If I made it out of this party alive, I was gonna kill Arin.
Ok, so that was probably a little unfair. But the only reason I'd agreed to come out here was that Arin had said that producers came to these sorts of parties all the time and for the love of God, could I just get my ass out of bed and come down here?
Well, that had sounded promising. As someone who hadn't sold a script in months, I was desperate for any door back into the industry I could get. But Arin ditched me in minutes for a blonde woman with short hair who looked oddly familiar (Arin would only call her his "muse") and I was stranded alone, stuck in a whirling sea of influencers and socialites with too much cash in their wallets and too much alcohol in their blood.
Wonderful.
Well, as long as I was here, I figured I might as well try to suck it up and talk to a few people. You sunk or swam by networking in film, after all.
Most everyone seemed pretty busy dancing or downing shots, but there were a few groups of people off to the side talking. I approached the group closest to me, taking a deep breath as I grew closer.
As I walked towards them, the group continued to look at one another, ignoring the newcomer in their midst. I tried not to notice.
"Hi, guys! Name's Ray..." Too late. They stood up and walked off elsewhere, not even pausing to validate my existence with a single insult.
Fuck it. Me, try to network? There was a reason the only script I'd ever sold happened through sheer luck: I was shit with other people. And as rude as that mini-clique was, they could probably smell the desperation on me.
Now that I'd written off the whole night as a wash, I decided to go to a secluded corner next to the balcony and write until I saw Arin so I could tell him I was bailing. As I moved to sit down, head starting to throb from the pounding club music that pervaded the room, I saw someone out on the balcony that stopped me dead.
They were out on the balcony, angrily yelling into a cell phone. I was awestruck as they paced back and forth, whipping their short black hair back and forth with every turn. They had on a tight leather dress that hugged their body in all the right ways alongside fingerless gloves that made them look seriously punk.
My jaw dropped even further when they turned around and I could see their face all the way: it was motherfucking DEMI LOVATO.
"What do you mean there's no money in it? You're my manager, you're supposed to goddamn fight for me! I...no, I will not calm down! I have not jumped through every hoop you all have put me in front of me for the past I don't even know how many years to tell me that when I want to do my own thing, I can't! No...NO, YOU LISTEN TO ME. FUCK YOU.".
As they spat out the last words, they slammed the button to hang up violently and threw the phone down onto a nearby table. I really should have left, but I couldn't stop looking at the scene unfolding in front of me. So of course they look up and see me staring like an idiot.
Shit.
"The fuck you staring at?" Demi yelled. "Need to get some pics for whatever tabloid's got a proverbial bounty on my head this week? Well, snap away!"
"No, I..." I tried to protest, but they kept going. "You know, it's all your fault. All you assholes who put me in a box and give me labels. Doesn't matter what I say, what I do...I'm just the ex-Disney wipeout. Well, fuck you too. And that's on the record."
They stormed off the balcony, shoving me out of the way with their shoulder. Though every survival instinct in my body told me to shut up and bail, I yelled out "I'm sorry!".
Demi stopped dead in their tracks and turned back to me, the faintest hint of tears glistening in their eyes. "What did you say?"
The words started pouring out. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry everyone's put you in a box you can't escape. I'm sorry every shitty journalist from here to Sacramento wants to peg you as another child star destined to burn out. I'm sorry people won't listen to you and let you make the art you want to make. I can't even imagine how shitty that feels."
Wow. Where did that come from?
Demi walked up to me slowly, staring me dead in the eyes. I wasn't sure whether they were going to hug me or hit me. Instead, they said "You're the first person to say that to me in...I don't even know."
All I could muster was a nod in agreement.
"Thank you. I'm...I'm sorry for snapping at you like that. I thought you were just another leech looking for a scoop." they apologized.
"No worries," I replied. "I imagine it's hard to kind of turn off that sense of constantly getting watched."
"You have no idea," they said, mouth breaking into a small smile. "Now let's try that whole introduction thing again. My name's Demi...though I'm thinking you knew that already."
"Maybe just a little bit," I joked, sticking my hand out towards them. "Ray. Is my name, I mean."
They smirked at me a little, before taking my hand and shaking it. Fuck, even their smirk was hot. "You meet a lot of celebrities, Ray?"
"Not international superstars. Now mid-tier movie moguls? I've got their answering machine messages memorized."
"Oh, a Hollywood type? Actor?"
I laughed. "Oh, God no. I'm not nearly good-looking enough for that. Screenwriter."
