Stranger // [Justin Bieber]

Chapter 8

First Edit: 04/08/2017

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I'm one of those type of people that either go way out to dress up and look good AF, or I sloth around in sweatpants and a messy bun. There's no in between.

Today was a dress to impress kind of day.

I take out the outfit I set out for my first workday in LA - a low halter lace blouse, formal high waisted shorts and a millennial pink blazer. I top it off with a gold buckle, jewelry and nude heels.

When I'm in the kitchen to get breakfast, my phone rings.

"Leah speaking," I answer.

"Miss Smith, this is Kelly Fernandez calling from HarperCollins, I'm your personal assistant. Mr. Joyce wanted me to call and confirm your driver will be picking you up at eight thirty sharp," the high pitched voice says.

Personal assistant? Driver?

Once again I start overthinking this whole situation. I mean, sure, I had the qualifications and ambition to become a writer and editor, but this soon? Even I know you start from the bottom and work your way up the corporate ladder. You don't walk into a senior editor position straight from college.

"Miss Smith, are you there?"

"Oh! Right!" I exclaim and face palm myself. I must stop getting distracted so easily. I clear my throat and try to sound professional, "Thank you for letting me know. See you soon... uh," shit what did she say her name was? "Kelly?" I guess.

I hear her giggle and know my attempt at professionalism failed. "Yes Miss Smith. See you soon!"

Then I stop in my track and recall what she said.

Mr. Joyce wanted me to call...

So that means Denzel is not mad at me, I hope. At least not that mad if he cares to make sure I'm called. I wouldn't want bad blood between my boss and I on the first day.

"Good morning Miss Smith," the driver greets me when I climb into the vehicle. It's the same man that picked us up at the airport. He looks middle-aged, but has a very fit body and thinning blonde hair.

I gulp when I see how I'm being transported. The Mercedes has dark tinted windows, a flag to park anywhere, a walky-talky radio and double locks on each of the doors. My eyes go wide when I realise that there's a firearm attached to the driver's side.

He sees my expression and tries to calm me, "Don't worry Miss Smith, it's for safety measures."

I look around as if I'm about to see someone jump the car, "But I'm not in danger, am I?"

"Mr. Joyce wants us to fall into routine from day one, when you start being seen with celebs it might get crazy, then we're used to this," he says, pointing to his firearm.

"Oh," I utter in confusion. I wasn't aware I would be seen with celebs so much.

I still don't see the need to have a firearm.

Maybe it's an American thing to have a gun for no reason?

When we sit in traffic I clear my throat to get his attention, "You can call me Leah if you want. Miss Smith sounds so formal."

"I'm Steven," he smiles as he looks at me in his rearview mirror.

"So are you going to be my permanent... driver?" I wasn't sure what to call him.

"More like a bodyguard, but driver is part of the job," he jokes.

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