd say we got forty five minutes. Will you be alright if I go to my room and do the same?"

"Sure," I say. I know that sounded like she was suggesting she had to help me shower or something, but some people do insist on their PA waiting around for them to finish everything.

"Where is my room?" She asks Eric.

"Next door to Justin's, 2247. We already sent your bags up there."

She looks mildly surprised by that, I wonder why. "Thanks," she says as we get out onto the right floor. "You guys meeting us back up here in forty five?"

"Sharp," Tiny winks at us. "Five bucks says JT is late."

"Not on my watch." She winks back at him and Tiny chuckles, passing her a room key. The sound of Gnarls Barkley fills the elevator and immediately she's answering her phone. "Hello?"

There's silence for a moment as the person on the other end gives what must be a very lengthy greeting, and then she laughs. "No, ass. You know in fact he says that five minutes with me showed him just how much of a waste of space you are."

Oh shit, why did she have to tell Trace I said that? I was only kidding, but the ass won't let it go for at least a week. In fact he hasn't called me once today so how come she merits a call? Best friend my ass. She goes quiet for a while, so clearly he's giving some speech. With an evil smirk as we trundle down the hall to our rooms, she quietly puts the phone on loudspeaker and lets me listen in.

"I mean, I'm not calling him a whore or anything but just don't let him bring anything too skank looking home, alright? Those girls are just ripe for kiss and tell and we don't want a repeat of the crab catching incident. Oh, and if his crack dealer shows up…"

"Hey asshole," I yell into the speaker and Trace lets out a yelp which sounds a lot like 'fuck.'

"You bitch you weren't supposed to put him on speaker!"

Chelsea's cackling like a banshee and I've never seen her laughing so hard. Clearly Trace was just calling to yank her chain (or maybe he was just exacting some payback for the 'waste of space' comment) but clearly he didn't want me hearing that either.

"You short ass freak," I tell him affectionately as Chelsea kindly holds the phone between us. "So were you calling just to convince her I'm a total sleaze or did you have a point?"

"Actually just calling to get the address for your New York hotel because I need to send you some more samples," he says. "By the time it gets out to you I think you'll be there."

"I don't have it on me this second but I'll give you a call back as soon as I get to the room and grab it."

"Cool, I'll talk to you in a second."

They both sign off and Chelsea's still giggling as we reach our respective doors. So she has a sense of humour after all… that's good. She'll need one working for me. Tonight's going to be insane… better start getting my game face on now. I find the shower oddly good for that.

***

Okay, what the fuck did I get myself into here?

I mean, I thought I'd seen it all with Sophie. I think I said she was like the love child of J-Lo and Angelina before, right? Well, add that to insanely famous and you can imagine that she gets an awful lot of attention. A lot of people come up to her and crowd her, and she once told me she thinks the only people in Hollywood who get followed more than her are Angelina and Britney. This isn't Sophie being immodest - it's a pretty accurate observation. If anything, she probably is followed as much as Angelina so she's actually underestimating herself a little. Press junkets and signings and stuff with her are always hectic and there are always too many people to move her through.

But this… my God, the club told us that a few girls have been there overnight. The line for the club is stretched out right the way around the block, and people in their cars are actually slowing down as they pass to yell at those in line and ask what it's for. The scalpers are patrolling the street, offering tickets (which I find dumb because clearly the people in line they're yelling at already have them). We actually stopped along the way so that Justin, Lynn and I could switch into a less obvious car to drive around the back in - the Escalades are a dead giveaway.

Justin did a quick sound check with the band, and I will admit that they sounded good even if I wasn't familiar with the song. I guess I'll be over-familiar with it by the time this tour ends. I'm now hustling around his dressing room helping his stylist. There was a slight accident with his shirt and I'm now frantically sewing buttons back on - the poor thing, like it hadn't already gone through the horrors of being tie-dyed. Justin's protesting as she's messing with his pants; he wants to wear them lower but she's glaring and telling him that he will not be wearing Valentino like he's some high school kid wearing his jeans halfway down his ass. I decided it would be unwise to tell her what happened with the laundry.

Come to think of it, I'm amazed the shirts were even left with Justin to begin with. How'd she let that happen?

"Chelsea, where's my mom?" Justin asks me.

"She's up in VIP meeting and greeting folk," I tell him.

"Oh, okay." He breathes in, and I can see his temper starting to get a little frayed. I'm wondering whether it's nerves or if he's just had enough of this day. I must confess I'm yawning a lot myself.

I also keep getting a lot of text messages from Sophie, like I don't have enough on my plate. Some are asking stupid questions that her father really ought to know the answer to in my stead, seeing as they so kindly packed me off on tour with JT without my consent. The others are all bugging me about Justin. I feel like replying and telling her that I've only been here for like five minutes, I'm too damn busy to interrogate him on his idea of the perfect date or whatever, and that she needs to go jump. I won't, naturally, but imagining it helps too.

I'm also imagining a pair of nice comfy flip flops, but that isn't helping. I was quietly informed by Tiny that it's clubbing gear for these performances; anybody who'll be visible to the public is supposed to dress up like we're all just here to party. Except security, of course, they all just wear black and look intimidating. They already tossed one guy out on his ass for trying to push through to the front. It was kind of funny, actually, the DJ had a spotlight on him and everything and the entire room was chanting "out, out" at him. Back to the point, I'm in heels and they're starting to hurt. I stayed as comfortable as I could get away with, jeans and a nice top, but I wasn't allowed to wear the flip flops and I couldn't find my flats in time to hustle out the door.

I'm finally done with the shirt now, and while the buttons aren't perfect they'll do until his stylist can sit down tomorrow morning and fix them properly. She's handily disappeared, so I just toss the shirt at him and he quickly whips it on over his vest. The plan was for him to go on in a suit, but he's not even buttoning it up and he's ignoring the jacket and fedora that have been laid out for him.

"The guys are all expecting me to go out after," he groans at me. Sometimes he does this, just lets out a little complaint like this. He doesn't usually expect an answer, doesn't seem to care if I respond. I think he just needs to vent.

"I seriously advise against it," I tell him, picking up his jacket and giving him the look that says 'come on you know you have to.' Begrudgingly he starts doing up his shirt. "You're already tired and I'm guessing you'll be wrecked after the show."

"The show's not too bad, at least I get the adrenalin going," he explains. "So normally I'm all for going to a bar after. It's by the time we get there I start to crash and wish I'd said no."

"Well that's what I'm here for," I wink. "I'm the bitch so you don't have to be."

"You have to be a bitch for Sophie a lot?" He jokes. I can't help the wry, annoyed smile that passes over my lips. It's more at Enrique's insistence than hers because he wants her reputation maintained, but I have had to do some less than great things on her behalf.

Instead of answering I hold out his jacket for him to slip into, which he duly does. "Okay, they said your call is in five minutes."

"Cool," he nods, taking another deep breath and seeming to mentally gear himself up. "Thanks again for doing this, Chels. This day would have been a lot crappier without your help."

"Eh," I wave it off. "You saved me from three weeks of Enrique's company. I ought to be thanking you."

He laughs. "How do you put up with that guy? He scares the shit out of me."

"Mostly I try to ignore him." I shrug. "For what they're paying me, I can deal with him."

He gives me this oddly penetrating look, and for a moment he looks like he wants to say something. I imagine he's made a lot of people squirm with that expression - it's very uncomfortable being on its receiving end.

"Still, I do appreciate you being here. Thanks, kiddo."

Justin gives me a quick squeeze around the shoulders and gives me a friendly kiss on the top of my head. I can't help going a little stiff - the only other person who's ever done that to me is Will, not even my Dad did it when I was a kid. It was just a nice gesture and if it had been the cheek I'd have thought nothing of it, but that was such a Will thing to do and it's kind of weird that somebody else did it.

"Welcome." I shrug it off and give him a smile before gently guiding him out of the door. If he's not out by the stage in about thirty seconds people will start yelling.

There's lots of lighting guys hustling around, and one of his band members is tuning Justin's guitar for him. Johnny Wright is in the corner having a quick word with somebody who I think is with the venue, and Justin's AWOL stylist is actually helping his drummer out with a last second clothing issue.

"Jesus," I mutter to myself. Justin turns around and grins at me, and I realise he heard that.

"Welcome to the asylum, kid."

"That'd be right," I breathe, staring wide eyed at the pandemonium. Sophie's never done anything like this, even award shows don't look this hectic… or maybe that's just because the space is so small. "How the fuck do you get through all this and then get out on stage like it's nothing?"

He chuckles at that, and shrugs at me. "That's what they pay me for."

The stage manager then comes over and practically yanks Justin off, looking very harassed as he does so. He yells at me to go to my right and the stairs will take me up to the VIP level where apparently Lynn is waiting for me. I can't imagine what his mom wants me for, but away I will go.

Because that's what they pay me for.