The Pursuit of Camila Cabello

Chapter Sixteen: The Associate

A.N: First of all, sorry for the time it took to write this.

Secondly, HOLY SHIT 22K. Also, some of you are getting so in-depth into this shitty fic, others are saying that this is one of their favourites. Guys, thank you but no. There are tons of better Camren fanfics. Ones less rushed and written by better writers.

And finally (most importantly) please keep in mind that Lauren is allowed to make her own morally biased choices, and therefore her own mistakes. My personal belief that no one is truly good (or bad) is present in my writing. Everyone sits on a greyscale.

Anyway, please enjoy.

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Cousin Marco's gym hadn't changed. The musky smell of sweat and blood still hung in the air, assaulting Lauren's nose every time she breathed. Her eyes were still drawn the white and red colour scheme. And the furnace-like temperature remained, if the sweat dripping down Lauren's back was any indication.

It wasn't Lauren's idea to rejoin the gym. She had been content to stay home, work on her music and tend to her night-job. Her management had other ideas, however.

Image was everything in the music industry. Truth was, the industry cared little for real talent. It needed a product, something they can market to an audience — they need results.

Lauren's image was simple: vixen, a sex symbol. And sex was something purely physical. The audience was attracted to their body — the voice was simply a bonus. Technically, everything that Lauren said under the public gaze had to be scrutinised under management's gaze prior.

Her confessing to having a special someone? Gives her audience something fantasise about. If they believe that sex-symbol Lauren Jauregui can settle down with someone, the idea that they could be the one that she settles down with is inevitable.

So why was she at the gym? Because according to the management, and using their exact words, 'We can't sell a fat rockstar. Get your ass in the gym and burn off all that holiday fat you've put on.'

It's ruthless, but it's the world we live in. Our outward appearance is all we — as we've been conditioned to do so — care about.

That didn't mean Lauren liked the idea. In fact, the rage she felt for this concept was what kept her at the gym for almost four hours every day, for the last two weeks. From cardio to weight-lifting, nothing seemed to quell the fire in her belly.

She hated being sought out solely for her body. She hated being treated as a possession and not someone with their own values and capabilities. Above all, she hated that the ideas her management had planted in her mind was giving her body dysphoria.

She hadn't cared about the way her stomach hung over her jeans. Now, she dreaded looking down or in mirrors.

She supposed it was just another way she could hate herself.

Presently, Lauren was pounding away at the sandbag swinging in front of her. She wasn't wearing gloves; she didn't get the same rush. The feeling of her bare knuckles colliding with a hard surface over and over again was euphoric.

Her knuckles were probably bruised but they were too numb for Lauren to care. The only thing she could concentrate on was trying to burn off the hate coursing through veins.

Still, she couldn't help but take a peak. She was right: her digits and knuckles were painted with shades of red, blue and purple. It reminded her of the men she housed from time to time. They were painted with bruises, too.