"You mean he just promised you'd be there without consulting you first?" Ryan called from deep inside Evan's closet.

"Pretty much." She said without looking up. She was debating whether or not to throw out an old hat she never wore, but knew she would miss.

They were in the middle of their monthly cleaning spree. Once a month, each of them picked a chore that needed done badly and ganged up on it. They had just gotten done with Ryan’s “Bathroom of Death” and were now attempting to conquer Evan’s “Closet o’ Doom”.

“What’s this?” Ryan poked his head out of the closet and held up an old black, leather bound book.

“Oh! That’s the journal that I haven’t written in for the last seven months.” She tried to think back to what she wrote as her last entry, but couldn’t recall. “Toss her here.”

He threw it half-heartedly and it landed in a pile of mate-less socks off to Evan’s right.

“Good throw.”

She cracked it open and read the last entry.

June 17, 2007

I heard from Rose during one of her monthly calls that Aisling was in New Mexico now, selling home-crafted jewelry out of the back of her hippy boyfriend’s van. Rose said that it was “just distasteful.” Selling jewelry out of a stuffy van is distasteful, but being married to a hateful boozer is totally legitimate.

Evan shut it and closed her eyes. That’s right. My mother. Almost a year had passed since the last time she’d heard from or about her mother before that call from her grandmother had come.

“You going to keep it?” Ryan suddenly spoke up. He was still in the closet, his head only visible.

“Didn’t you swear to never be closeted again?” she asked sarcastically. The whole thing with Laurent had made her mad last night, and she was still mildly pissed off. The reminder to the “mother she never really had” didn’t really make anything better.

“Har har. So are you? I need a new day planner. I could totally rip the old pages out of that.”

She pressed the book to her chest and closed her eyes. Writing used to be so important to her. She’d document even the most mundane of days. Now things had changed so dramatically that she just didn’t remember to make time for it.

“No. I need some sense of normalcy. I’ve got to start writing again.”

“Whatever.” He shrugged and went back to rearranging sweaters.

She felt as though the journal were mocking her. She set it on her bedside table until their cleaning expedition was done, and tried to ignore it while she nuked her dinner in the microwave, but it was still there, gnawing away at her until she just had to swallow her pride and just write something. Anything.

She took out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling noisily. Sal lifted his head from his spot on the corner of her bed.

“What? I am a Grown Ass Woman. Don’t judge me.”

She flicked her ashes in the crystal ashtray and picked up a pen in her right hand. And froze. Where to begin? She debated how much she actually wanted to add, then decided that the date would be a very good start. After that, the rest was pie.

August 1, 2008

Where to begin! Seven months ago, I met a man at Rick’s while bussing tables. His name is Laurent Maverick. He’s a manager. And he has signed me to his label. Pandora’s MusicBox bought the rights to my debut cd, and yet I’m still stuck at Rick’s bussing tables.

I would have thought a year ago, (if you’d have asked) that once you got signed to a record label and had a manager, it was in the bag. Nothing but the good life from the moment the ink dried. But now I know: These things take time.

My single just hit the air a few weeks ago. Laurent told me last night over dinner that it’s climbing the charts pretty steadily. It’s at number fifteen right now, which (according to Laurent) isn’t bad for someone’s first time out. His words, not mine.

But still. It’s frustrating. I have to deal with drunks singing my songs rather loudly at me when I go to pick up their tab or serve them their drinks. It’s a bit demeaning. I feel as though they’re saying “You have a hit song, but pour me some more, beer wench!”

He likes to eat at this little Chinese place that’s actually called “The Chinese Place”. I don’t really know that much about him. He likes simplicity. Or at least I think he does. That’s what his apartment screams rather vividly, anyway. Everything is white. The walls, the carpet, the furniture. It’s really disturbing.

He had a wife (Anne) and a child (Tom) but they were killed a long time ago. Before I was born. I asked about them on accident about a month ago and he freaked. Didn’t talk to me for a little while. But I didn’t know at the time about any of it. It was innocent on my part.

He’s gruff and dark and guarded, and the sickest part about all of it is I think I really truly feel something for him. I tried (when I first started to feel whatever it is that I’m feeling) convincing myself that what I’m feeling is actually just curiosity and a little bit of petty for a man who’d lost everything he had and built something from nothing. But then I wised up. I figured it out. Curiosity would be asking everyone he knows what all they know about him. Curiosity would be Googling him (which probably wouldn’t be a bad idea at all) and seeing what pops up. Petty would be trying to set him up with someone I might’ve met at the supermarket or drugstore. Someone who would be good for him.

None of what I’m feeling is curiosity. I can rule that out right now. Although I do like to watch him. Doing anything! I watch him when he eats, when he smiles (which is rarely), when he scoffs at me (which is often), when he reads the paper while waiting for me. And I find myself feeling THAT thing. That indescribable thing that you feel for someone when you know that you’re falling for them.

And the worst part of it all is that I know that I can’t tell him or do anything about it. If I tell him, he’ll scoff at me or tell me we can’t work together. Or he’ll tell me that I’m too young and foolish for him. That we’re all wrong together. And maybe we are. More than likely we are all wrong for each other. But really, we’re all wrong for anybody else, too.

She paused for a moment and realized that her cigarette had burnt all the way down to the filter. She smashed it out against the bottom of the ashtray and lit another one, promising silently to herself that she’d be more attentive to this one.

Plus, now, he’s seeing someone. Her name is Jane. And I got her number for him. She’s a waitress at The Chinese Place. I did it as a joke. I really did. But apparently he called her and they hit it off. And I want to be well adjusted enough to say (and actually mean) that I’m happy that he’s happy, but that’s just not me. I’m waaaay too neurotic for that. So, I’ll keep my mouth shut. For now. She just better pray she doesn’t hurt him…

Evan dropped her pen and sucked on the end of her cigarette. She looked over at Sal, but he’d gone to rove the quiet rooms of their apartment. She noticed that it was getting light outside and decided to head off to bed. She needed to up by nine that morning, when Laurent would pick her up and drive her to the hanger where his private plane would take them to mingle with the rich and famous. I’m pretty sure this is all going to give me an ulcer. I’m almost certain of it.

She dreamed of him again that night. Woke up, tossed and turned praying to get her mind off of him, drifted back off, and repeated the whole process until Sal started barking. Loudly. She stumbled out of bed and hit her knee on the tv stand.

Cursing silently and rubbing her newly bruised knee, she saw a bright red spot of light in her kitchen, just outside of the halo of light coming from over the sink. The red spot dimmed and brightened several times and Sal barked at it again.

It took her still sleepy mind a minute to realize what it was: the lit end of Laurent’s cigar. She sighed and flicked on the over-head light. “Morning.” She said harshly and pushed past him to throw open the curtains behind her breakfast nook.

“Funny. He didn’t react to me the last time I--“

“Committed ‘breaking and entering?” Evan finished for him.

“Technically, there was no ‘breaking’ involved. I have a key, remember?” he held it up and dangled it before her eyes.

“It’s seven. You’re not supposed to be here for another two hours.” Her righteous indignation was interrupted when she sniffed the air and realized that he’d made coffee for her.

He caught the fact that she noticed and waited.

Finally, she swallowed her pride. “Thank you. You’re the best manager ever.” She said sarcastically.

“I try.” He mashed his cigar out in the ever-present ashtray. “I just wanted to make sure that you’d be ready when it was time to go. I know what a zombie you are in the morning.” He shrugged. “You have cigarettes? I have to go get the paper, anyway.”

“I could use another pack.” She said, defeated and consumed in her coffee, already replaying what she’d dreamed the night before. Sal rested his head on her knee and waited for her to scratch him behind the ears.

He was gone without another word, leaving Evan to be picked apart by the vultures which were her memories of the dream. It was all muddled now, here in the light of morning, and with the caffeine rushing around her blood stream. But it was still there, hidden behind the thoughts of what she had to do that day. The way he said her name and the way he touched her. It was all branded in her memory--fresh and raw. It was only a dream, but it was all she had, after all.

“Here you go.” He said, throwing a whole carton at her and making her jump. “Sorry. I should know by now that you’re not quite alert at this hour.” He sat across from her at the island and threw a tabloid between them. “They caught you. I can’t believe that it’s already happened.”

“What the hell are you talking about.” She asked, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. Her hands smelt like Sal.

“The paparazzi. They snapped a picture of you last night.” He pointed at the bottom of the cover. It was a small picture. Just big enough to grab people’s attention and make them want to open it up and take a peek.

He was right. There she was in her fishnets, heels, and leather mini skirt, cigarette dangling from her lips as she pushed a business man out of the way to get to her taxi.

The caption above the picture read: Could This Be Your Daughter’s Next Role Model?

“Those bastards don’t even know me!” she felt suddenly violated.

“Welcome to the biz, sweetheart.” He’d opened a pack for her and pushed it across the island to her.

She took it willingly and lit one up, thankfully. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes. Laurent let his eyes rove her many curves. Her eyelid, cheekbone, nose, lips, chin. He could see some of her red lacy bra poking through the holes in her worn Ramones’ tee shirt that was at least two sizes too big (for maximum comfort while sleeping, he guessed). The bright orange nail polish was chipped significantly on every finger. He noticed for the first time the tattoo of a bird on her right wrist and wondered how that had never caught his eye before.

He looked up at her face and found her green eyes watching him intently. The stared at each other for a full minute, the silence a pressure in their ears.

He was the first to break eye contact, which gave Evan a quiet sense of power. “You should really start to get ready. Have you packed?”

“Last night.” She smashed out her cigarette as he lit a new cigar. “I just need to shower real quick.”

Images of warm water rolling down her flesh (pink from the warmth of the shower), bombarded his mind, and he pushed them back quickly. “Take your time.” He tried to sound like his normal distracted self, and played it off well.

She left him alone with Sal, who looked up at Laurent from his spot on the floor. He could hear the water running and Evan singing loudly. Something he’d never heard before. They lyrics were sensual without being trashy. Something that was very hard to do. He tilted his head and listened intently, straining to hear her.

I know I don’t know you
But I want you so bad
Everyone has a secret
But can they keep it
Oh no they can’t

Driving fast now
Don’t think I know how to go slow
Where you at now
I feel around
There you are

Cool these engines

Calm these jets
I ask you how hot can it get
And as you wipe of beads of sweat
Slowly you say "I’m not there yet!"

He sighed, and flipped open the paper.

In the bathroom, Evan threw her hair in a towel and gave her bare body a once over in the mirror. She wondered if a men’s magazine would ever offer her a photo shoot. She’d always seen those magazines on the rack at WalMart back home as a child, and wanted so desperately to be one of those girls. It seemed silly now, she mused. Models like that were only marketable until they reached the age of 27. After that, they were old hat. She’d set out on a mission to be something different than that when she reached 18. She wanted to be that rare girl who was smart and pretty, but not annoyingly so. She figured she was halfway there.

She picked out a simple enough outfit. White shirt, black capris, and black flats. The capris kept slipping down past her hip bones, though, which caused her much grievance. She’d have to look for a belt.

She came around the corner, briskly rubbing her damp hair with the towel. Laurent looked up and caught sight of her, and noticed (again, for the first time) more tattoos. These were just above where her pants dipped down low--two pistols firing hearts, instead of bullets.

“What?” she asked, dropping the towel on the kitchen floor.

“Nothing. I just never realized that you were so….inked.” He diverted his gaze back to the financial section.

“Oh. Yeah. I’m like the human equivalent to scratch paper.” She walked over to him in that casual way of hers and drank what was left in his coffee mug. “You gonna help me with my luggage?”

Wordlessly, he rose, and fallowed her to her bedroom. She pointed at three leopard print suit cases of varying sizes, while she searched for her purse. He picked up the biggest ones and lugged them out to the living room.

Meanwhile, she found her “travel size” purse. It was actually a very large faux-Chanel tote that she’d bought with Ryan at a flea market for 25. It was a pretty convincing fake, though.

Before she turned to get the suitcase Laurent left for her to carry, her journal caught her eye. She debated silently for a few minutes whether or not to take it, and finally decided this trip would be worth documenting. She threw it in her purse and lugged her bag into the living room, where Laurent was waiting for her.

“I put your carton of cigarettes in the biggest bag.”

“Thanks.” She said as she opened the door.

“What about him?” Laurent asked, pointing a thick thumb at Sal.

“I told Ryan I’d be away for a while. He’ll be over to pick him up in a few hours.” She paused when she noticed Laurent raise a eyebrow. No words had to be spoken. She knew what he was getting at. “You’re right. I should call him when we get in the car and remind him.”

“ ‘Atta girl.” He made a weird, straining noise as he picked up her suitcases. “I should have known a girl like you would have a lot of baggage.”

August 2, 2008

First stop on my album release tour (outside of my lovely New York)? California, here I come! Laurent says it's nothing to be intimidated by, that he's been there loads of times, but I can't help but to recall all of the movies I've ever seen with wonderfully tan, fit Californian women and feel a bit inferior. We're on his private jet right now, which is also intimidating (and a little irresponsible with today's economical climate and rising global warming, but I'm not telling him that because Id sound highly ungrateful, which I am not in any way.). I think the only reason he bought his own jet was so he could smoke (again, not ungrateful at all) but it just reminds me exactly how much disposable income this man has. This whole trip is turning out to be very intimidating. I just hope I don't fall flat on my ass.

August 5, 2008

Went to my first Hollywood party. It was at some trendy club (the name of which I could not pronounce. & trust me, I tried until my brain almost exploded.) and all of the "IT" girls where there. It was crazy and exactly as everyone would have you believe. Between the music (all crap that had no message) and the talking (all of which had no substance) it was LOUD. I can't be sure (living in New York hasn't stolen all of my innocence yet. I'm still pretty naive), but I think some of the starlets in the corner were doing drugs. But I have no proof. I clung to Laurent's side the whole time like a scared child. On the ride

home, I apologized for being such a potential hindrance.
"It's okay, I hate those things. Parties and what not. It's just a big accuse for people who don't matter to be seen." he sounded bitter (which wasn't anything new for him), but it surprised me how he bad-mouthed the biz.

I did meet Elena Doro, Aleksandar Bjorn and Scarlett Starr. They seemed at least a little interested in me and wanted to know where Laurent had found me. He talked about me like a proud papa, which made me feel a strange mix of giddy and ill. Aleksandar “Call me Alek” rested his hand on my knee one too many times. He noticed my bruise and asked about it.

“Oh, those casting calls are a real bitch!” I said rather brashly.

I heard Laurent chuckle beside me.

The rest of them just looked confused, so I explained my joke (which I hate doing.) and they laughed. A good “will give blowjobs for work” joke seemed right up their ally. Although I think Scarlett (“The poor man’s Paris Hilton” Laurent whispered to me when I’d asked) looked a bit guilty. Like giving sexual favors was something she’d not been foreign to.

We got back to the hotel and talked for a while. Well, mostly we just sat there and smoked. It felt nice. Safe in a place where no one truly is. He made us coffee for which I was very thankful and then he apparently felt as though it was his turn to apologize.
"I know how much you hate to feel like a product. This must have felt so much to you like your big unveiling."

"In the south, we call them 'coming out parties'."
"Ridiculous."
We sat there for a few more minutes, smoking. He walked me to my room just down the hall from him and stopped short of my door frame. "How did you like your first bonified party?"
"Let me put it this way; I now know why Brittany broke down."
He laughed (which I love to make him do) and said "Let's just hope you don't start shaving your head."

I was looking good (or at least with all the time and effort, I should have been. I've always been my harshest judge.) and feeling playful, so I said what in other circumstances, I might not have. "Kiss me goodnight." How could I help it when he was smiling down at me like that?

"Good night, Evan." He chuckled and the door clicked behind him. And I could swear the sound of my heart breaking could have woke the whole hotel.