Not Another Diva

2 - Fan-boy Stalker

I pull my beat up pick up truck into a parking spot at the address Char, the assistant, gave me. It's in a business building, a part of town away from the studios. My nerves have long since vanished after watching all of Brianna's videos, even a couple of interviews. As I picture her in my mind, I wonder  if I've become somewhat obsessed. Staying up half the night watching anything I could find that included Miss Pop Star? That sounds like a textbook definition. 

Perfect. I've been reduced to a fan-boy stalker.

It doesn't matter. My research paid off. Yeah, that's what it was, research, and I now know exactly what I'm getting myself into. Every video had some guy, shirtless with glistening muscles, in some sort of romantic setting with their hands all over Brianna. Not one of them had actually kissed her, which put me a little more at ease. There wouldn't be as much pressure to perform.

Shoving my keys into my back pocket and silencing my phone, I enter through the main doors and find a security check just before the elevators. I still haven't gotten used to the drama of Hollywood. It still surprises me, every dang time. The guard checks for my name on a list, then buzzes me through a glass partition leading to the elevators. The office is on the tenth floor. When I get into the elevator, I see that the tenth floor is also the top floor.

Knowing that makes me slightly nervous all over again. The big guns usually take the top floor. But it is a 'sit-down' with the star herself, so it seems appropriate. The ride up is quick, not nearly enough time to settle my stomach. The doors pop open and the only sight in front of me is the door to the office. It takes up the entire tenth floor? Dang, talk about big guns! The entire floor is dedicated to the office of--I look once again at the name on the glass doors--Perfectly Pink Productions. A freaking girl-fest no doubt.

I shove my hands deep into my pockets after going through the main door and approaching the receptionist. I feel completely out of place and wonder if this is the norm for call-backs. This is really freaking weird. The receptionist is a young brunette, cute but obviously all business. She looks up at me and purses her lips. She definitely gives off a "don't fuck with me" vibe.

"Can I help you?" The name plate at her desk says Rachel.

"Zack Marin to see Ms. Royce," I say, doing my best to play the un-affected a-hole that most of the guys I run into at auditions seem to have. It does come out with a confident sound, but I think I miss the a-hole part. It just isn't in me, I guess.

Rachel's eyes narrow for some strange reason, obviously unimpressed. "Of course, she's expecting you. Just down the hallway. You'll see it."

See what? I nod rather than ask any further questions. She seems impatient and I don't need to have her snap my head off. Rachel is a little scary, to be honest. I turn to go down the hallway and ten steps in I figure out what she meant. The hallway opens up to a lounge, more like a cool bar scene than an office. An open space filled with overstuffed white leather couches and little side tables, the kind you'd rest your drink on, spreads out before me. I half expect to see a DJ and strobe lights at some point. Instead, the lights are dimmed, and as I look up, I notice the reason. Enormous clear glass windows line the back wall with a perfect view of the Hollywood hills and its infamous sign in the distance.

My left shoe is just inside the space when a side door bursts open, and a bubbly red head bounces out. She is looking right at me with the biggest grin imaginable plastered on her face. Phony, is the word that runs through my mind. No one's that excited about anything. Especially not meeting me.

"Zack! You're right on time!" Her voice comes out so loud I almost jump. It is taking every ounce of energy I have to keep my composure. She must have been a cheerleader in high school.