Every Move You Make [RDJ] - IN PROGRESS

Three

A/N: I asked on the original story if you guys wanted this or that one prioritized.  A lot of you said this one, but I'll be honest, I don't know that I can prioritize this because I really wanted to go back an fix all the details and plot holes, and I just don't have the motivation to perfect it right now.  I don't want to rush it, especially while I have creativity to complete the plot line for the other one since it's nearing the end.  That said, I'll try to work on a few more updates anyway.

I don't know at what age I've decided it's time to start calling myself 'old', but I'm feeling it more and more these days.  Fucking aches in my back cause I slept shitty, my joints cracking when I get up to clear my nose and get some water to help my sore throat; thanks, body, for developing this snoring habit.

I can't even blame it on stress, you know?  Right now is probably the least stressful time of my life.  Yet it still feels like I'm hungover, just simply by the bullshit of life.

When morning comes, I'm knocked out in the guest bed of Gordon's beach house once again, this time sleeping well past eight.  My mind's not really awake, but it quickly replays how we came back early, shortly after that girl - Rachel -decided to come back to the dinner table.  

"Well?" her aunt Erin questioned when I returned with some water, so I panic over a second about what I'm telling them.

Acting wins, so I just clear my throat and shrug as I sit back down.  "Something personal.  I think she's worked it out."

"Personal how?" her friend questions, but I defer again, insisting I don't know.

"Well if she told me, it wouldn't be personal, would it?" I snap back, trying to sound humorous, but honestly...go ask her yourself; I did my good deed for the week.

In her absence, the two adults decided to upscale the fuck out of tonight's fundraiser, but whatever. It means I don't need to sponsor shit myself anymore, so hey, it works out.  I guess they got some ideas from grand old Gordon, who's probably out and about by now, but if I cared at all, I may have interjected. Truthfully, PR is just pushing me to do shit they can get good press on, masking any bullshit of my own personal life right now.

Which...I have to get to when it's time to yawn and check my phone.

Messages from Jimmy are fun.  Sort of.

JRich: actually get your dick wet this time?

RDJ: No.  Went to bed early.  

That's all I feel like answering.  Why in the fuck is everyone pushing me to go fuck everything that talks to me?  Sure, might've done that in the past. Learning to avoid that now.

PR is even better.  There's a few emails headed from Joy.  One pertains to the press tour next month.  Another is a forward from legal with documents for an ad campaign that I don't remember agreeing to, but okay.  The most recent is short and to the point, but there's additional documents attached that I briefly scan through.

She dropped her case, so look these over and get them back to me signed ASAP.  Wrapping this disaster up.  Don't screw up again.

It's fine, though.  I'm used to being treated like the child.  It's been this way since...forever.  Honestly, they probably all expect me to be in jail again sometime soon, since I'm long overdue.

Jim's quick to answer.  Must be up dealing with this shit, too, even though he's technically not PR.

JRich: it's not even a thing, stop sulking over it.