Chapter 2: Attraction

Sarah makes the move to LA, and meets Darius for the first time!

Chapter 2: Attraction

I can officially say that I am a jet setter! Flying first class is an incredible experience. The food is served on real crockery, not in those crappy plastic containers you get in economy class. I was also offered a glass of champagne before take-off. Immediately into the flight I settled down with the horror novel I purchased at the airport gift shop, which claims to be on the top of the New York Times best seller list, but isn't nearly as impressive as the blurb on the cover makes it sound. I put the book down somewhere around chapter three, right when the zombies start to eat people's faces off, and switch to a movie on the mini LED screen in front of me. It turns out to be some new blockbuster romance that almost has me all teary towards the end when her lover dies. A normal girl would be a blubbering mess right about now but not me. No, it is genetically impossible for me to cry, not since that day…

I shudder at a distant memory I have tried so hard over the passing years to forget. I've found that the best way to stay in control of my emotions is by repressing old memories. Leave the past where it belongs - what good can come of bringing it up now, when I'm about to have everything my heart desires?

I occupy my thoughts by requesting more booze. This experience truly is amazing! My seat has extra leg room and I indulge in the comfy leather chair that transforms into a fully collapsible bed at the touch of a button. Its luxurious softness is better than an orgasm - well, not quite, but it is still very lovely! 

I ask for canapés; I get caviar. The hostess is pleasant enough. I can't be sure if her smile is genuine behind the bright cherry red lipstick or whether she is just staging good customer service. She is perfectly presented in her burgundy dress jacket, matching knee length skirt and white cotton blouse which is stringently buttoned up to her neckline. She wears the type of shoes that are way too high to be standing on your feet all day, some few thousand feet in the air. But serve me she does, keeping the flutes of champagne flowing, even if her feet don't necessarily agree with her.

"Another drink, ma'am?" her smile is infectious.

"Sure, why not?" I'm hardly going to decline the offer of free alcohol.

I've died and gone to heaven. Honestly, I think the term 'mile high club' should be modified to represent flying first class. Sex is so common after all and something any girl can obtain pretty much whenever she wants. But experiencing indulgence to this degree, well, there's nothing quite like it!

Goodbye Australia, I'm living the American dream now and yes, I'm billing it all to the company. No more out of pocket expenses for me, no Sir! I'm finally living the high life. I wonder if the stewards can tell if this is my first time flying in luxury? Perhaps the huge, goofy smirk stretched across my face gives me away? Oh, who cares -

"Another top-up, please?"

Note: to anyone who has ever contemplated flying First Class; one must remain professional at all times and resemble a person of integrity and not someone who looks like they’ve just had sex with Superman!

****

"Ladies and gentlemen can I have your attention please -" The overly pleasant American female voice interrupts my movie through the set of complimentary headphones.

"We are now nearing LAX. It is 7.30pm local time. If you could please be seated with your seat belts fastened ready for landing. On behalf of the staff we would like to thank you for flying with us. If you are here visiting we would like to welcome you here to the States and hope that you have a pleasant stay or if you are returning, a warm welcome home."

I sync my watch to local time and notice that we've arrived 20 minutes prior schedule. With anticipated excitement I peep through the tiny plastic window like a child in awe of all the bright lights as we approach the landing strip. Slowly colours and blurs begin to merge into skyscrapers and street lamps as the distance to the tarmac nears. It was a long flight, generally speaking, but not long enough for me. The saying is true, that time really does fly when you’re having fun. I'm sadly disappointed and a tad tipsy as we finally touch down.

It's raining outside - heavily, which the hostess assures us over the PDA is a rare occurrence for LA. I'm hardly disappointed though, as if a little water could spoil my mood. Doesn't she understand that I have waited my entire life to be here?

A black stretch hummer limousine is waiting to take me to my hotel, an extravagance that is customary for America. The interior is a shiny onyx with padded white leather seating which has white LED rope lighting running around the entire seats brim. The roof is a twinkling array of glittering stars. To my utmost delight, there is more champagne waiting for me in the ice bucket, Moet & Chandon - the good stuff, and a bowl of plump, juicy red strawberries that sit innocently beside it as the most perfect accompaniment to the light and bubbly liquor. I greedily devour the complimentary favours within a matter of minutes, straight from the bottle, without bothering to dirty the glass. You can take the girl out of Australia, but you can't take the Aussie out of the girl - that’s for sure!

My head is spinning wildly as we come to a halt outside the entrance of the Grand Hotel. An opulent set of double doors are highlighted by two spotlights either side of the tall glass panelling. Little dwarf trees with sparkling fairy lights dotted in their foliage line the clean, immaculately presented sidewalk. I can't help but feel like a movie star as I step out and walk the red velvet carpet which leads me into the pristinely polished marble lobby that radiates neutral tones of light browns, creams and gold. Everything looks very expensive and impressive. Even the seats in the lobby are covered in a bright white polyester finish with satin gold cushions placed precisely to make them look like something out of a flashy interior fashion magazine.

I am advised that I will be staying in the penthouse apartment by a young man with boyish facial features and a well-rehearsed smile. My luggage is taken away by the elderly concierge, to whom I argue with as I watch on helplessly, frustrated by the sight of his frail body wobbling under their weight. I feel extremely guilty, but finally agree to let him do it, only because he blatantly refuses my help.

I have to give it to these Americans, their extravagance and impeccable attention to detail blows me away! They sure know how to spoil a girl. I don't even have to press the button in the elevator - to which another member of staff does for me - even my fingers are beginning to get lazy!

I don't mind the extra pampering though, it makes me feel like a princess, like I have died and gone to millionaire's heaven.

Just when I think it can't get any better, I reach the top floor. My room - oh my goodness is it huge - I'm underprepared for the sheer magnificence and grandeur it exudes. It is presented with meticulous indulgent design. The thick white carpeting on the floor sinks as my feet walk the smooth surface which offsets the impressive antique fireplace opposite the white chaise lounge and the pair of gold French lace and crystal lamps that sit either side of the mantle atop their intricately carved wooden side stands.

Champagne gold and cream striped wallpaper sweeps throughout the room.

I beam in wonderful suspense at the concept of what's hiding behind the giant closed double doors to the north of the room, with their impressively complicated Celtic carvings and chunky gold handles. I run towards them with childish enthusiasm, excitedly placing both hands on the shiny knobs and haul the heavy doors open with all my might.

"Whoa" I gasp with a heady breath. My eyes literally pop out of my head! The room is an open hexagon. A four poster bed, its wooden beams painted in gold metallic is located in the centre. The coverlet is plain white Egyptian cotton, with diamante patterns of flowers and swirls that adorn its sleek surface. My new living quarters look more like something that would be appropriate for a member of the British Royal Family or the President. It appears so impressively comfortable, almost lost under the surplus of velvet and satin cushions which match the gold colour scheme flawlessly. I'm completely blown away!

But my eye-popping extravaganza doesn't stop here. The most impressive feature of the room isn't the mini chaise lounge and antique glass iron coffee table that sits in the far left corner, or the glass double doors in the opulent style of a Mary Antoinette French inspired era which leads out onto the romantic open balcony with private spa. It's not even the over-sized crystal chandelier that hangs strikingly in the very centre of the room. The masterpiece - the distraction which projects outstanding excellence and makes the rest of the rooms features look mediocre in comparison is the Leonardo da Vinci inspired ceiling art of the Sistine Chapel, abundant with fluffy white clouds, pale blue skies and little naked baby cherub angels that dance merrily free, painted across the entire domed ceiling above my head.  

My jaw drops as I stand immobilized from the waist down, in awe of the bewildering masterpiece.  My eyes are transfixed on the delicate brushwork and precise blending of colours, that is, until I'm interrupted by the old luggage concierge who is forced to clear his throat in order to gain my attention. 

"It's very lovely isn't it?" He smiles shyly, probably amused by my astounded face or could it be the excess drooling?

My reply is radiating, "it's amazing".

His mouth twitches marginally from beneath the bushy coarse strands of grey and white moustache that conceals his top lip, before placing my bags from the trolley cart onto the soft carpeted floor. I try again to dispute his assistance. I'm uneasy with standing idly by whilst he quivers under their weight.

"No, no, don't you worry miss, this is my job." He smiles kindly with slightly reddened cheeks. I wish I could give him a huge tip but I didn't have time to exchange much cash before I left, so I will have to thank him properly the next time I see him or highly commend him to the manager of the hotel?

 

After relaxing in the luxuriously opulent bathtub, which also helps me sober up, I wrap myself in the complimentary fluffy white towel robe and pig out on the five star banquet waiting for me in the lounge. The meal consists of king prawns, salad nicoise and a smorgasbord of vintage cheeses, antipasto selections and meat delicacies, which has been delivered exclusively to my room on silver platters whilst I bathed.

I greedily chug down the remainder of Moet & Chandon, the maximum capacity that my stomach can handle and decide to get back to work. The writing on the page is a little blurry as I commence reading the agenda for tomorrow night.

To keep my comfortable lifestyle here, I still have to procure the signing of the new artist to the Flash Label. There is nothing worse than going half-hearted into something without the proper preparation. I am meticulous about detail, a trait that has been infused into my genetic make-up by my father -

My mind begins to stray again at the thought of my family. I wonder if he would be proud of me now? As the gloomy memory begins to invade my senses, the excitement of my self-indulgence diminishes drastically. I shake my head vigorously in an attempt to eradicate the sad recollection of his death. I have been avoiding remembering it since that ill-fated night.

I take hold of the booklet with a new found determination, forcing my mind to pay total attention to where my eyes lead. I've had ample practise throughout the years, avoiding my thoughts in regards to my family. As time passed by it became considerably easier to deal with and eventually I was able to master the art of almost forgetting entirely - almost. It's like a whole section of my childhood has been erased completely from my brain, as though that part of me never existed. 

Thankfully I manage to successfully pre-occupy my mind with the agenda and I gratefully read on…        

Tomorrow night I have to attend a party whereby I will have the opportunity to introduce myself to the potential client. Before I left Australia Steve had warned me that there would be other talent scouts there also, all wanting the same thing. Sending a manager he thinks will give us an edge over our competitors. He believes it demonstrates that we at Flash care enough about him to send someone of importance, by showing him the utmost respect with an imperial gesture.

He implores that I wear something professional yet appealing on the eye and that I use my best etiquette. I am to offer him a contract on the spot. Critics have already wagered him as the next big thing and I conclude that my job may be in jeopardy if I fail to sign him.

So, no pressure then!

I stay awake into the early hours of the morning, drinking complimentary mini bar coffee and reading over again what little information I have on the client. By the end of the gruelling night I am left feeling sour by the lack of personal information I have on him - anything to have given me an advantage over my opponents. All that's written in the info pack is details that I'm already aware of, mostly covering the specifics of our meeting; Time, place, name of artist, what informative points to mention regarding our offer of contract but nothing is mentioned about the artist himself. All I know is that his name is Darius De'Valie and his style of music is a mixture of metal and rock.  

I'm briefly troubled by the bizarre hour that the meeting is scheduled for - 11 pm. Usually these kinds of appointments take place in the mornings to ensure plenty of time to negotiate the signing of the contract, photos and a toast to celebrate the deal followed by my favourite, an extravagant luncheon in the form of a classy buffet or cocktail affair which usually leaves the rest of the day free to tie up any loose ends and paperwork. But given that I'm on the other side of the world, I just presume this is how they must do business here.

I don’t mind the late night meeting, especially with the expected jet lag. After getting a good night’s (or early morning's) sleep in my 5 star feather down bed - which sadly is only a temporary arrangement until the signing of the contract is confirmed and further permanent residence can be made -  I have the remainder of the day free to do what every girl loves most. Shop!

 

Mid-morning, after ordering down for room service to bring me two aspirin for my self- induced headache I finally wake successfully, half an hour after popping the pills, with spirited enthusiasm. The queasy feeling in my stomach, a result of the hangover, is unsuccessful at dampening my mood. I am refreshed by the knowledge that today I will hit the Boulevard, Sunset Boulevard that is - one of the world's finest meccas for designer couture!

After I grab a coffee from the local Starbucks, which isn’t as impressive as I first anticipate, learning that coffee is coffee no matter your geographical location, I head off with a skip in my step to choose a new Dior outfit and Jimmy Choo shoes for the party tonight.

I'm in designer heaven, letting my complimentary company credit card do the talking. Service assistants practically fall over me to get the sale. Obviously the platinum shine on the card I wave high in the air upon entry helps them decide to pick me over the other customers entering the store. I honestly feel like I'm living the lead role from a scene out of Pretty Woman - it's a dream come true, sorting through the endless shelves of designer shoes, handbags and gorgeous dresses. I couldn't be happier!

    

Sadly, the end of the day nears and by 4:30pm I'm ready for a good long soak in a deep spa bath lathered in j’dore scented bubbles, rose petals, floating candles and a CD of Ed Sheeran playing in the background. The in-house massage is a bonus; nothing like a handsome bodybuilder type to help a girl relax after an exhausting day of shopping.

It's all business from here; I decide it's in my best interest to wear a water bra, better to give these babies of mine that extra boost, especially if the client is anything like Steve described, he is going to be one tough cookie to crack! I begin to wonder if my tits are the reason I've scored this gig and start to second guess what I've got myself into.

No, this is no time to be a chicken s**t. I am Sarah Montgomery of Flash Enterprises: Music manager to the stars - or at least, that’s what I keep telling myself until hopefully I start to believe it. Oh crap! I'm about to have a nervous breakdown…

“So just remember baby cakes, don’t shove the contract down his throat, play it cool and show him a good time. Flash a little t***y if need be and you will have him eating out the palm of your hand.” Steve is very reliable in situations like these, reassuring and dependable, however crude his manner.

“Right - I've got this” My palms are sweaty and I have to put extra effort into holding onto the receiver before it slips from my grip. I'm so nervous that my knees hit against the other as I quiver uncontrollably, thank f**k my teeth haven't commenced chattering yet to give me away.

“Sure you have, but just remember that if you fail…” His voice darkens with implication, which actually helps to deter me from my anxiousness, only to be replaced by a new found fear at what the subtle tone in his voice implies.

“If I fail?” I gulp and wait with baited breath. But I needn't have asked, as I already know what he is going to say. I just need him to reiterate the fact anyway, anything to stop the shaking. I have to focus. I need a reason to fight for this to gain some confidence and a determined perspective.

“Don’t bother coming back. Flash is already experiencing financial difficulties and this contract is vital, you hear me?”  I hate it when people hang up in the middle of a conversation �" so rude.

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to phone Steve and start freaking out on him either, but at least I learnt, however brief the conversation, that there is obviously a lot more riding on securing this client than I first thought. They wouldn't have sent an amateur to do this, no matter how big my tits. No, this is a real shot. The big guns at Flash believe in me.

Oh crap, maybe I should have asked Steve for more information on Darius instead of stressing out on him? I wonder if it's too late to call him back?  After all, I don’t really know that much about the man other than he's a recluse who likes to keep his affairs private and that he has a good solid fan base on You Tube of 600,000 followers, which he gained as the result of an un-edited acapella video he recorded of himself. Wow, with these numbers it shouldn’t be too difficult to sell him to the public. He obviously has the potential to be a huge star!

Signing him to the management label should be a breeze then? My head sinks into my hands, the realization of what I'm getting myself into and the pressure that it entails is succeeding my ability to keep calm. No, however tempting it is to call Steve again, it will only show him how inexperienced I am for this job. I can do this.

Only one more thing to do before I leave -

Ring. Ring. "Hello, front desk, how may I be of service?"

The voice of the girl on the other end is bubbly and polite. I wonder if she really can help me with my current predicament.

"Oh hi - Look, I don' know if you can help but I have a big meeting very soon and I'm really nervous." I hold my breath in anticipation of her response.  

"Would you like me to send you up a bottle of scotch?"

My tummy summersaults at the thought of consuming alcohol and I partially make a noise that sounds like a combination between a gurgle and a grunt.

The receptionist clearly understands the odd sound I make, "or perhaps some anxiety tablets?"

That sounds better. "Oh, can the doctor prescribe me some at such short notice?"

I ponder on the brilliance of Los Angeles. Back home it's near impossible to find a doctor this late at night, let alone a drug store that can supply the script.

"Well, err, no…" She pauses, her voice quiet and awkward. "I have some. I carry them just in case. You know how it is?"

The poor girl seems embarrassed, but she needn't be. I'm not judging her - not in the slightest. To me she is a Godsend.

"Great - that's fantastic. Thank you so much."

Her temperament changes as soon as she hears my reassurance. "Oh good, well then, I shall get someone to bring them up to your room. You have a lovely night Ms Montgomery."

"You too," I add, but the line has already gone dead on the other end. I'm not sure if I will ever get used to the customary American good-bye.

 

Driving down the Boulevard by limo at night time is a totally different experience than during daylight. The whole place is lit up like Christmas.

I hold back the urge to open the sun roof and stand up shouting “G’DAY AMERICA!” from the top of my voice at all the passers-by. I have to behave myself; after all, I'm a professional now.

I feel like a real princess as we pull up outside the hotel. A young, neatly groomed African American man dressed in a tailored suit opens the door for me.

“Hello and welcome to the Grand Majestic” he smiles and it's becoming apparent that everyone in this town has had some sort of dental work done, his teeth just like everyone else I've met are perfectly straight and gleaming.

“Thank you” I retort, reciprocating the same wide berth smile he wears. I pause, waiting for the customary 'you're welcome', but it doesn't come. Instead he remains motionless, staring at me and frozen in place with his hand out, his smile begins to dwindle as the awkward seconds pass in silence. I wonder if he wants me to take his hand, he is very handsome, but I'm not sure if I'm as bold to sneak around the back and have a quickie with a man I've just met.

“Was there something else?” I ask cautiously as the already difficult air between us thickens.

“Oh, it’s usual to give a tip”. He replies quite politely, obviously used to tourists.  

“Oh right” I'm relieved yet a little saddened that he doesn't want spontaneous sex with me. I ponder on my reply to lighten the mood and compensate for my obvious forgetfulness and dream-like delirium.

“Well umm, it’s probably a good idea to keep mint spray or a tic-tac on you at all times because you never know when you’re going to need fresh breath to go with that adorable smile.”

I laugh aloud at my sense of humour and quick wittiness, but the door man continues to stare blankly with confused expression.

“No, I mean money. You're supposed to pay me a bill in return for my services” he speaks extra slow as though I'm the stupid one.

"Oh". I'm a little embarrassed for the both of us. He clearly didn't get the joke and I made myself look like a total dick. This is one of those moments I wish a hole would open up in the sidewalk and suck me in.

I decide that the civil thing to do is to try and lessen his anguish. He doesn't need to know it was a joke. So I lie. “I thought that was just something they did in the movies” I quickly hand him a ten dollar bill and blush awkwardly. His smile is difficult and brash. I can't believe he thinks I'm an idiot - like hello, you're the one who didn't get the joke! I contemplate giving him an earful in protest, but decide it best to accept my self-induced shame. I huff discreetly, folding my arms tightly across my chest and walk away with angry vigour to get the hell out of this difficult situation!

Awkward moment aside, I have now made it inside the Grand Ballroom of the Majestic. Anyone would think by the extravagant décor that they are expecting to entertain the President or Oprah Winfrey �" What, She’s practically royalty here isn’t she?

The entertainment hall presents the same allure and grandeur as the hotel I'm staying at, with subtle variations which include glossy white marble flooring that's been polished to perfection - I hope it's not as slippery as it looks, someone could easily break their neck on the overly slick surface. I fear for my safety, looking down at the high nine inch diamante and rhinestone pumps I'm wearing, making a mental note to tread with extra caution.

The walls are painted in off-white with a gold leaf border travelling through the centre of the entire room. Large fancy paintings, whose artist's names I am ignorant, adorn them in symmetrical positions. White fabric has been suspended from the ceilings centre, draping exquisitely to the borders of the room. The dramatic effect resembles that of a large snowflake with an excessively bulky crystal chandelier, boasting in the epicentre. Gold antique Greek-Colosseum style pillars, of about one metre in height, display elaborate cracked glass vases containing dusky purple chrysanthemums, white baby's breath and ivory and pale pink roses. I must admit, I am blown away by the pompous splendour of the elegant ballroom, which has clearly been designed to impress even the most superior of guests.  

A young petite woman is entertaining the crowd, wearing a sleeveless deep emerald silk dress that flows freely down her malnourished frame, revealing just a glimpse of her matching strappy heels, reminds me of a young Audrey Hepburn. Her auburn hair is slicked back into a straight pony tail which is a typical portrayal of that elegant bygone era. She sits with a stiff posture, her back straight and a conventional smile whilst she plays a black grand piano in the centre of the room. The graceful melody she performs boasts such classics as Debussy, Mozart and Vivaldi. Having a love of classical music myself, I close my eyes and gently sway to the peaceful rhythms she recreates to perfection.

I'm interrupted in my moment of auditory self-indulgence by an elderly gentleman who approaches wearing a custom made tuxedo.

“Isn’t she wonderful?” Announcing his presence, a strong, pompous English accent addresses him as being a person of high social standing.

“Yes, I think her playing is just brilliant” I answer truthfully. I hope that my enthusiasm doesn't give him the OK to make a pass at me. If he asks for my phone number I think I may have to kill myself!

“Oh thank you, I will let her know you've enjoyed listening to her.” This surprises me. I feel a wave of relief wash over me yet at the same time I'm a little disheartened by his rejection. What can I say? I'm a very complex creature, contradictory and perplexed, sometimes even too much for me to comprehend.  

The confused look on my face must warrant further explanation.

“She’s my daughter” He answers, very matter-of-factly. I hate being talked down to It makes me feel stupid.

“Oh right." That explains the ogling eyes in her direction.

"Well you must be very proud of her.” I add earnestly in appreciation of the talent that she bestows. How lovely it must be to have her father present to support her in her musical endeavours. How nice that must feel to have family support…

No stop it Sarah! I know exactly where this is going. You need to put an end to this before it manifests any further into self-pity and loathing. To my relief, it is the greying man that rescues me from my own personal hell.

“I'm extremely proud. You know she's practised for hours in preparation for this evening. She wanted it to be perfect. Apparently representatives from some of the biggest music companies are supposed to be attending. This is her time to shine. I wonder if anyone will show any interest. I hope so, though I must say, I think she gets it from me -”

“Sorry -” I fail to keep up with the conversation as I'm otherwise distracted by my own vain thoughts, considering I'm now one of those 'big music management representative’s' he's referring to.

"Gets what from you?” I ask confused.

“She gets being a perfectionist from me, of course.” He's abrupt. Wow, if words could wound I would no doubt be recovering from a severe slap across the face right about now, instigated by my innocent query.

“Oh, of course” I reply, biting down hard on my tongue. Like I'm naturally supposed to know that? This guy is a moron!

“I always tell her that if she practises hard and tries her best, she will one day be noticed by the right people -"

Ok, in light of his overwhelming affection for his daughter, which is very humble and very cute, I withdraw my statement of moron and downgrade him to a grumpy old fart!

"But I must say -" He continues, don't blow it now grumpy old fart I can resume back to my previous declaration of thinking of you as a moron -

 "Under these given circumstances, it’s a little odd.”

“Odd?” The old man has me completely lost. He nods his head to agree, presuming I have a clue what he's talking about.

“Yes, the new solo artist they are looking at signing is more into, how can I put this, trashy new age rubbish.”

Moron! Actually, snobby moron suits him far better. If only he could learn not to open his mouth, I may actually find him better company!

“Oh, I was under the assumption that the hotel had booked her to play? “ Obviously she couldn't be his choice. Usually the type of music that a muso plays generally predicts their personal preference.  

“Well that’s just it you see. They didn’t. He did! It’s his favourite type of music, so he says. Brings back memories �"” He shakes his head with surprise at some earlier thought.

I can't help but mirror the expression on his face with both our eyebrows raised in disbelief. He seems to enjoy the idea that I'm now on ball with him, but I truly am as surprised as he is by this news. It's difficult to fathom that a metal/rock artist's preference would be tailored to a more slower and serene genre. Actually, it's downright implausible!

Even though the temptation is great in wanting to slander the impossibilities of such a wonder, I must remain professional. Now isn't the time to burst out laughing and bitching behind someone's back, especially when that person could possibly be my new client. For this reason, I refrain from entering into this school-yard banter, instead defending Darius De'Valie on his behalf even though I'm yet to meet the man.  

“Right, well I guess even the most eclectic of artists can love the classics too.” I hope I don't sound too condescending. After all, I am telling a whopping great lie!

“Yes, but you haven’t seen him. He definitely doesn’t look the type.” His facial expression seems to change on the word 'type', which curiously peaks my interest. I can't help but be lured back into his unpleasant examination of dissection, since he obviously detests the man, his idle gossiping and separating him into segments ready for brutal analysis could be beneficial information for me to help contribute towards signing him to the label.

“What do you mean?” I ask inquisitively, generally interested about where he could possibly be going with this evaluation. He has clearly met the man before, who is a complete mystery to me. I need to have some idea of what I'm getting myself into and gain the upper hand by obtaining crucial information that could seal the deal for Flash.   

“Well, he dresses like one of those gothic skater kids. He's frighteningly rude and somewhat scary. Rather risqué if you ask me. Looks like a trouble maker!”

“Right” I nod in a falsely convincing manor. What a letdown. That wasn't a hard assumption to predict. His image would naturally represent his music. I wouldn't expect a pop singer to dress as a Goth. It just doesn't fit the profile. Like I don't expect Darius to dress in a pimp suit! 

This man is boring. No more useful to me then the debrief sheet I've been given by Steve. I desperately hope that someone will set off the fire alarm, causing a distraction so that I can get as far away from this gentlemen’s blatant snobbery as soon as possible.

The hostility must be radiating from my body and he duly responds with patronizing assertion.

“Don’t take my word for it" His words mocking and coy.

"See for yourself” - He shrugs off my indifferent opinion and casually points towards the direction of the bar. My eyes curiously follow his lead…