A Little Unknown

Chapter 1

Los Angeles, 2004 

Okay, dear reader, if we are going to trust each other along this path of self-discovery, I have to admit something first: I have a huge, fucking, crush on my boss.

Which makes what is happening right now even more awkward. I am currently hiding in my boss's closet as he fucks his new fling. Yep, I am jammed up against his leather jackets and leather pants with my fingers in my ears as he takes "Crystal" to pound town. I have to admit the sounds of his panting is kind of hot but her overly dramatic "Yes! Oh God, yes!" just feels forced and theatrical. No one comes this fast, Crystal, if that is even your real name.

I know you are like, "Kate, how the fuck did you get here?" And my answer is, I drove here in my Ford Fiesta from Portland, Oregon. Thank you for asking! Oh, that wasn't what you meant? You want to know how I got here, in this closet, listening to my boss's ball's slap against this gal's ass? Well, that is slightly more complicated than I would like to admit and I will have to start from the very beginning.

It all began when I arrived in LA a month ago with only fifty bucks. I moved down here to live with my cousin Maya and get some sun, maybe be discovered as a model. Ha, joke. I am not tall enough or thin enough for that. I like food for fucks sake, sue me.

After complaining to Maya that I was going to have to start working the streets unless I got a job soon, she took pity on me and helped me get a gig with her. Maya is a personal assistant to the stars. Gag, I know. I hate when people refer to celebrities as "stars" too.

The owner of the PA business is a nice enough middle-aged gal who knows everyone and prides herself on exploiting young people by dangling the carrot of fame and "networking opportunities" in front of their eyes. "Look, young one, you might be famous some day too if you continue to wipe this rich fucks ass." But really, this is how they rope you in then *cough, the pay is only minimum wage *cough. Fuckers.

So I sat across from this middle-aged woman with a face that looked like it had been through a wind tunnel--the classic LA facelift-- while she made me sign an airtight non disclosure agreement and lectured me about "boundaries" and how important my job is to stock refrigerators and change toilet paper rolls. I signed the necessary paperwork and she gave me an address and a name. The name looked familiar but I didn't give it any peace of mind.

Oh how I wish I would have crumpled up that paper and tossed it in the trash. Or asked to pick another card. Anything to have saved me from this current mess I have put myself in.

Oh god, is Crystal growling now? This is disgusting.

Okay, back to my origin story, so I drove my clunky Ford Fiesta to Studio City--Are you not from LA? Well, it's a trendy section between the Canyon and North Hollywood. Kind of a surprising address to get for a "star" but not totally out of the ordinary. It just meant that this "star" probably wasn't going to be Ashton Kutcher, if you get my drift. Someone a little less well-known but still someone with some dough.

My car rattled up to the security gate, I punched in the code, and a gruff voice asked me my name over the intercom. The gruff voice that now fills my dreams and my thoughts as I touch myself at night... ugh, fuck, sorry.

So, I drove up the driveway to the house. It's a single-story Spanish style with a tile roof and has been painted a terracotta-ish orangey-red. I'm sorry I suck at describing colors, but you get my gist.

I open my car door, *imagine a loud squeak because my car is shit* and step out in my stilettos, fashionable jeans, and sexy low-cut blouse. Long, glossy hair blowing in the wind as I toss it over my shoulder, sensually... Okay, that's a lie, it was more like converse sneakers, cut-off shorts and a peasant blouse. Hair tied up in a ponytail and nowhere near glossy.