"UGH!"

I actually go through all the motions of throwing my cell against the wall. The only thing that stops it shattering into a zillion pieces is my hand, which seems to get a grip where I failed and holds onto it. My arm just swings to a stop instead. I still feel a little better for having let the muscles loose, but not much. It'd be much more satisfying to break something but I only just bought this phone. Maybe I should call my masseuse down here or something, because I can just feel the tension rising in my back and that never goes well.

Sophie is being fucking impossible. Well, I guess I should say her father is being impossible on her behalf and she won't take my calls long enough for me to talk her round, but however you want to put it the Lumos crew is pissing me off.

Why does nobody understand that I really NEED Chelsea right now? Why is it so hard for them to comprehend that them calling her back purely because they can is fucked up and it's going to fuck me over? There's a lot of shit going on and if she's not keeping my ass in gear, nobody is. I admit that I also want to screw her brains out but I'm a professional and I can control that little urge, it's my career I'm concerned with right now. Trace is going to be gone even longer than I thought and I can't drag Rachael back so if Chelsea goes, I'm fucked. I got nobody else; you can call me a diva or anal retentive but I can't trust this stuff to a stranger. Not to mention, Chelsea's been kind of spoiling me; she's way too efficient for my own good. I have a lot of shit to do and I need somebody to help organise my time and do the shit I'm too busy for.

Like right now - while I have been arguing with Enrique and trying without success to make Sophie have a serious conversation with me, Chelsea has been organising the kick ass party I'm going to have tonight at this club called Mojito. I know this is a really superficial example, but I don't care. The tour's winding down and before I go home I wanted to just have a real blow out. I ought to feel guilty about it, but I had this impulse… not quite twenty four hours ago. I gave her less than a day to get a venue, a guest list, security and all that shit organised, but damn if she hasn't pulled it off. She's looking pretty harassed and every time she glances my way she kind of takes this deep breath in like she's trying to bite her tongue, but she's getting it done.

Chelsea is my lifeline right now. She's keeping me sane through the tabloid drama, she's taking the weight off my shoulders and I no longer have to sweat the small stuff. Even if she was ugly as sin and I wasn't in the slightest bit attracted to her, she would still be my favourite person on the planet because that woman is worth her weight in gold… no, platinum.

And I might be losing her… fuck. I didn't even notice myself kicking that coffee table over. Shit, I think it looks okay.

"Problem?"

Now I'm just embarrassed. I don't even want to know how long Johnny's been standing behind me - here's hoping it wasn't long.

"Ahh, just Enrique Fuentes being an asshole."

"Who?" Johnny's brow furrows, clearly he doesn't recognise the name. I bet Enrique gets that a lot.

"Sophie Lumos's father," I explain. Now the light of recognition is on his face.

"Oh?" He's wearing his trademark baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, but I can still see his brows shoot up questioningly.

"I'm desperately trying to get somebody in their camp to agree to let me keep Chelsea longer but he's a bastard and Sophie's too busy doing whatever it is she does to stay on the phone long enough for me to ask. To be honest, I think she's doing it on purpose."

"How so?"

"If she doesn't hear the question she doesn't have to feel obligated to say yes."

"Hmm." Johnny doesn't look particularly surprised by any of what I just said. He perches himself on the arm of the sofa as I flop back onto the recliner opposite, and he folds his arms in his 'all business' pose. Clearly he's anticipated something like this. "Well, short of asking her to quit…"

"… Which she'd never do and would probably be offended if I suggested it," I finish for him.

"Well, Justin, I think the only thing that talks to a man like that is money."

"What are you getting at?"

"How much do you want to keep this girl?"

I give him a look, and he can probably tell how impatient I'm getting. "I'm fucked without a decent PA and you know it."

"Make him an offer," Johnny shrugs. "As far as I'm aware Sophie isn't doing much right now so she doesn't really need Chelsea, and he's just pulling rank. Sweeten the offer enough and he'll probably cave."

Why does this sound so sordid? I mean, seriously, it's a business transaction - you take a member of somebody's staff on secondment and you pay their employer for the privilege. What Johnny's saying is just pretty standard business; though if you didn't read between the lines, it's likely that I would personally be providing the sweet stuff because I doubt the label would cough up for this. You'd be surprised how many expenses come out of my pocket and not theirs. Anyway, I feel like I'm paying for a hooker here… not that I have any personal experience of that.

"Hmm…" I respond, non-committal.

"What it comes down to is precisely how much she's worth to you," he says. "We're covering her salary for the period she's with us anyway, but she's being paid less than Trace or Rachael so you probably have a little room. It'd depend on precisely how unreasonable he is."

"Very," I say immediately. Might also mention that the smaller salary does not surprise me… yes, okay, I'm the kind of idiot who blindly pays somebody's salary without knowing how much it is. Dad goes over all that financial stuff and he always tells me if something looks wrong.

"Then you'll have to decide where to draw that line."

"I guess I'll have to talk to Chelsea," I sigh.

"She already said she'd stay if they agreed to it, didn't she?"

"Yeah but if I hand over money for her behind her back she'll accuse me of reviving the slave trade. Then she'll probably hit me."

Johnny chuckles, taps the sneaker-clad foot I propped on the table (after I righted it), and leaves me to my thoughts. I know I just said she was worth her weight in platinum, but it's one thing to say that and another to be asked in all practicality to put a monetary value on somebody. It doesn't make it any easier that I have personal feelings all mixed up with this too; it's hard to try and pull myself back and look at this in a purely business light. I need a PA and I need one badly, but precisely how much is that really worth to me?

***

If I hear one more person at this table singing 'I know you got a buzz off that alcohol,' I am going to smash one of these empty bottles over his or her head. Somebody needs to explain why people would ever think I'd find that funny. It's like those DJs who see me in a club and then play one of my records while giving me the friendly wink… no, dude, I'm not grateful I'm just embarrassed. Way to draw attention to me.

I have to hand it to her, Chelsea throws a decent hootenanny. The club is the perfect size; it's small enough that with my guests it feels full and there's an atmosphere, but large enough that we all have some room to breathe. The décor isn't the greatest in the world, it's all pretty much black, but she's thrown some coloured pillows and cloths around and it now has an Arabian Nights kind of vibe to it. There are even a few torches set into the walls for the occasion. Well, I say she threw some pillows around, I guess she probably hired somebody to do it. Whatever, my money has been well spent.

I'm holding court with Marty, Eddie and Nick and the girls in this big ass booth by the bar; we're the only table in the place they'll bring the drinks to, though I'm not sure if that's because of where the table is or because of me. Chelsea's chatting away to Hannah and some girls Marty brought with him are putting away a scary amount of shots. I've had… well, a few drinks. Some shots and some beers, that's all. I'm buzzed but I'm not sloppy drunk.

It's awkward though because every time I look down I'm ogling Chelsea's legs - short skirts and knee high boots is just God being unfair. It's especially bad because if I look the other way I then get Hannah's legs and that's no better. Sometimes I think women were put on this planet to torture the hell out of me. I really want to get laid…

Not that there's any chance. Nobody else in here particularly piques my interest and Chelsea hasn't given me any signals at all since that weird make out thing. It's like it never happened; sometimes I worry that it didn't and I just had a really vivid dream. She has this messy wave going on in her hair and I don't know what she did with her make up but it's given her some serious 'come to bed' eyes. I can't help it, my gaze keeps going back to her legs and I keep thinking back to the make out and then I have visions of my hand on her thigh…

I'm such a horn dog.

To add insult to injury, I paid Enrique Fuentes no less than twenty thousand dollars for her today. Twenty fucking K, that's the price tag he put on her and I paid it - though at least I got her indefinitely, so I'm guaranteed a PA until Trace or Rachael gets back. I'd be even more pissed with myself if there'd been a time limit on it. Johnny's eyebrows practically hit the brim of his damn cap. Enrique's excuse was the fact that without Chelsea he has to be with Sophie twenty four seven and he needs to cover the loss from his other businesses plus his expenses, and expenses for any one else he needs to hire for stuff he can't do. It was a lame excuse, but it was the lowest me or Johnny could make him go.

Maybe I just like torturing myself. There can be no other reason I paid that outrageous amount of money for a woman whose total lack of interest is driving me insane. Can't say I've ever had this experience before - I've had women come running back for more and I've had women loudly cursing themselves for hooking up with me, but I ain't never had a woman act towards me like nothing ever happened between us. I can't say I like it.

I can't say I like the fact that Chelsea's now up and dancing all over Eddie, either. Bastard. Why did I invite him again?

***

A personal assistant needs many sneaky and devious tactics up her sleeve. Tonight, I've employed one of the most important.

Celebrity parties are glitzy and expensive (though not as endless or as unwaveringly fabulous as you might think). They're all very well but the problem is that at parties, you need to keep your celebrity's ass in check lest they inadvertently give the tabloids a great scoop. However, you can't be seen to be Debbie Downer or anti-social, both for the sake of their reputation and because it'll make them ignore anything you might say or do to talk them out of potential idiocy. So… you need to drink with the best of them without getting drunk. This might seem impossible, but I have a cunning scheme for just such occasions whereby I only half finish drinks while offering a taste around to anybody who wants one. There is some watering of any plants in the vicinity and pretending to spill is also a good one. All these things combined mean I never finish a drink and manage to stay sober while appearing to have partied with the best of them.

As a bonus, when I'm not hung over in the morning I look like I can really take my drink - it gives me cool points.

It's a good thing I did too, because right now Justin has me in dangerous territory. Right now, it's three in the morning. There's an after after-party going on in his room, and as far as I can see he doesn't know a lot of the people here. He's not slurring his words or anything, but his eyes are glazed over enough to let me know that some inhibitions and some sense have vacated the premises and that I should be on my guard.

I hate to say it, but his friends aren't much better than the random girls right now. He could use Trace around because these other guys have the word 'enabler' written across their foreheads. Trace likes to have a good time, but he also knows when to draw the line and tell JT that he's getting himself in hot water. These guys just seem to be egging him on and that worries me because I know for a fact that paparazzi are trying to get into this hotel. Prayers have been sent in the hope that none have or will succeed, but in the meantime my best bet is to keep Justin's ass in check.

Heh, people think this job is so glamorous. This is how I spend my days - constantly watching out for assholes who'll take advantage of another human being's slip ups and trying to prevent said human being slipping up in the first place. Sometimes I feel like I'm somebody's mother, telling them what they can and can't do and how they should behave. It sucks; who wants to be the thought police?

"Hey, Chelsea!"

"Hey, Marty!" I mimic.

"Come over here, I wanna ask you something."

Dutifully I get up and cross the room, wincing slightly as I go. I love my boots, they're brown suede and they rock, but after a night of dancing they hurt my poor little feet. I go to sit across from Marty, but Eddie pulls me into his lap instead. Eddie and I have been flirting on and off all night, but there's nothing to it and it's clear to both of us. He's taken and I'm sworn off men. I take the opportunity to start unzipping my boots.

"So…" Marty asks once I'm finally settled. "Tell me about Sophie."

Inwardly I groan. I hate being asked to dish about her. Not only is it something I can't do as her employee or her friend, it really pisses me off that people don't ask me about me. I'm not self centred, I swear, it'd just be nice if people could at least observe some niceties before grilling me for information.

"Go look her up on Wikipedia. It'll be more interesting."

Eddie chuckles. "Aww come on, you can't tell us you don't got dirt."

"Oh I got dirt," I snort. "But I'm not some silly moron who can't keep her mouth shut. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, boys."

"We ain't in Nevada, babe."

"I don't give a shit, I'm not dishing."

Marty starts off on some spiel, possibly about Sophie, but my eye and my attention have been drawn to this girl who is currently draping herself over Justin. I don't want to be a bitch, but… oh who am I kidding, I so wanna be mean. She looks like a complete slut. She's just so OBVIOUS. He danced with pretty much all the girls earlier and she made a real show of the booty popping every time she thought she was in his sight, and now she's being touchy feely in non-subtle mode. Oh, and why did nobody tell her that bleaching blonde tiger stripe chunks into mousy brown hair is not cute? Sophie and I have a term for girls like that, and it's SDFD. I won't tell you exactly what it stands for, but it's to do with what a girl might be whore enough to do for a little cash.

Normally it wouldn't concern me; Justin seems like he's people savvy. Tonight though I think he's just drunk enough to miss the 'I will sell to the National Enquirer' she has stamped across her barely covered tits and ass (see, told you I could be a real bitch when I felt like it).

"Come on, you can't even tell us one little thing about her?" Eddie strokes my arm like he thinks that'll make me dish, but I'm just distracted enough by the hooch to let a tiny tidbit out.

"She has a tattoo somewhere she'd have to be real naked for you to see it."

Great… nobody was supposed to know that. On the bright side they're now so busy salivating over that prospect that they're ignoring me. Normally this might bug me, but now it suits my purposes. Sliding off of Eddie's lap, I discreetly step over to Justin (where she's now stroking his chest) and bend down quietly with my most rehearsed excuse.

"Sorry JT, I just got a call I need to tell you about."

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure." He waves a hand dismissively, not getting the hint.

"It's, umm…" I gesture with my eyes to the door, and now it finally seems to twig.

"Oh, okay." He gets up without grace or ceremony and the silly wench practically falls off the couch, she was leaning over him so much.

I quickly steer him out into the hallway, shutting the door of his suite behind us both. I hate moments like this - it's awkward and like I mentioned before, it makes me feel like somebody's mother. In a way, it also feels like I'm kind of insulting his intelligence. Still, far better I piss him off a little than he gets into any more tabloid drama.

"So what's up?" He scratches the back of his neck lazily.

"Well…" Wait, did I just see movement at the end of the corridor? Okay, call me paranoid but that may not have been security. "Let's take this into my room shall we?"

He's very acquiescent, if a little confused, and since I'm straight across from him we're in there in less than ten seconds. In case of nefarious types listening at the door, I drift over to the far side of the room and luckily he catches the hint. Do you see how overly calculating I have to be about everything? I hate that.

"So?" He asks. "What's this phone call?"

"A blatant excuse."

"Huh?"

He looks so blank, it's almost funny. "It was a blatant excuse to get you out of there so I can ask if you're insane. You do realise that girl has 'I sell kiss and tells' written all over her, right?"

"Okay, WHAT?" He sounds pretty annoyed and I immediately regret the tone I took. Well, sorry, but it was warranted.

"Look, I…" I wince, biting my lip. "I don't want to kill your good time but that girl is clearly desperate to get into your pants and she looks like the type who'll sell the dirty details after."

"And you're basing this on… what?" Justin asks with a sceptical if drunk expression.

I can't answer with 'her obvious whore slut vibe,' so I go for reasonable. "You're in this business long enough and you develop a sixth sense for people with agendas. I bet you've had that vibe about people before."

"Whatever." The point seems to have hit home because he's lacking a comeback. "She seemed nice enough to me."

"Yeah, she would. She's being nice to you so she can get in your pants," I explain patiently.

I'm not sure, but I think I hear him mumbling that it's good somebody wants to and the money he's paid today. I think it probably best all around if I don't probe any further into that; it sounds far too much like there's a prostitute involved and I'm not sure I want the clarification. Instead, he says something else that confuses me even more.

"Well what about you and Eddie? That's no different."

"What?" I say. If there's a world where that was logical, this is not it. Why would Eddie sleep with me and then sell the information onto a tabloid? Heck, what tabloid would want to know? Unless I was yelling Sophie's name as I climaxed or telling him her deepest secrets post coitus or something, I don't think it'd interest them.

"Hey, I saw you two all over each other."

"We were not all over each other!"

"You so were."

"Were not!"

"He was dancing on you like white on rice. You're such a hypocrite."

Putting aside the fact that white doesn't dance on rice and that sentence makes no sense, somebody needs to explain how this conversation became about me. Or, more to the point, about bitching me out - what did I do?

"What the hell is your problem?" I ask hopelessly.

I fail to understand why his response is stomping on over, grabbing my arms and pushing his lips roughly to mine.