Author's Note: This story is completely fictional and did not happen. All names of characters are fictional and were made up. Please do not copy and plagiarize my work.
******************
Los Angeles, California
Right lights reflected from the glass door of the shower. The small room was illuminated from the lights connected to a mirror hanging above the sink. Blinding dots were cast across the shiny maroon tiles in the walls. Outside the room was wallpaper covering all four sides in a similar shade of dark red. The color blended in with the dark brown wooden frames that made the furniture of the bedroom. Every room in the Swiss Night hotel had the same interior design to welcome guests with darker colors that were supposed to be 'easy on the eyes', as the online markets suggested. A single night was over a thousand dollars with package deals for weekends and three day stays. The price was no concern for one single woman who booked a weekend stay under the alias of Anita Dick.
Life was different for Britney Spears at forty-three. After the conservatorship was finally terminated, she had no desire to restart her career. She was done with fame apart from the Beverly Hills lifestyle of luxury and wealth she enjoyed. Many people had tried to drag her back into the spotlight following a book deal that was an immediate success. That was all she wanted to apart from making content for her Instagram account. It was easy to try on outfits and record videos dancing in skimpy clothes. Few people seemed to understand why she did this, but Britney didn't care. It was her prerogative. Everything had been taken away from her at one point in her life except her truth. If she wanted to express herself through lewd photographs and videos dancing, she did so without any care in the world who it offended. No one controlled her anymore.
When she was bored at home, Britney enjoyed booking stays at fancy hotels across L.A. where she could hide from the world. Anita Dick was one of the few fake names she used when booking a reservation. It was a subtle hint of her true intentions when embarking on these short journeys. All one had to do was sound it out in spoken word, much like her song under the title of If You Seek Amy. She was lonely in the past year despite not having the drive to get into another committed relationship. After her most recent divorce from Sam Asghari, Britney still felt burned from the heartbreak two years after they split. She didn't need another man. Had it not been for her career, Britney didn't think she would've ever been in the same room with Sam. She had plenty of time to think about such circumstances now that she was done with fame.
All those memories were in the past now as she studied her reflection in the mirror. Britney spent the last ten minutes fixing her makeup. The smokey eyes of mascara was a personal favorite and trademark look. Fifteen years ago she couldn't wear heavy makeup like this in a public place without the fear of being recognized. Her star had faded, or so she would've liked to believe. There were still random strangers who saw her as the pop princess out in public. Britney would get annoyed at the people taking out their phones to record videos and snap pictures of her. When fans greeted her kindly, she was more welcome to shaking hands and giving hugs, but not for taking selfie photos. Her past years were full of moments where paparazzi swarmed her in seas of cameras. It brought back bad memories, hence why she used fake names and sometimes disguised her voice with a British accent in hopes of evading certain people.
It didn't always work. Past experiences made her want to travel out of Hollywood, but she couldn't let go of her luxurious lifestyle that she now enjoyed. In her time of touring, Britney always stayed in five star hotels. She was still checking into them now, as it was one way to remember the good times that came with her career. Britney didn't miss performing. There were a few times she thought about making music again, but the thoughts would quickly be forgotten when she considered what came after. For the time being, she was content with making videos to post on her Instagram account. Outside the bathroom, her phone sat on the bed. Knee-high boots, a black bra, a matching thong, and a sheer white dress also lay atop the red sheets. She had just finished recording videos for her phone. Over time, Britney learned how to use a trusty 'selfie stick' with filming. In her own words, the stick didn't talk back like the now fired assistants who dared criticize her body.
After finishing her eyeliner, she grabbed a tube of pink lipstick. Pushing her lips out, Britney covered her lower lip first. Her breasts looked as if they could spill out of the loose, red crop top she was wearing. They were held within one of the bras she was previously modeling in for an Instagram video. Heavy cleavage was the intention for tonight's outfit. Before she checked in, Britney almost used the name Maria River Red. When she saw her entire suite was decorated in red, she couldn't get the color out of her mind. So she went with a red crop top to expose her stomach. Below was a matching mini skirt. Outside the room, she had a pair of white, knee-high hooker boots waiting to slide her legs into. Her long golden hair was fixed with a split down the middle and flowing behind her shoulders. It wasn't always easy to feel comfortable in her own body anymore. Britney smiled in the mirror, feeling confident that she was dressed to kill tonight.
******************
1 HOUR LATER
Check in, check out. Four words to make up the plan tonight for one lonely man. Los Angeles was filled with bars where he could've wasted his time tonight. Dean Jamison didn't think that far ahead. He lived aimlessly, burning through cash in a destructive way when the chips were down. His last paycheck was deposited earlier in the day with a little over a thousand dollars to his name. It was barely enough to afford anything in the current economic climate in this expensive town. One could still dream of the old way of 'making it' as Dean learned from the company he kept since moving to California. He should've stayed home in North Carolina after his thirty-seventh birthday. A midlife crisis combined with the dream of his best friend was enough to persuade him to move across country to a place where he had no connections whatsoever.
At his age, Dean should've known better. His family reminded him anytime he made phone calls to them to complain about his current situation. After a nasty breakup with his longtime girlfriend, he dropped everything to follow his best friend under the promise of a record deal. Most people who knew the name Vincent White saw him as an eccentric failure of a musician. He had a high level of creativity when it came to crafting music, but something was always missing with anything he put his name on. Vincent blamed his failures on a lack of image to go with his hard-hitting heavy rock music. Twelve years had passed since he began trying to make music. The first band he had came close to securing a contract with a label until it all fell apart from one bad gig. The clashing of egos combined with alcohol induced rage ended his band before their moment of fame.
Most people would've given up on such a dream after they aged into their thirties, but Vincent wasn't a quitter. To come so close to tasting success only made him more ambitious to strive for more. Dean had watched his friend go from creating bands to eventually spending all his money to build a personal studio at home. Vincent could play guitar to go with his vocal talent. He eventually moved to playing bass, then learning how to program drums and synths. Every spare dollar from his paychecks was saved for the sole purpose of pouring his heart and soul into making music to post online. The only problem he had was that there was no audience willing to listen. It still didn't stop him from trying. His life was passing by in the rearview with no girlfriends or family as he worked around trying to become a rock star outside of his own mind.
Dean met Vincent in middle school over a lifetime ago. While all their friends went to college and pursued a life beyond their hometown, the two men grew up together with a shared dream. From the beginning of their friendship, Dean was convinced that Vincent would be the next big thing. There was an aura of talent and personality where he could become the center of attention in a room of strangers. He saw it back then and believed it throughout the course of his life, despite how people laughed at the failure Vincent had become. Back home, he was just the local wannabe rock star who couldn't make it. Online, his name carried a tiny bit of weight with an audience on his Bandcamp page. He didn't become a millionaire, but it did attract him the attention of a music producer in L.A. who promised him a big deal with the score of a movie. The payout would be in the range of five figures and likely put his name out there among other studios.
That was five months ago. All of it felt like years gone by at this point with how fast time moved in L.A. compared to life back home. Dean quit his job at a local gym, desperate to get away from home after the breakup with his ex. Everyone told him he was crazy to leave. Few people respected Vincent or saw his talent as noteworthy, but Dean was still convinced that there was something special about him. The dream in L.A. broke down in a matter of weeks when the producer who hired Vincent was fired from the studio. Like all matters in line, the man should've been discouraged. Vincent found it amusing to get so close to something big only to have it taken away from him. As optimistic as ever, he set aside his ego and put out ads online and locally as a rhythm guitar player for hire. He ended up finding work a month later with a Metal band that needed another guitarist.
For Dean, this wasn't an ideal life for a promising future. He lived with his friend while they had to find a means of work. With no higher education, Dean was forced to do minimum wage jobs. The first one he had was on a garbage truck. From there, he moved to janitorial work at a grocery store. When things began to finally look up, he found a familiar job at a local gym outside Inglewood. The pay was only good enough to afford the high costs of rent and groceries. Vincent's gigs didn't bring in much money. The majority of the burden for bills was paid from Dean's job. He knew he would be getting laid off soon. A company had bought the gym building and was planning a renovation. Whatever they wanted to convert the space into, he didn't care. Once he got his last paycheck today, he left and went back to the apartment to pack up some clothes.
When Vincent was depressed, he isolated himself in locked up rooms and would write music. There were times when he spent weeks in a bedroom writing lyrics on walls with a pen and living in a decaying environment where his lone friend was a bottle of whiskey. Dean handled stress in the opposite way of destructive measures. He liked to drink, but only after blowing through money like it was nothing. He knew very well that by the time he made it back to their apartment, he wouldn't have a dime to his name. All of his checks went into a one night stay at the Swiss Hotel. He only made the choice due to the place having a bar with free drinks for staying guests. It was an excuse to try having a taste of the rich lifestyle he could only dream of. Dean believed he was the most poor sucker in the bar tonight with the lowest amount of income in a bank account.
He couldn't afford a pinstriped suit, gold wristwatch, or anything else that was a sign of wealth. No one said anything to him as he sat around in his pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt. His physical appearance was enough to impress some people since he had muscular arms to complement his slim build. He shaved yesterday and now sported a five o'clock shadow across his face. His blue eyes went with the short blonde hair on his head. Vincent liked to joke that Dean had the right looks to be a male model. It was a running joke among the two men when they were alone at their apartment. Dean always followed it up, questioning what kind of clothes he would be modeling in. He smiled to himself, thinking about the jokes as he gazed into the empty glass sitting on the wooden top of the bar. It was his second shot of whiskey without any glass. No fancy drinks were in store for Dean tonight. As he sat there, a woman stood on his right side, motioning at the bartender with her left hand.
"What can I get you, Miss?"
"I want a Malibu."
"Piña colada cocktail, or do you want a straight shot?"
"Just pour me a glass. It don't have to be anything special."
Her voice had a southern flair in the tone, much different from the older man behind the bar, who was a California native. Dean turned his head to see her sitting down on the stool next to him. Beyond her blonde hair, he saw a face that was strikingly familiar despite her being a complete stranger. She made eye contact with him and smiled.
"Hi there! Were you waiting on someone?"
Dean shook his head.
"No, I've just been sitting here by myself until you showed up."
"Oh, that's good. I was thinking for a minute that I might've stolen someone's seat."
As she laughed, Dean noticed her perfect smile. The way she curved her lips was so familiar that he had a strong sense of deja vu. The bartender turned his back to fix her drink while Dean studied her dark eyes.
"What's your name, darling?"
"I'm Anita, and you are?"
