by Rose St. Andrews
Gwyneth reclined on the couch, her head on a pillow, and her hand buried deep in a bag of cookies. Nick droned on about something, but she didn't pay much attention. It had to do with money and some bad press she'd gotten recently, which meant it wasn't important. After all, there was no such thing as bad press.
Why couldn't he ever figure that out?
"Gwen, are you listening to me?" he snapped.
"No," she said simply and rolled her head toward him.
He sighed and shook his head. "Gwyneth Elaine Parson, this is serious!"
"Yeah-yeah, I know, you want me to review my latest damage report and the cost. Who the fuck cares?"
"You should, you little twit," he said, rising from his desk and waving the pages at her. "Look at this: damage to the hotel, damage to your car - your new car - the neighbor's hedge and front porch, and then there's that tiny 'incident' at the mall."
"Nick, the little bitch wouldn't leave me alone."
"She was a fan, Gwen, was being the operative word, and all she wanted was a picture. Not only did you smash her phone, but you pushed her into a fountain, and did it in full view of the media. The video has already gone viral."
She perked up, sitting up straight on the sofa. "Really? How many hits has it gotten?"
"Gwen, this is serious!"
"Oh, what of it? Shit, toss some money at her like everyone else and she'll be happy."
"You don't have that much money."
She rolled over, bit another cookie, and opened another teen fan magazine to look for articles about herself. "Please, I've got more than enough money to buy anyone I want, and I'll have even more once my new album comes out."
Nick rubbed his temples and grunted. "Yeah, right, the new album. And, just where are you on the songs for that?"
"It's a... a work in progress, Nick. Chill out, I'll be ready by the time we head to the studio next month."
"Week," he said simply.
"Huh?"
"Next week, Gwen, we're scheduled to lay down the tracks in seven days. So, how far along are you in writing them?"
She swallowed hard. "They're... coming along. I need to... stretch my legs."
She got up, tugged her snug little hot pants down as much as she could, which wasn't much, and sauntered off to her suite. Gwen really loved her house. Not only was it decked out just the way she wanted, but it truly was hers and hers alone. Years ago, when she was a child star on that silly TV show that she couldn't even remember the title of now, she'd essentially bought her freedom from her parents.
It had only cost her a house and two cars for them, and they didn't even want fancy cars.
She'd spent almost her entire childhood working - acting, singing - and supporting her parents. Now that she was twenty, she was free of them and anyone else, and was intent on living life to its fullest. Nick was the one constant in her life. He'd been her manager since she was ten and he was twenty-five, and she had - of course - had a major crush on him since she was thirteen. Not that it mattered anymore, she was so over him.
At least that's what she kept telling herself.
Now she was poised to enter real adulthood. Her TV show was over after an eight year run (her income from syndication alone would support her nicely), she'd released her first album at fourteen and it had been a hit, and that had ushered in the next phase of her career. She'd gone from 'America's Sweet Girl' on TV to America's teen singing sensation. The thing was, she hadn't released an album in two years, her fans were clamoring for one, and she kept putting it off. Well, time had finally run out, and she had to - as Nick always said - 'get her rear in gear' and get to work!
Once in the bedroom of her wing of the house, she threw herself down on the king-sized bed and relaxed. She even pulled off her t-shirt and shorts and just rolled around in her underwear. She liked being so comfy. She also liked being able to daydream about Nick. There was something about him, his towering frame that made her feel so tiny (that was how she was able to play a teenager for all those years on the show), his long mane of auburn hair, those hazel eyes, and his rippling muscles.
She could get wet just from thinking about those large strong hands of his!
Then his words rang in her ears again and she frowned. He can be such a shithead when he wants to be. Oh well, guess I'll get something done here.
Planting her arms firmly on either side of her body, she hoisted her legs aloft, pushed down with both arms, and did a tumble that deposited her on the floor. Yeah, those gymnastics lessons she took back during the show still managed to pay off. She ambled to her fancy-schmancy desk (it was some sort of French antique, not that she cared. All she knew was it was expensive), plopped down, and started writing. It took the better part of a week, but she finished all of her songs.
The morning of the recording, she came down to breakfast (her cook Maria made the best French toast ever!), and then she heard Nick's jeep pull into the driveway. Her heart sped up just a bit and she felt a slight clitoral surge. She tried to ignore it and made a point of not turning toward the doorway when she heard him come in.
"Ah-hem," he said quite loudly.
She turned, all smiles. "Why, Nick, I didn't hear you come in. How are you this fine morning?"
He frowned, didn't speak, and moved to stand next to her. Slamming the newspaper down on the table, he pointed at the headline.
"Care to explain this?" he snapped.
Gwen giggled. There was a picture of her, passed out drunk, being carried from a club to a taxi, her long blonde hair stuck to her face. "What's to explain? I was out partying. I wanted to celebrate finishing the last song for the album."
"Gwen, you're twenty, which is underage to drink! That club is looking at heavy fines, maybe even losing their liquor license."
"Oh, what of it? It was their fault for serving me."
"Really? You didn't have a fake ID and a good one at that?"
She rolled her eyes. "What if I did? It was still their responsibility to check it."
Nick sighed, paced the room, and rubbed his forehead. "A total juvenile," he grumbled and then turned to her. "It's like talking to a brick wall! Never mind, forget it. You ready to go?"
"You got it. Let's do this," she chirped, rising from the table.
She sauntered off, not bothering to take her dirty dishes to the sink - that was the task of a servant - and bounded up the wide spiral staircase to her room. As she wanted to be comfortable (she preferred not being tight and constricted when she sang), she went with her gauze tube top and 'naughty' schoolgirl skirt. That's what she called it, as it was like a prim and proper Catholic school uniform, just much shorter. She wore it anytime she wanted to torture the men around her, and the sound studio staff was all men.
She loved tormenting them!
Coming down the stairs, she was again confronted by a frowning Nick. She smirked. Yeah, he didn't approve. He didn't even have to say it for her to know it.
"Really, Gwen, again with that skirt?"
"It's my lucky skirt," she said, trying to sound innocent.
"And that barely-there top? I mean, come on, it's practically sheer enough to see through."
"Oh, what of it? I'm only going to be around the guys at the studio. It's not like they're important. Come on, we're wasting daylight," she said, heading for the door.
As she didn't have much in the chest department (she kept meaning to get a boob job), she had to accentuate what she had. She heard another sigh of frustration, and then footsteps as he followed her out the door. She plopped herself into the passenger's seat of her convertible BMW and waited. While she loved driving, she loved making Nick wait on her even more.
He drove her to the studio and she casually made her way inside. She made a point of walking slowly, swaying her hips as she went, and watched the guys out of the corner of her eyes. Yeah, all drooling, mouths hanging open, and squirming in their chairs to hide their erections.
Life was good!
Once in the recording studio, she got her headset on, did a few vocal exercises, and re-positioned the microphone (it was always too high for her). "Ready whenever you are, Nick."
She could see him through the glass panel that separated her from the control room. He and the sound engineer were just queuing up the first song, and he nodded to her.
"Let's do a sound check, and then we'll lay down the first track," he said.
They did so, and then got to the recordings. It went easier than ever before, although the way Nick and the guys were looking at her was confusing.
"Nick, what's up, dude?" she said, emerging from the studio.
He rubbed his chiseled chin. "Ah, Gwen, those songs are... kind of..."
"Lame," the engineer spouted.
She frowned. "Hey! Shut your pie hole, you ass. They were great. Come on, Nick, take me home."
Storming out, she slumped down in the passenger seat and pouted. Nick followed and they drove off in silence.
"Gwen, the songs are... fine, they're just not... up to your usual standard. Frankly, they're very derivative of your last album."
"They're what my fans love. I want that guy fired," she snapped.
"Girl, take it down a notch. We can't fire Sam; technically, he doesn't work for us."
She squirmed down in her seat, pouting more. "Yeah, well, then... I don't want him working on my stuff anymore. Get me home, I'm celebrating."
"Celebrating?"
"Yeah, the new album being done," she said and then smiled. "I'm going out tonight!"
Nick frowned. "Oh no you're not."
Her head whipped around to look up at him. "Excuse me? Since when did you become the boss of me?"
"I'm your manager and I have controlling interest in Gwyneth Parson Entertainment Inc., which means I control the 'purse strings' as the saying goes. So, you are staying in tonight, and the next time you go out, you are not going to a club!"
Gwen opened her mouth, but froze. Nick had a point. Until she was twenty-five, he did control her money. Painting a smile on her face, she just nodded. "Of course, Nick, you're right. Sorry, I wasn't thinking straight."
She'd been sneaking out on him and her parents for years, and was thus an expert. Tonight would be no different. She'd just bide her time. Once home, she chilled out for the rest of the day, all in an effort to get him to lower his guard (he stayed around all day), and then they sat down to dinner. As he made a point of staying after they were done, she had to be sneaky. While he watched a movie in her home theater (complete with popcorn machine and soda dispenser), she feigned fatigue and went to her room. She got one of her club outfits on: microscopically short skirt, thong, neon pink tube top (no bra), and then tiptoed down to the back door. Here she encountered a problem: he'd locked and bolted the door!
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