I've never understood why it takes girls so long to get ready. Even allowing them ten minutes to do that whole make up thing they do, I make it half an hour tops that they need. Oh no. I'm lucky if even my low maintenance cousin is done is less than an hour. I don't like to say it to her, mostly because I'd get punched, but I don't even think they look that different at the end of it. It's just their eyelids got some colour on 'em is all. Big whoop.

After two weeks of the old lay low, the press has finally backed off of the Chelsea story. Her apartment is no longer being staked out, and flashbulbs aren't going off in my face like Christmas lights every time I walk out the door. There's still some speculation going on, but Sophie finally managed to come out and convince them there hadn't been some huge bust up. Of course there has been, but the press don't need to know that. Chelsea still isn't taking Sophie's calls, save a short thank you for sending her references over.

Tonight then, now the attention has backed off, is the perfect time to go out and celebrate Chelsea winning herself a trial period working for Brett Henderson. Brett Henderson isn't somebody I ever heard of before, but apparently he's a movie producer working for Jerry Bruckheimer's production company. He might not be Jerry himself but he's a pretty good step in the right direction so Trace immediately declared we should all go out and party it up to celebrate. We didn't quite manage to prise Chelsea back away from Kennedy, Kennedy had to be invited, but it'll be the first decent amount of time we've spent with her since those two made up. She's been on interviews or with her every minute, though miraculously she's still getting her half of my errands done. Rachael swears she must have one of those Harry Potter time turner things.

I'm hanging in her living room, waiting for the two of them to be finally done and worrying about Rachael and Trace getting bored out in the car. I said I'd only be five minutes and so far I count fifteen.

"Sorry, sorry," Chelsea says as she appears before me. "She's nearly done, I swear. Which restaurant are we going to again?"

"Nobu," I manage to tell her distractedly. I take back what I said about the make up, her eyes are doing this dark sultry thing where they're popping out her face and I like it. I also like that little white dress she's wearing, but we have company so I'll behave.

"Cool. You sure Randy's cool with driving us around?"

"It's his job, Chels," I chuckle. "Relax." I reach out to tuck a piece of hair behind her ears and then swoop in for a kiss. My lips meet hers for a moment before I pull back and smile. "Hi," I say.

"Hi," she says back.

"You ready to celebrate?" I ask. I got such a perfunctory greeting when she opened the door that I'm taking this as my proper hello.

"As I'll ever be…" I go to kiss her again but she's turned away before I can get there, looking back towards her bedroom. "Hurry your ass up Ken!"

"It's a big deal," I try to push on regardless. "You must be so excited."

"Yeah, sure… Kennedy!"

There's nothing I love more than being basically ignored. I feel like a bastard for saying it, but I actually preferred it when she was pissed with Kennedy. I got a lot more attention that way. She and I have been doing this 'softly-softly' approach thing for some time and I'm running out of patience with it. She's fine with me, I'm fine with her; I don't see where the problem is. Especially since if she passes this audition period she'll no longer be my personal assistant and it won't be quite so professionally awkward.

Actually, this whole audition thing makes me worry. As much as I want her to get this job, I'm kind of concerned about where it's going to leave me. Sometimes I think that even though I'm dating her I only see her when Kennedy's busy or when she has to be there because she works for me. It's unusual for me to be doing all the running in a relationship and to be honest it's starting to wear me out. I don't mind a little hard work and I am the King of perseverance, but even I have a break point and right now I'm starting to wonder if it's imminent. Much as I despise sounding so much like a girl, I just want some little sign that I'm getting somewhere and that she cares.

"Hey…" I try again, pulling her towards me by her waist and wrapping her up in my arms so she can't get out too easily. "You feel like staying at my place tonight? For our own private celebration later…?" I waggle my eyebrows dirtily.

That cracks a smile from her. I suppose even if I can't get her to give too much of a shit, at least she wants my body. "Sorry lover boy, I got a car picking me up from here early tomorrow morning. So we can't be too late at this club either."

"Oh." I retract that body statement; maybe she doesn't even want that.

She must have noticed how disappointed I am, because she rubs my biceps with her hands and gives me a peck on the lips. "Some other time."

"Uh huh." I break away from her as Kennedy enters the room, finally ready, and without too much preamble I go straight for the door. I feel a serious funk coming over me, and suddenly I'm not looking forward to tonight the way I was.

Oh well. Onward and forward.

***

Dinner was great. Paparazzi were minimal. The club is great. So why has it taken me about seven beers to start to loosen up? Why do I still feel kind of shitty?

Well, I know why. I have been rebuffed and ignored at every turn tonight and this is probably why I've felt the need to get drunk. It's like I'm suddenly back to being the guy Sophie foisted her off onto and that she resents being around. She's polite but distant, and all her conversation is aimed at Kennedy. Rachael's just about getting a word in edgeways, but until we bumped into some of our crowd at this club the only person I've had to talk to tonight is Trace - and Trace is not my idea of a hot date.

"Come on, you haven't noticed?" He asks me.

"No," I shrug.

"She's had her eyes all over you all evening."

'She,' sadly, is not Chelsea. She is Olivia, a sometime fuck buddy of mine. Most of the time she's just a friend and not much else, but ever so occasionally when I've been single and she's been single we've hooked up. It's strictly a get mine get yours scenario, but in the past it's worked for us. I haven't noticed, but Trace seems to think she's been checking me out a lot this evening. Any other time I might be interested, but right now I'm too pathetically enamoured of my personal assistant. I mean the one who isn't my cousin - because that would be gross and way too much of a Southern stereotype.

"You got to admit, your old fuck buddy and your new one in the same room… wonder what would happen if I mentioned that to Olivia," he snickers.

"She is not my fuck buddy," I tell him for the millionth time.

"Olivia?" He looks confused. "But you said…"

"No, Chelsea!" I correct him with a roll of my eyes.

"Hmm. You keep telling yourself that bud."

Trace has been really getting on my case about Chelsea lately. I have once or twice accused him of just being jealous, but he swears he's just concerned that I'm getting strung along. He likes her, he says, but at this point he thinks she's screwing me around. Maybe not intentionally, he says, but that doesn't make it much better. As much as I like to disagree with him about that, sometimes I wonder if he's right. I mean, how much time does one person need? Either she likes me as more than a friend and a good lay or she doesn't at this point, and I would really like to know either way.

It's really fucking me off that this is all I think about lately. Tim's invited me out to do some more producing with him and I have some artist development to do for my own new label and Grandma's invited me home to Memphis for a week or so, yet all I think about is some little blonde chick and whether or not she likes me. I feel like I'm back in eighth grade. It just… I just… UGH. What the fuck is her issue? The only thing I can think of is that she's got residual Will issues and I'm sorry, but come the fuck on. Let it go already.

Rachael leans into me and yells in my ear over the music. "You want another beer?"

"I'm cool for a minute," I yell back. She turns around to the waitress and relays this, before coming back to me and slapping a friendly hand on my thigh. "Having fun, cousin dear?"

"I'm bored as hell," I tell her honestly. She tips her head back and laughs.

"We've been sitting on our asses talking for too long, that's why. Come dance."

She stands up and stretches out her hand to me, and I grasp it willingly. At this point I'm in such a bad mood that it doesn't much matter, but I'll at least try to be sociable. If there's one thing I can't stand, it is people who don't make the effort and who choose to sit and openly mope all night, killing everybody else's buzz. Either go home or make the effort, that's my clubbing motto. Heck, sometimes I even find that if I pretend to have fun for long enough it actually happens.

Somewhat masochistically, I stop by Chelsea and tap her on the shoulder. She looks up at me and I lean down to her ear, asking her to dance. She shakes her head and smiles, telling me to go have fun and she'll be up in a while. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I got the brush off yet again.

After ten minutes, she and Kennedy are the only ones still at our table in VIP, The rest of us have joined the throng. Me, Rachael, Trace, Olivia, Jennifer, Marty, Nick: we're all out on the floor. Possibly we're drawing a little more attention to ourselves than I'd like, since somehow we've formed a circle and whenever that happens, everybody else in the room kind of start watching whoever's in the middle. Marty loves that, naturally, since it gives him a chance to show off. It makes me a little uncomfortable though - I mean, I can bring it and I know it, but I get stared at enough without giving people something to stare at. It's worth it though to see Trace get absolutely stumped and have nothing else to do but the running man; dude is not a dancer.

Slowly I start to see what Trace was talking about with Olivia. She's giving it a little hooch touch when it's her turn and she even bends over and puts her ass practically in my face. Any other night I'd probably be capitalising on this opportunity but now I'm too sprung and oddly, that actually makes me kind of hate Chelsea. I do what's expected of me and give a pretend thrust behind her, making everybody laugh, but my heart's not in it. Hell, not even the less picky parts of my body are in it. Watching Olivia throw all these signals my way and knowing that I wouldn't even enjoy it if it happened kind of makes me curse Chelsea for leaving me this way, so unrequited.

There's nothing I hate more than being hung up on a girl who isn't interested. Celebrity has done a good job of limiting the number of times it happens, but even my fame can't totally buy me everything.

***

"God, would it be rude of me to go home?" I ask Kennedy, whining.

"It's your party so yeah, kind of," she tells me as she sips her drink.

"I just… I love them so much for being excited for me but the night before my first day I'm just too nervous to enjoy this." I exhale noisily, putting my head on my best friend's shoulder and tracing the rim of my cosmopolitan with an index finger. This is only my second alcoholic drink of the evening and an hour lately I've barely sipped it. I'm terrified I'll be hung over tomorrow if I drink.

"I think they just wanted to help you relax and stop you being nervous," she tells me. "Which you should be, you know, this is a great thing."

"It's a little premature though isn't it?" I ask as I sit back up. "It's just a trial period."

"Which is still a big step up from 'no thank you' so it's worth celebrating." She tightens her sleek red ponytail and glances out at our group, who haven't been back to the table for a good forty five minutes.

"I just feel like kind of a killjoy." It must be my fiftieth sigh of the evening, and yet I can't stop it coming out as I twist a strand of neatly curled hair around my finger. "And Justin looked so disappointed when I said I had to stay at my apartment tonight. I feel like I've been kind of absent for him lately and even though I know I have to be sensible tonight so that tomorrow goes okay I feel like I've let him down."

"I'm sure he understands," Kennedy shrugs. "It'll get better once you know either way about the job."

"Hmm…" This time it's one of the empty beer bottles I pick up, and I nervously start peeling away the label. It's a pretty stubborn label, too. I fidget when I'm anxious. "I think he's a little pissed with me to be honest. I haven't had a lot of time for him lately and he's kind of hanging around waiting for me to… I don't know. Tell him I want to be his girlfriend or I love him or some shit like that, I don't know."

"Well you've slept with him enough, what's stopping you?" Her nonchalant shrug surprises me. This is a bigger deal than just a shrug.

"It's complicated."

"Is it?" There's that blasted shrug again. "He's cute and he treats you well and the boy obviously likes you. So what if he wants a label on it? It's not like he's asking you to marry him."

"I just… ugh." I place my chin into my hand with a pathetic expression on my face. "It feels like a big deal and I have too many big deals going on right now is all."

"I think you'd have less of those if you stopped making so many of 'em." She slings an arm around my shoulders and kisses my forehead affectionately. "Come on drama queen, let's go dance."

***

Well this is just fine. She finally deigns to get up and come over here and join the party we threw for her, and yet again I'm being rebuffed at every turn. Well screw that. All I wanted to do was dance with her, and she stands there all stiff like I totally disgust her or something, and then all I do is reach down to kiss her and she turns away like I'm a leper or I got halitosis or something. What the fuck is her problem? I'm good looking, I'm successful, I treat her great… anybody else would have worked out I'm a catch by now but is she really that slow on the uptake? What the fuck is with the standoffish shit?

Okay, I know I had a couple too many beers when even in my own head I sound kind of up my own ass, but it's true. I'm a catch. My momma says so. Maybe she's a lesbian, maybe that's why she'd rather dance with Kennedy than me. Yeah, okay, that was the drink talking too. It's just really annoying. I went to all this trouble for her and she refuses to even enjoy herself. What kind of shit is that? She starts a new job tomorrow, why is she not celebrating? And why is she everything I fucking think about? I have a great career, I have a great set of friends, we're young and we're partying and why should I even care about the way she's being right now? I hate being this fucking whipped.

Well, to hell with it. I'm just going to stand here and dance with Olivia and to hell with Chelsea. I'm going to ignore the panging in my chest that wishes it was Chelsea so eagerly going for it to the music and sidling up to me. I may not be too interested in Olivia right now, but I'm still glad she's here. She's a friend and she's just about the only thing saving my ego this evening. At least somebody wants me. A little dance won't hurt. I occasionally pull her hands away if I think they're headed in the direction of my butt or any other too familiar territor, but I pretty much let her do what she wants and for a while it's good, good to kind of close my senses off to anything but keeping time with the beat and the person in front of me.

This is until I see Chelsea roughly push her way past Marty and Rachael and storm off back to the bar. It doesn't matter how pissed I am with her, watching her do that still tugs at my stomach for some insane reason.

Blithely I extract myself from Olivia and leave her in the dust without a second glance. I'm sure she's probably giving my retreating back a 'what the fuck' look, but the only one I catch is Kennedy shaking her head and looking grim. I half expect her to follow me through the crowd, but she stays with Rachael. For the first time it strikes me how stiflingly hot this club is. The air is thick with perspiration and sweat and it's pretty humid in here. I'm not too bad, just a little damp, but you can see people with some huge sweat patches. It even smells of heat.

Chelsea is disappearing off into the corridor that leaves to the VIP bathrooms, so I race to catch her before she actually gets into the ladies room. I can't just burst in there and it looks mighty dubious to be hanging around outside the women's bathroom like some perverted stalker.

"Hey!" I yell at her as I catch up her but she ignores me. "Hey!" I yell it again before managing to reach out and grab her arm, pulling her back to me.

"Oww!" She cries out angrily, glaring at me as she whips her arm away and rubs it.

"Sorry," I say dismissively. "Where are you going?"

"Mongolia," she says sarcastically. "Where do you think?"

"Hey, what you so pissy with me for?" I ask indignantly. "And what's with running off like that?"

"I'm sorry, I wasn't aware you could even see what I was doing you had your head so far down her cleavage," she spits out angrily.

I shouldn't be quite so gleeful about this, but at least the jealousy is some sort of reaction rather than the constant indifference. "What's it to you? We were just dancing."

"Is that what you call it?" Her eyebrow raises and an ugly coldness passes over her face. Suddenly she looks a lot less pretty. "You might as well have been screwing her right then and there."

"Jealous?" I ask as I fold my arms over my chest. The cold expression becomes one of disbelief and more than a little irritation.

"Is that what it's about? You were just trying to piss me off? Well congratulations, you succeeded."

"And why should you be pissed off if I dance with a friend? We don't owe each other anything, it's not like we're together." There, I did it, I threw her own indecision right back in her face and you know what, it felt good. Maybe I should feel like an ass for that, but it felt good. I'm sick of taking her shit so it's time she got took it back.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise that whatever it is we're doing was a free for all," she snipes back, giving me a light shove. She's getting physical - good. She deserves to be hurt right now because Lord knows I've had more than my fair share.

"Well maybe if you were a little more specific than 'whatever it is we're doing' I'd know what the fucking rules were!" I yell. "You can't have it both ways, Chelsea, you can't string me along holding me at arm's length and then expect me to just follow along like a fucking dog on a leash! I'm doing fucking everything for you and getting jack shit in return! You couldn't even act grateful after I put this whole shindig on for you, to celebrate for YOU!"

Now I'm saying all this, I realise how inevitable this little outburst always was. I've been trying to hold all this in too long and the floodgates couldn't take the pressure any more. It was easier to suppress when she was constantly in my house and in my bed, I could pretend it was progress being made, but I'm no closer to her than I was the first time she slept with me and then acted like it was no big deal the next morning. It stings like a mother, and I think she ought to share in that.

"Did it never occur to you, moron," she says as she smacks at me with her hands again, "that it's my first day at a really crucial audition tomorrow and I'm fucking nervous as hell and thus not exactly in party mood? And that I can't exactly party until I drop precisely because tomorrow is so fucking important? You're being so selfish, you want me to jump around and play along with your little set up here so you can feel like a nice guy when it could cost me a huge opportunity! I only even came out tonight because I didn't want to let you down and now I wish I hadn't even bothered because you're being a total ass and you were so not worth it!"

Ahh. I didn't quite think of it like that. Still, I didn't put a freaking gun to her head did I? And she didn't have to act like I barely exist, did she?

"Way to change the subject," I spit. "You want to tell me what the hell this is, Chelsea? I'm sick and tired of you stringing me along and promising me shit that never appears! Either you want to be with me or you don't, stop bullshitting!"

"This is your sales pitch? Being an asshole and yelling at me?" She bites back at me. "It's not exactly making me swoon."

She wants a sales pitch? I'll give her a God damned sales pitch - I push her up against the wall and before she can protest I've caught her lips with mine. For a moment she squirms, even beats against my torso a little like she wants out, but I'm not giving in. My whole body has her caught, she's pressed into every inch of me, and my tongue has slipped its way past to meet hers before she can do much about it. Somehow my anger is fuelling me, making me rough and demanding, and I think hers is making her respond in kind.

The kissing is fast and furious, our hands are going all over the place, and before I realise exactly what decision's been made her hands are at my zipper and mine are inching up her skirt. My lips attack her neck and collarbone and she breathes heavily as she wraps her legs around my waist and her fingers claw at my back. If I was thinking a little clearer I would realise that having sex in a public place is about the dumbest thing somebody as famous as me can do, but I'm not thinking anything beyond having her and right now. Her perfume smells of roses and there's an angry fire blazing in her eyes.

Before I know it I've pushed into her and we're writhing against the wall, both panting and making some fairly animal moans. Her pretty little mouth nips at mine, and I'm pretty sure she might have bruised my lower lip with her teeth. I'm certain we're both going to look totally like we just had sex after this - our clothes are rumpling against each other and now we're both slick with sweat. It's all over almost before I know it, first with her shuddering and then mine. It's probably a good thing the music's so loud; it'll have drowned all that noise we were making out.

Then we're both coming back down to earth, our eyes meet and suddenly I feel embarrassed. She certainly looks embarrassed. Gingerly I pull myself out of her and let her slip back down the wall to stand on her own two feet again. As she stares at the floor, trying to smooth the new creases out of her dress, I'm fumbling with my zipper and then to put my hands in my pockets. That was… phew. It was intense, to say the least, and I'm now not sure it was a good idea.

In fact, I know it was the worst idea I've ever had. She can't even look at me and my blood has rushed to my face. Most guys would slap me on the back and congratulate me for what just happened, but I feel totally humiliated. She can't even look at me.

Right. I guess that says it all.

"I think maybe there's no point in you staying on with me," I tell her shakily. "You got this job now and Rachael's doing most of the work anyway."

"Okay." She speaks so quietly it's almost a whisper.

"And I think…. there's no point in you… us…"

I'm practically choking on the words, can't get them out I'm so disappointed but she definitely catches my meaning. She doesn't even have the decency to look even a little upset. She just looks numb.

Funnily enough, the only change in her expression comes when the door bangs open and there, as if a ghostly apparition, appears Sophie Lumos. I guess I'm not the only one hit for six, because she's staring at the two of us in what looks half like disbelief and half like expectation fulfilled.

"Your lip gloss is a nice colour, Justin, but it doesn't really go with your complexion."

She sweeps on past with a face like thunder, and it's only after she's brushed past me and banged the door to the ladies behind her that comprehension dawns on me. I wipe my lips with the back of my hand and see the tell tale pink smeared across it.

"You never even told her, did you?"

I take Chelsea's silence as confirmation and this time it's my turn to walk away and slam a door after myself.