Deranged Delusions

3. Not So Eye to Eye

I feel like shit. No, worse than shit. I feel like the fly shit that is left on top of dog shit in the middle of a hot, humid day in Florida. No kidding. I can’t remember how many drinks I had the night before or how many lines of coke I did, but I do know that my head has inflated to the size of a small killer whale and I am not in a good mood.

The fact that I’m not in my own bed makes this whole waking up business a hell of a lot worse. As far as I can tell from my blurred vision, I’m in the guest room of my own house, which is kind of fucked up because the last time I checked, I own this house and should be sleeping in the master suite.

Gingerly, I hoist myself out of bed and walk into the kitchen completely passing Trace who is still passed out on the floor. Heh, party animal. Thank God he didn’t puke all over the carpet although when he wakes up in a few hours, the toilet on the ground floor will soon become his best friend.

My mouth is dry thanks to the huge amount of alcohol I consumed the night before and I gulp half the gallon of milk straight from the carton. Hey, two guys live in this house and when two twenty-something year old men are cohabitating in a Hollywood Hills mansion, the silverware and glasses rule gets thrown out the window.

I make my way over to the cabinet where Trace and I keep all the aspirin and other medical shit that we may need, and I pull out a bottle of painkillers before I knock back at least three tablets of aspirin. I say at least three because I don’t really count how many pills I pop…as much as it takes to make the inflated feeling in my head to go away as quickly as possible. I put the bottle back on its shelf, right next to the Midol that Cameron keeps here for when she’s surfing the Crimson Wave.

And it’s when I look at that bottle of Midol that I remember that I’m no longer Mr. Cameron Diaz but a full-fledged man of bachelorhood once more. Part of me is happy that I’m a free man but then there’s the larger half of me that’s pissed and upset that I gave almost three years of my life to one woman who throws it all away because Big Tits McGee throws herself in my lap while she’s intoxicated and I’m numb from three lines of blow. Where’s the fucking justification in that?

She’s going to be sorry she ever let me go, let me tell you. She’ll rue the day that she let Justin Randall Timberlake slip through her fingers because I’m going to be fucking huge and she’ll be some two bit movie star who’s enormous claim to fame is voicing a female ogre for some stupid kids’ movie.

Let’s look over the fact that I’m lending my voice to the third movie in the franchise because quite frankly, who the fuck cares? It’s a stupid movie I managed to get into because I was screwing the leading lady. And I say ‘was’ because did I mention we broke up? Yeah, last night, it was a little ugly but I’ll survive. I’m tough like that.

Right now I want to know why I woke up in the guest room and not my own bed, and there’s only one person who would know the answer to that question. Taking my own sweet time, I grab the phone and manage to dial the numbers to Lo-ho’s cell phone. She’s either somewhere in this house or she’s back at her apartment with her bartender boyfriend.

I hear the familiar chorus of ‘Under Pressure’ echo throughout the silent house and my search begins. Freddie Mercury and David Bowie are distant as I travel throughout the entire ground floor of the house and it’s when I stop at the edge of the stairs that her voice mail picks up.

“Hello, you’ve reached Lauren Walters. Sorry I can’t take your call but if you leave your name, number, and a short message, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible…” the tone sounds and I start up the stairs, my heavy breathing echoing into my phone.

“Lo-ho I swear to God if you’re in my room I’m going to go completely ape shit,” I say in a singsong voice as I reach the second floor landing. It would be just like her to take advantage of my inability to climb stairs and crash in my room. Because if I had to live in the roach infested apartment she resides in, I’d want to stay in my room too. It’s probably the fucking Taj Mahal compared to the shit hole she calls home.

I hang up the phone and call her number again, this time Freddie and David are screaming at the top of their lungs and I make my way down the hall, finally stopping at the doors that would lead me into my own room. With a final chorus of ‘Pressah!’ Mercury and Bowie finish their song and Lo-ho’s voice mail sounds again over the phone.

I don’t bother with another message. I already know she’s in my room and like I promised in my voice mail, I’m going to go ape shit. No one sleeps in my room and gets away with it. You’re either in there with me or you aren’t in there at all. Rules are rules, and besides, she knows that my Disney stash is hidden in there…last thing I need for her is to…

Oh Christ, is that ‘Once Upon a Dream’ I hear coming from my room? Fuck, fuck, fuck no she did not pull out the Disney classics while I was incapacitated downstairs. Bitch is going down.

Throwing the doors open, I rush into my room and my worst fears are proven true. There on the screen is Princess Aurora and Phillip waltzing through the forest, fuzzy cartoon animals watching with their big, brown eyes that make little children (and myself) squee in delight. If I didn’t have such a huge fucking headache I would stop to laugh at the dumb ass owl that tried to mack on Aurora but failed miserably. I really would but you see, there’s someone in my bed and she most definitely wasn’t invited to crash there.

I creep over to the side of the bed quietly and look down at her. She looks so peaceful there, sleeping like a baby as she snuggles further underneath the soft down comforter that I’m supposed to be snuggling against right now. I wouldn’t be so pissed at her if A) it wasn’t my bed she was sleeping in, B) she wasn’t watching one of my coveted Disney Movies, and C) if the entire downstairs didn’t need to be cleaned because Trace sure as hell ain’t gonna do it. 

But now the anger is replaced by giddiness as I put my face in front of hers, our noses nearly touching. Poor thing is about to get the shit scared out of her. I just hope she doesn’t get any of it on my bed because then I’ll be really mad.

“Lauren Walters,” I begin in a steady yet firm voice, “what the FUCK ARE YOU DOING IN MY BED?” I yell at the top of my lungs. Her eyes snap open and she shrieks when she realizes that a world famous pop star is thisclose to her face. Lauren moves forward and slams her forehead into mine, sending little white dots popping up all over the place. My head explodes due to the contact our heads made and because my headache has now reached Mach 5 proportions.

I suddenly don’t feel so well and as she’s screaming incoherent things at me and clutching the covers to her chest I’m booking it for my bathroom, hardly making it to the toilet before my stomach does a dead on imitation of Ole Faithful.

Fuck man, I hate hangovers.

***

I’m going to look over the fact that Justin almost scared the shit of me this morning. If there’s one thing you should know about me it’s that I hate being caught off guard and I hate surprises, even the good ones. My parents tried to surprise me with a puppy for Christmas back when I was about ten years old. The poor thing scared me so bad when it jumped out of its box that I screamed in its face and hid underneath the tree for half an hour until my parents were fully satisfied with recording the event on the video camera.

But we’re not going to talk about my eclectic parents, or how they’re spending this year in Africa following the mating paths of gorillas. No, we are not going there right now. All talk of my random parents aside I’m currently walking towards my car, Justin following behind me. Justin has to make his way over to the studio; Trace is still passed out on the floor so sadly he isn’t making this journey at the moment.

I guess I should point out now that there is one rule I have with Justin that he agrees with whole-heartedly. Whenever we go somewhere that requires us to commute together, I’m always the one behind the wheel. I cannot be in the same car with Justin if he’s driving, period. For one the man is an absolute crackpot when he drives and a retard to boot. He acts like he’s fucking Dale Earnhardt Junior with the way he weaves in and out of traffic and that really scares me to death.

I should also point out that aside from Neal there is one other love of my life and his name is Bentley Lexus the Fourth. He’s a huge ass hunk of metal but I love him to pieces anyway. Bentley is my car and he’s been there for me through thick and thin. If there’s a man who will always be there, it will forever be Bentley Lexus (the Fourth).

And the best thing, he’s the farthest thing from a Bentley or a Lexus. He’s an old Plymouth station wagon that drives like a tank and is virtually indestructible. Yes, Bentley is an older man but he’s more like a father figure in my life than an object of desire. He’s been there for me through so many firsts, first fender bender, first kiss in a car, first heavy make out session in the back seat (which folds down by the way)…he came with me to college and I used the enormous cargo space to pass out in when I had too much to drink at keggers. Yes, Bentley Lexus and I have been through it all and I wouldn’t trade him in for anything, no matter how much Justin bitches that his Personal Assistant and Party Planner needs a better car. Having Bentley around is the only thing I can hang over his head, because if he ever tried to steal him or do away with him I would be on his ass with a lawsuit so fast you’d think he was in a tailspin.

He complained that he didn’t want to take Bentley to the studio today, he bitched and moaned that he needed the state of the art air conditioning unit he had installed in his Escalade a month ago and not the stale component that’s been in Bentley since the caveman invented the wheel.

“Its your fault I’m like this today Lo-ho so the least you can do is let us take the Escalade,” he whines and I turn to look at him as I walk past his car and over to the plum station wagon that’s parked behind one of his garage stalls.

So apparently it’s my fault that he got piss-ass drunk last night. Classic Justin. He sees that his bitching about getting drunk isn’t working and he tries a different tactic. He’ll keep this up until he’s tucked away in Bentley Lexus the Fourth, seat belt buckled and a huge ass pout on his lips. Boo fucking hoo.

“Just get in the car, Justin. You have to go over some stuff with the executives today and you aren’t going to be late,” I state as I get into my car and turn it on. Justin stands just outside the vehicle and I know he’s debating on whether or not to say fuck it and just follow me in his car. But I know he’s in no mood to drive and I can’t help but smile smugly as he gets into the passenger seat and buckles his belt, throwing me several nasty looks as I turn the car on and turn on the radio and the familiar waves of Queen fill the interior. I hear Justin groan as the familiar chords of “I’m in Love with My Car” soar through Bentley Lexus the Fourth as we make our way out of his drive way.

Every single time I go somewhere in Bentley I play this song. Its our theme song and I don’t feel right going anywhere without playing it. Justin hates it but for some strange reason he doesn’t complain about it or make up raunchy lyrics like he’s prone to do. I silently thank the hangover.

Once the song is over we travel in silence for the most part. I have nothing to say to him and he can’t think of smart-ass comments today as he’s still recovering from what I’m sure is a huge ass hangover. Serves him right, maybe he’ll learn one day that it’s never a good idea to mix large quantities of alcohol with drugs.

I finally make it onto a heavily populated road and groan to myself when I realize that we’ve hit Sunday morning, just-got-out-church traffic. So of course it’s filled with Sunday drivers who are just out for a mid-day cruise. Those are the most dangerous types of drivers and my thoughts are confirmed as a large pick-up truck cuts in front of me.

“How ‘bout you use your blinker you fucking fucktard?” Did I mention I have an acute case of road rage?

“Language, Lo-ho…it’s not attractive to swear,” Justin mumbles from his seat and I look over long enough to see that he’s picked up interest in my brewing anger. He loves it when I get pissed at other drivers; for once I’m not pissed at him.

“You know I didn’t use to swear all the time.”

“Really? What happened?” he questions and I could swear we’ve had this conversation at least a dozen times.

“I started working for you.”

“Touché,” he mutters as I turn onto another street. I don’t need directions, I don’t need Google Maps because I drive to this studio so much I practically live there, and I’m not even the artist recording the damn album. I’m forever running back and forth for Justin. He forgot his favorite hat at his house so I have to march all the way from my apartment, to his house and finally the studio before he mentions that it’s the wrong hat and he wants the other one. I’ve spent nights in this studio, I know everyone who works there by name and could probably point out their spouses and children in crowded rooms. And I’m going to mention again that I don’t even work there.

Of course another driver uses this opportunity to cut in front of me again and I lay my hand on the horn before I pass off the one-fingered salute as I zoom past, Bentley Lexus’ engine working double time.

“God damn, good for nothing piece of fucking shit! Do I have a sign plastered on my forehead that says, ‘cut me off today?’”

“You’re very entertaining when you’re practicing road rage,” Justin states with a suppressed laugh and I find that I’m not even in the mood for his random comments let alone him trying to be a smart ass. That’s just how I get when drive and him spewing out little comments isn’t helping me.

“Shut the fuck up and let me drive,” I snap before Bentley’s interior falls deathly silent. Good, now I can concentrate about not getting cut off and he can focus on getting rid of his headache before we get to the studio. The last thing those executive producers need is to smell the after affects of alcohol on his breath and deal with his post-breakup mood that I’m sure will come out swinging full force once Justin wakes up from his alcoholic stupor.

The silence lasts a few more minutes before Justin mutters under his breath, “Turn left.”

If there’s one thing I hate more than driving with Justin it’s having him tell me how to drive.

“Dammit, Justin stop it! I know where the studio is!” I yell at him as I move into the left lane anyway seeing as the turn is coming up.

“Really? Because you just passed the turn,” he states casually as if this happens all the time. I can tell he’s thoroughly amused and him finding entertainment in this is pissing me off even more.

“Oh fuck!” I exclaim as I slam on the brakes. Bentley comes to an almost shuddering halt and I hear the blaring of a horn as the person behind me swerves out of the way to avoid rear-ending me. The car drives past and the driver yells out obscenities while Justin is overcome with peals of laughter,  “Shut the hell up you were distracting me!”

He continues to laugh as I manage to flip a bitch in the middle of the road, glad that traffic was clear on this street. The last thing I needed to improve my mood was to get pulled over. Justin would never let me live that one down.

“And I thought it was our gender who sucked at following directions,” Justin comments and I roll my eyes as I turn down a deserted road that’s lined with trees. It’s a quaint street and the studio is just beyond the small residential area that’s nestled between the commercial areas of Hollywood.

“No your gender just sucks. Period,” I shot back.

“Lo-ho, just shut the fuck up and drive,” he quips and I roll my eyes as we fall back into silence. We pull up in the parking lot and I place Bentley underneath the shade of a few trees. Justin practically flies out of the car and waltzes towards the front doors as if he owns the place.

By the time I make it inside, Justin is standing in front of the receptionist’s desk and talking on his phone, totally ignoring the fact that the woman behind the desk had probably just dropped an important call to deal with his sorry ass. I make my way past Justin and up to the woman and give him his name and the woman buzzes us through. Yes, even though I know everybody’s name (receptionist’s name is Cheryl) Justin fails to notice that there are actual human beings working in this building.

“Oh before I forget,” Cheryl says in a tiny voice. She’s a frail old lady and I always think she’ll drop dead one of these days seeing as she’s been working behind that desk since the beginning of time.

“What?” Justin snaps and I step in front of him knowing that this woman doesn’t deserve to deal with Justin’s crap this morning.

“The executives want to see both of you for the meeting. Something to do with your position, Lauren,” Cheryl explains and Justin rolls his eyes before he walks through the door, resuming the conversation on his phone.

I’m too busy jumping with joy to see that Justin is still talking on the phone. Oh My God this is it! My promotion and hiring into the label! I’ll get away from Justin and his shit and be well on my way to heading one of the biggest record labels on the planet! It is good to be Lauren Walters today! I rush past Justin in my eagerness to get to the board room, unaware that Justin is still mumbling into his cell phone and following closely behind me. I’m on cloud nine right now and that feeling continues as I march into the boardroom, Justin still on my heels.

I guess this would be a good time to mention that I wasn’t originally hired by Justin. The record label decided that Trace wasn’t dependable enough to take care of JIVE’s golden boy and so they interviewed and appointed me as Justin’s personal assistant. Of course the only thing I did for him the first month was run out and get him coffee like some college intern and he treated me like complete shit until I cornered him in the recording studio about two months into the job and chewed him out. And what did he do? He added on the whole party planning business and a shred of respect and its been that way ever since. And now I’m going to get a promotion and get far, far away from scantily clad women, excessive swearing and maybe, finally I’ll get the smell of pot out of my party clothes.

I open the door and turn around when I realize that Justin is behind me, off the phone, and grinning like an idiot. Guess he must be really glad to be rid of me because he looks like Christmas has come early. I shoot him a questioning look before I walk into the room, seven men and one woman in business casual sitting on their high end, leather back seats and looking at me with a keen interest. I feel a bit awkward but I shove it off and act like I own the room. At least I learned how to be overly confident from the best and he’s strutting right alongside me, still smiling smugly.

“Good afternoon,” I greet with an air of confidence even though I’m ready to keel over on the inside. I’ve just come to the realization that they could either promote me or fire me. And the way Justin keeps grinning like a moron, I’m beginning to think it’s the latter.

“Hello Mr. Timberlake, Miss Walters,” I almost sigh out of rejection. Whenever I’m with Justin I’m always an after thought, “How was your party last night?”

“Good! Lauren did a good job,” Justin boomed in the voice he reserves for those he wants to make an impression on. He doesn’t use that voice often. I’m also surprised seeing as Justin never compliments me or tells me I’ve done a good job on anything, and he’s still grinning like a fucking idiot. Something’s up.

“Well, we’re going to get right to the point. We’ve been watching you, Miss Walters, and we’re very pleased with how happy and healthy Justin is,” the biggest and easily the most important man in the room said, “And a happy artist means good music. While we’re sure you and Justin make a great team…”

Yeah right. I do all the work.

“…we think your talents are better suited for a position higher up in the company…”

Yes, yes, yes, yes, and more yes! I feel like kissing the man and dancing around the room with the different executives. I am getting away from Justin and I’m moving on up in the world! No more getting coffee at five in the morning, no more planning parties and buying alcohol at shady liquor stores at two in the morning! I am free as a bird! Wait until I tell Neal, he’ll be ecstatic! Oh thank you, Jesus!

But before my celebrating can really reach its peak, Justin steps forward and clears his throat, demanding attention from everyone in the room. The smile is completely gone from his face and he looks upset. Please don’t tell me he’s upset with my leaving? I almost want to tell him that he’ll never have to sit in Bentley again but before I can make any sort of statement he begins to speak.

“I think its great that you want to promote Lauren to a higher standing with the company. She works hard and probably deserves it. Unfortunately I don’t feel comfortable with her leaving my services so soon, especially since she’s so inexperienced with the world of recording labels. I’m going to have to ask that you revoke her promotion because if she leaves you are not going to have a happy artist and therefore there will be a decrease of good music…” his threat fades away and I look at him completely flabbergasted. Since when did he get the power to voice his opinions to the executives of his label? Surely they won’t listen to him, they can’t! I’m their employee and so is he and what they say goes!

The large, fat man that seems to own the room looks from Justin to me as if he’s passing judgment. I feel like I’m in purgatory and the echelon of angels is deciding on whether or not I’ll go to heaven or hell. I’m praying to God they’ll send me packing to the pearly gates because if I go back to hell I’m going to rip each of their halos off of their balding heads.

“Miss Walters will stay with you then, until you feel that she’s ready to be promoted.”

Judgment passed. I am going to murder that little prick! I open my mouth to argue but Justin’s hand has grabbed my upper arm and he begins to pull me from the room, my mouth flapping open and closed as I fight to say something intelligible.

“Thank you so much! Lauren thanks you too but she’s so happy she gets to stay, she’s speechless!”

Oh you bet I’m speechless all right but I won’t be like that once I get to Bentley. You’re in for an earful you little scrotum.

“That’s all we needed to see you for. We’re looking forward to hearing a preview of your album next week, Justin. Thank you for taking the time to see us.” They don’t even say goodbye to me as Justin drags me from the boardroom. Once we’re out of the room he lets go of me and I smack him hard on the arm before I book it for Bentley, Justin walking nonchalantly behind me. If I wasn’t so intent on making sure Justin stayed a happy artist so I could get that promotion I’d kill him.

I make it out to Bentley Lexus in record time and start the car just as Justin makes it to the door. I have half the mind to flip him the one finger salute and leave his sorry ass on the curb but his hand is on the door handle before I can speed away.

He gets in and sits down, not bothering to buckle his seatbelt. I rocket out of the parking lot, jaw set and eyes on the road. I know if I so much as look at him, I am going to explode. After a few minutes of awkward silence he lets out a pleasant sigh and leans back in his chair.

“That was a fun meeting don’t you think?”

“Justin,” I say through clenched teeth, “I am very upset with you right now and if you don’t shut up, I’m going to drive Bentley into oncoming traffic.”

“You wouldn’t do that. You love Bentley,” Justin remarks and I throw him a nasty look before I slam on my breaks due to the sudden changing of the traffic light. Justin goes flying forward, spreading his hands on the dashboard to prevent himself from crashing through the windshield. I wish he had.

“What the fuck, Lauren? You could have killed me, and then what would the world do? I can’t believe you did that! I could have died and it would have been your entire fault! You could have run that light, what the hell?” He’s whining now and completely oblivious to the fact that I’m almost in tears. I want to turn around and punch him over and over again and yell and scream but I can’t bring myself to do it. So I do the next best thing, I yell.

“Just shut the hell up Justin! I do not need your guilt breeding bull shit right now all right? Fuck!” I yell for good measure as I rest my head against the window and let out a breath of pent up tension.

I was so close to getting away from him and to have my possible dream job pulled away at the last minute hurt. A lot. He buckles his seat belt and turns to look at me but I can’t return the gesture. I’m so mad and upset that I can hardly speak.

***

So she’s mad. Okay maybe not mad. That would be an understatement. The woman is down right furious and it’s my fault. But will I apologize? No because I don’t do that whole apologizing thing. I step on someone’s toes, I say ‘excuse me’ but never ‘I’m sorry.’ I’d never stoop that low.

Hell, I don’t even think I’ll apologize to Cameron even though I know it was my fault for letting Double D Debbie hang all over me last night at the party. But whatever, she’ll be back. This might be the first time she’s told me she wants a break but she’ll be back. I mean she’s Cameron Diaz and everything but I’m Justin Timberlake for God’s sake and you don’t just tell JT that ‘you need a break.’ And its practically unheard of to break up with me. I break up with people; they don’t break up with me.

Ugh, all this thinking is making my head hurt. I turn back towards Lauren who is so tense it looks like she has an extreme case of constipation rather than playing the ‘fucking pissed’ card. Her hands are holding onto the wheel so tightly her knuckles are white and I can see the tears brimming in her eyes. Oops, apparently she really wanted that promotion. Am I really that bad? Wait, that was rhetorical, don’t answer that.

“Lo-ho?” I say quietly and she ignores me because she knows I deserve the silent treatment. But my head fucking hurts and with the traffic shaping out the way it is, it’ll be another half an hour before I can get back to my bed and shove some more aspirin down my throat. “Lo-ho,” I say a little louder. It helps when I start to whine because she can’t stand it when I start talking like I’m five years old.

“Loooo-hoooo…”

“What?” she barks and I smile to myself. Point to you, Timberlake, point to you.

“My head hurts,” I say in what I know is my most pathetic voice in the entire world. This is the voice that my mother can’t say no to and the voice that has Cameron eating out of the palm of my hand when she’s still dating me.

“Do you want a fucking prize?” she snaps, “It’s not my fault your head hurts because you inhaled every single abusive substance you could get your hands on last night.” She has a point but I’m not about to tell her she’s right. No one is right but me…and sometimes Trace, when I’m feeling generous. 

“No I just want an aspirin. And you know I wouldn’t be feeling this way if you hadn’t ordered all that alcohol and let Trace bring the blow in,” I point out and she rolls her eyes as we come to another stoplight. She knows I’m going to blame her for my own stupidity no matter how much she wants to try and block it out. When I have a problem with myself, I blame it on the nearest person. Too bad Lo-ho is almost always the nearest person.

“Justin, do you remember when I said I didn’t want to talk to you anymore? It was like, five seconds ago?”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well what I said still applies. So don’t talk to me,” she says tersely and I chuckle before I pull my hat low over my eyes.

“Just take me home so I can go back to sleep,” I mutter. I always have to get the last word in. Always. She sighs loudly and turns on the radio, the familiar strands of Queen filling the car as I slowly doze away into headache free bliss.

***