What I am about to say is sheer Timberlake blasphemy. I think I could get packed off straight back to Sophie if I ever articulate this thought. Heck, sometimes I'm worried that merely thinking it could get my dirty little secret uncovered.

Timbaland irritates the shit out of me.

I'm not exactly sure why, but I think it might be because he's always saying stuff like 'they cool,' 'this be' and 'that fine.' It seems like the guy is missing some key words from his vocabulary: 'are,' 'is,' 'was' and others. Maybe he's just trying to sound like Yoda, I don't know. Whatever it is it drives me crazy; I know he's not the only person in the world who talks that way and in the grand scheme of things it's not like he kicks puppies, but dear GOD it's annoying. Not to mention that the whole Thomas Crown thing he has going on is weird. Precisely how many different pseudonyms and monikers does he need? Most of us do fine with the one.

Also, Justin tends to laugh a lot around him. This is not a bad thing in principle, a little mirth is a good thing, but around Tim he always seems to use this really loud and high pitched yell of a laugh that I never hear any other time. It's about as pleasant as having a tooth drilled, though possibly more painful. Nobody's handing out Novocaine for this. Maybe it's unfair to blame Tim, but he's the only person who seems to inspire this laugh so I feel the link is not totally without evidentiary support. Heh, evidentiary support - you can so tell I watched Legally Blonde last night.

"Hey, Chelsea, I forgot this came for you last night."

"Huh?" I look up from my 'checking out' checklist with a confused expression.

As a matter of fact we just checked in to this hotel, but I always check the leaving checklist against the unpacking checklist. That way if I did something wrong the first time it shows pretty quickly. It's better than not realising you left something in New York a week later, because in a week you will be amazed what hotel employees will have liberated from a celebrity's suite. Most of the public presumed the idiot selling Sophie Lumos's pregnancy test on eBay as found in her hotel room trash can was a total fraud - there's a possibility he may not have been. It's better to know what's unaccounted for within 24 hours, I feel.

Justin grins at my unknowing expression (though thankfully his laugh is in lower pitch) and he tosses me a bulky looking package. I instinctively wince as it hits me, but then realise it's actually soft. I look at it and then him inquisitively as Tim observes in amusement.

"What is it?"

"Little present from me. Well, half from me and half from Trace," he concedes.

"The last present I got from any of you guys involved him singing with a box strapped to his groin. What's in the package?" I ask suspiciously as Justin bursts into laughter again.

"It doesn't sing or have anything to do with Trace's dick, I promise."

"Which limits the mischief potential so much," I say sarcastically. "Very reassuring."

"It's good, I promise, just open it!"

Finally curiosity gets the better of me and I go for it. It's one of those annoying trash-bag like wrappers which they secure with five tons of unyielding sticky tape, and it's a nightmare trying to get in. I wish I was in my room, I could just go for my nail scissors (which I never use to snip off split ends, oh no). Tim makes a not quiet enough comment about how concentrated I look, and that laugh sneaks out again. Maybe I would be doing the world a favour if I just gagged Justin. Nobody these days cares about lip syncing, right?

Then finally I get in and… damn it. I have to take it all back. Justin and Trace are AWESOME.

"Oh my God…" I breathe as I yank the hoodies out and unfold them in disbelief.

"We were arguing over which hoodie we each paid for," Justin jokes.

Call me a great big girl, but I kind of want to cry. While Trace and Kennedy were here and we all went out, Justin made a joke about how I wasn't wearing my PCD hoodie this time. This led to a fairly venomous comment from me about how Marco Fako had ruined my other one - which he had, considering that he caused me to bleed copiously from my nose all over my nice white shirt. Apparently I can make tie dyed designer shirts white again but I can't get blood out of my nice white Don't Cha hoodie.

Well, right now I have a brand new one sitting in my lap, as well as the one from Buttons. They didn't just replace what I lost, they went one better. I can't believe they did this. This is… I mean, to anybody else it's just a couple of cheap hoodies, but for me… this was so thoughtful. I almost wouldn't have expected it from the Burp and Fart Kings.

"Wow… this is… this is so nice of you guys. Thank you."

"You a big Dolls fan, huh?"

Really, is it so hard to say 'you're' Tim? "Far too big for my age, yeah."

"Heck, if you want a PA spot with them I could put in a good word. Them girls need some organisation on their asses, always late to the studio," he laughs. I'd almost forgotten he worked with them.

"Nah, I'm not looking to be a PA forever," I say. I immediately wish I hadn't, because he looks interested.

"Yeah? What you wanna do? Work for a label?"

"Nah, she's in the movie industry," Justin explains on my behalf. "I snagged her from Sophie Lumos for a couple weeks."

"Cool, cool," Tim says. You know, it's not like he's a bad guy, I just hate the way he talks for no good reason. I'm irrational. "So what you looking to do?"

"Film production, eventually," I answer. "It's just hard to get a foot in the door at the studios without lots of set time and a resume as long as your arm."

It's true. Every producer I've talked to either got a supremely lucky break or they slogged their guts out for years to get even halfway to where they are. I like it because you get a good mix of the creative side of the industry and the practicalities of it. I have a brain that I like to let run wild, but I also know to play to my strengths and organisation has always been my thing. I never missed a deadline or lost a single piece if paper in college. That would be great if anybody wanted to take a chance on me, but I know I'm not destined to be one of the lucky ones - so I must go the other route, the one that involves much menial work for crappy pay until I can force my way up the ladder.

"You know a lot of it is just persistence. Can't tell you how many people told me to get the fuck out on my way up, and now I earn more than any of 'em," Tim laughs with a wink at Justin, who gives him a knowing smile back.

I hate the way people do that. It's well intentioned, but so condescending when people who've made it say stuff like that to you. Great, I'm glad you had this great ride to the top but I am not you - it's not likely that I am going to wind up a millionaire. People are so quick to talk about their sweat, blood and tears if anybody suggests to them that they had it easy, but it never stops them telling you in unsolicited advice that it's all so simple if you just try. Fuck, it probably is simple if you've always known you want to be a singer and that's it, but some of us are flying blind here. Not everybody knows exactly what they want…

So why do I feel like such a freak, and like I'm the only one? I know I'm not, but it feels like everybody else gets it and I'm still stuck in adolescence. I keep waiting for the light bulb moment or for somebody to show me the way, and it never fucking happens. How the fuck do people know at the age of six what they want to do for the rest of their lives?

I won't say any of this to them though. I'll just be keeping quiet - that was my big mistake with my parents, talking about it. Now all they do is yammer on and on about what I should be doing and making disapproving noises any time I mention my current job - like unemployment is any better. Funny how everybody else always seems to be so determined that they know what's best for you and what you're destined for when you have no idea.

Maybe there'd be something to it if any of them actually agreed with each other.

***

Sometimes I wonder what the fuck it takes to make that chick happy.

For a moment there I thought we'd cracked it with the hoodies, but after talking to me and Tim for a while she went all quiet again. God only knows why. Now she's been quiet all day and it makes me cranky when I can see people around me so obviously depressed about something. It's like it's catching or something. The worst is if my Mom gets like that - then all is really not right with the world. On the bright side she is still wearing her brand new Buttons hoodie so I guess Trace and I got something right.

I'm just catching my breath and changing right now, I should be concentrating on keeping my focus for the second half of the show. The great thing about having Tim around is that I can have him do what he did for the arena shows - take on a few songs and give me a quick breather. It also helps if I can get out of this sweaty outfit. My wardrobe lady is nowhere to be seen, so it's Chelsea tossing a new pair of pants and an identical except in colour shirt over the top of the changing screen for me. In arena show quick changes there's no room for this kind of modesty, but that's the other good thing about a club tour.

"Can you toss me another belt?' I ask as I look critically at the buckle on the current one. It looks like it could go any second and I do not need my pants falling down on stage.

Quickly she obliges, and then I hear her heels clacking over to the other side of the room and springs creaking where she flops onto the sofa.

"What are you doing?" It's purely to fill the silence; I don't much care about the answer. I just find that being too quiet between acts stops the adrenalin going and it starts the come down process - it's too early for that halfway through a show.

"Reading trashy gossip about people who aren't you," she says and I chuckle.

Sadly, the gossip rags are still on form with the made up bullshit so Chelsea has to religiously read all about what a terrible person I am. Neither she nor my mom will let me look at any of it, but I guess I didn't hide that copy too well. Chelsea may be my PA right now but she's not the only one who can go out to Borders for me. The coverage is now leading more towards womaniser than woman beater, but that's because famous women keep coming to the show and I'm fool enough to oblige if they ask for pictures at the after parties.

I should be used to the fact that if I'm within ten feet of a woman I'm clearly screwing her brains out, but I have just never got it. I mean, I don't assume that every guy I see is fucking the woman he's standing closest to. Hell, these people once had Elisha pegged as my girlfriend when at the time she was Trace's. Worse, they thought I was boning RACHAEL and she's my frickin' cousin. As far as I can tell, most people don't do that to anybody… except me, apparently. For some reason I'm fair game.

Sometimes I really do wonder if it's time for me to just bow out. They'd get bored of me eventually if all I did was produce for other people or whatever. I just don't know if I could give up doing this… these shows, performing my own stuff, knowing that however many million people are listening to ME, to MY shit, liking MY stuff. That makes me open season though. Supposedly the tabloid shit is part and parcel of my job and if I sign up for fame then I have to sign up for defamation and stalking. I don't know if I can do it any more.

Sighing, I step out from behind the screen, all ready to go. Chelsea's flicking through the magazine and I look at her, wondering what it's like in her shoes. She gets the restaurants, the hotels and (some of) the freebies, just with fewer accolades and a lot less shit. She's sat there right now in jeans, a hoodie, the blonde hair scraped back off her face and not a drop of make up. Sophie would get slaughtered in the write ups; nobody cares if Chelsea does it.

"Ready to go?" Chelsea looks at her watch. "You got about three minutes."

"Yeah." I nod a little too hard in response, as if doing so will just erase the craziness that went through my head. Who am I to complain, right? I'm not exactly a starving child in Africa.

She flicks through aimlessly, seeming to bypass any celebrity who doesn't interest her. "Are you going to the after party?"

"I like the bar, but I don't want to stay too long."

"If you go you'll stay too long," she says knowingly.

"Ahh, I'm young right? I should party while I can."

"Partying's overrated," she shrugs. "I mean, don't get me wrong, in moderation it rocks but I never saw the point of doing it all the time."

I didn't exactly have her figured for the party type. This is the girl you go to a ball game or movies with, even if she would look a little too girly. "Well I didn't go last time so I figure I'm covered."

"Because the time before last time you swore never to drink again." She gives me a wry grin and a wink, and I know she's teasing.

Foolishly, I take this as a sign she's in a better mood. This was very premature of me and it was probably a jinx too, because by the time she's turned the next page her eyes have bugged out of her head. Her left hand looks suspiciously like it's shaking a little and her face is going red. It's not an embarrassed kind of red, it's a furious 'hell hath no fury' kind of red.

"What's up?" I ask cautiously.

"I can't believe she did this."

That's not a very illuminating response, so I try again. "Who did what?"

Chelsea folds the page around to keep it, and then tosses the magazine at me before storming out of the room. I don't have the time or inclination to follow her, so instead I just take a look at the article. At first all I see is Sophie kissing some guy, and I really don't understand why that would piss her off so much. The Einstein moment comes as my unobservant self finally clocks who she's kissing - none other than Marco Lame-o.

So Chelsea being mad kind of makes sense now. I'd be pissed too if the guys who assaulted me was now happily back in the arms of a woman who said she was my friend and that she'd ditched him over it. Who knows how long this has been going on, or if they even really split up to begin with? Either way, I'm betting Chelsea's feeling a phantom pain in her nose right now - and possibly a more real migraine kind of one.

Still, I don't have time to worry about it; she can go cool off somewhere and by the time the show's done she'll probably have calmed down. Instead I walk out to take my position, slap Tim's hand as he comes off and stroll lazily back out to my mike stand. The screams that go up are an elixir for me - instantly I feel better and my smile's back on. I might smile for a photographer's camera or an interviewer when I don't mean it, but I never need to fake it for a show. This shit can cure anything.

The band start the build up to Rock Your Body, and I prepare for the ritual audience participation moment. I roll up my sleeves as I sway to the music, winking at a girl who yells something really crude about what she wants to do to me. Sorry, sweetheart, but the last thing I need on my record right now is a statutory rape charge - she has to be over twenty one to be in here but she looks about twelve, you'd understand the cops' mistake.

"Are y'all tired yet?" I yell to the crowd. The band prompt them with the required answer by yelling 'hell no' into their own mikes. By the time I yell "are you ready to quit" the crowd has got it.

"Are y'all tired yet?"

"Hell no!"

"Are y'all ready to quit?"

"Hell no!"

"Are y'all tired yet?"

"Hell no!"

"Are y'all ready to quit?"

"Hell no!"

"Are y'all tired yet?"

"Hell no!"

"Can I rock my shit?"

Before they can even start the 'hell yes' they're interrupted by what can only be described as a snap, crackle and pop. Sparks suddenly fly out of one of the lights - it sends my backing singers ducking for cover, and suddenly the loud drone of a fire alarm is going off as it ignites a curtain. Now the screaming isn't for me - people are starting to push and shove in the rush for the doors, and I'm not sure whether I'm more worried about me burning to death or them being trampled to death.

Before I know it Dre has seized my dumb founded, frozen self and is hauling me off the stage while Mike is talking into a microphone and beseeching everybody to stay calm and not to run.

***

Praying to every God I ever heard of, I dial Lynn Harless's number into my cell phone one last time and press send. For a brief moment I hear a dial tone, but it's quickly gone with the loud beep of my battery dying. Naturally the screen dies, and soon I find out that the bastard thing won't even turn on any more. The one and only time in my life I have a real emergency (not the 'Sophie's flight was cancelled' kind), and it's the one and only time I didn't remember to charge my phone.

Finally there's nothing to do but slump against the nearest building and cry. It's not a very adult reaction, but I am past adult right now. I fall to the floor and bitterly slam my phone against the ground. This is a very stupid thing to do, because I think I've broken it. I've also taken the skin off a few knuckles.

I was hiding out in the toilets when that stupid alarm went off. I didn't even know if it was real or not. All I know is that when I heard it and stepped out of the bathroom to see what was happening, the entire audience was swarming out in the opposite direction and there was no way in hell I was going to get back through to the backstage area. I figured that the best thing I could do was to follow the crowd out and wait outside the club. It's in the middle of a very long street so there's no way I could get round to the back entrance, but I figured somebody would pick me up.

Or at least I figured that until I saw the regulation Escalades racing down the street without stopping.

Foolishly, I even thought they might have made a mistake and would be coming back any moment. Soon I realised that it was a dumb thought and I'd been forgotten (that made me feel so great about myself, I can tell you). For a few moments I managed to be sensible and figured I could just go and grab my purse from inside and get a cab. Then the nice man from the fire department told me that the fire wasn't out and to top it all off they suspected another one could spark any second - lots of faulty wiring. Nobody was going in there for a good few hours, he told me. Then, naturally, I couldn't get a signal on my phone - by the time I did, it was dead.

Fine, I thought. Walking is good for you. I thought it'd take me half an hour, tops. This did not take into account my appalling lack of geography, an unfamiliar city and a pair of fucking stilettos. My feet are in agony. I finally had to take them off and walk barefoot, which considering the part of town I seem to have wound up in is risking broken glass and dirty needles. I have no idea where I am and no money. I even thought about wasting some police time and dialling 911, but every pay phone I find seems to have been vandalised. I could have burst into tears when some guys saw my hoodie and started grabbing their crotches and yelling how they'd be happy to oblige. For one heart stopping moment I thought I was about to get raped.

God, I bet nobody's even looking for me. How could they have just run off without me? Or even if they had to get Justin out of there, how long would it have taken to come back and check for me? For all they know I've fucking burned to death. You know, as much as I hate Sophie for getting back with Marco after all the spying she made me do and what he did to me and Kennedy, I know she would have never let this happen to me. She'd have screamed the place down before she let me get left anywhere. Hell, she once kicked a very important director out of her car for me (wound up being a good thing, the movie he decided not to give her was a total flop).

Finally there's nothing for me to do but get up and keep walking, wincing in agony every step of the way. I figure if I just walk for the brightest street lights I see, I'll either wind up in a nice suburb where I won't be scared to knock on a door and ask for a phone, or back on the main roads nearer the hotel.

I don't know who was listening up there, but I could cry tears of joy when a cab turns down the street and heads towards me. It's an actual licensed cab, too. I swear I might actually listen next time my mother drags me to church.

"Hey, could you take me to the Regent?" I'm babbling too fast. "I don't have any money on me, my purse got left, but as soon as we get there I can get to my room and…"

"Sure, sure," he says kindly, obviously a little taken back by what a mess I am.

I'm sure I look great, red eyes and a snotty nose. He seems like the grandfatherly type, the kind who'd always do a girl in distress a favour. Or maybe it's just because he knows that if I'm in the Regent then I will have cash. I'm deathly quiet on the short journey, aside from the odd sniffle. I watch as the streets go by, and it would have taken me a good while to walk back. Five minutes in a car is a much longer way by foot. My feet are burning, and I can't help a few more tears slipping. My knuckles hurt too.

Before I know it I'm at the hotel, telling him to wait outside while I get his fare. I shuffle in as fast as my painful feet will allow me, and go straight to the welcome desk. If the night porter is alarmed or surprised, he doesn't let it show - remind me to tip him later.

"Hey, umm…" God I can barely talk. "I lost my purse and I needed to get a cab, would you be able to spot me twenty dollars and charge it to room 2315?"

"Certainly ma'am." Wordlessly he opens the register and hands me the money, before immediately going to the computer and adding it to my bill. For the price they charge here, you'd think it'd be complimentary.

The next few minutes are a hazy blur as I go out, pay the dude, and then tramp back in and catch an elevator. You know how you can push through more than you'd ever think but then the second you get home the energy just disappears out of you in a second? Like if you let go of a balloon before you tie it and it immediately goes whizzing around the room before the air runs out and it drops? This is how I feel right now. You could walk up to me and tell me that my entire family was wiped out by a meteor and not a damn part of it would register. Heck, anybody could ask me anything right now and get a yes out of me. For some weird reason, I think to check my feet and I see how black with grime they are. It'll hurt like hell scrubbing that off while my feet are this sore.

Finally the elevator stops at the Timberlake floor, and I hear yelling. It takes a while before the words actually go through my head.

"How fucking long can this take?" Somebody's yelling.

"You need to calm down…" That's a Southern accent.

"Calm down? The building was fucking on fire and now we can't find her? How the hell did she get left behind?"

"Dude, you need to relax. I'm sure she was fine and she just got sent through the wrong door or something and got caught up in the crowd. They'll find her." Huh - so Timbaland can construct real sentences. Who knew?

"If anything happens to her…" Oh, wait, that voice is Justin. He sounds pissed. "How the fuck did we manage to get everybody out of there and back here and then not realise she was missing for two fucking hours?"

"Chelsea?"

My head instinctively rises as much as it's able at the sound of my name. Fuzzily I realise it was Lynn who spotted me, but it takes less brain power to notice Justin ploughing into me at speed and then practically breaking my rib cage with an over zealous hug. This is the last thing I need right now, more pain. Also, the one thing my brain did hear loud and clear was that nobody missed me for two whole damned hours. It's nice to know how important I am around here.

"Oww," I moan, and thankfully he takes the hint and loosens up a little. I'm actually glad he didn't let go, because right now he's the only thing keeping me upright.

"Shit, are you okay? What happened?"

"You drove off without me but then you knew that. Ass."

"I'm so sorry; I thought you were in the other car…" I can't find the energy to bring my head up and actually look at him, but he sounds livid.

"I tried to walk back but my cell phone died and I got lost," I mutter sleepily. I imagine this is what it feels like to be drugged.

"You walked all the way back here?" Lynn sounds horrified.

"Got lucky eventually. Cab came by." Even as I talk I'm starting to slur a little, and my eyes keep blinking shut. The last thing I feel is the sensation of being swept off my feet and pressed up against Dre's hulk of a chest before I completely black out.