Scripted

nine

           Though Mason habitually went around like he was the king of the world (which, technically, he was—only it was the pop world), the boy actually possessed a few insecurities that only the rare person would pick up on. Unlike the rest of the universe, he had absolutely no worries about his outer appearance (and with a face and body like his, why would he?), and made certain that everybody knew it. What Mason Grey did fret about, however, was something that one couldn’t see, but rather had to hear. Namely: his music.

           Mason was a musician. He prided himself on his abilities to sing and match notes with perfect harmonies that sent the hearts of girls across the country fluttering. His voice was what really got him where he was now (though his face definitely helped), and music was one of the only things in life that he took seriously. He was an underrated guitarist, and actually wrote a lot of his own songs. The boy had talent, and when one questioned his métier (like I had so comically done), he got defensive about it, because unlike with his face, he had his doubts. Considering he had been number one on the charts for practically the past two years straight (or “gay,” as it was), he didn’t have anything to brood about, but even that didn’t stop him.

           “You two should get going. Natalie, tell Mason that he’s great,” Fred instructed with a sigh.

           “Mason, you’re great,” I said, continuing before Mason could open his mouth to say something conceited, “…at being a loser! Oh! Do you need some ice for that, babe? If you really want, I can probably find some aloe vera for that burn!”

           “Oh, you’re going to regret that, Natty! Just you wait!” Mason threatened sinisterly.

           “I’m so scared!” I mocked, winking one too many times so that the action appeared as though I had something in my eye, rather than being perceived as flirtatious.

           “You’re so weird, Nat,” he sighed with a shake of his head. He grabbed my hand, and began to pull me away from the nice booth with mozzarella sticks and hard lemonade, which was located in the VIP section. With a single nod in their direction, he bid his handlers a brief, “We’ll make you proud!” and then tore me away from the respite in a storm of flashing lights and dubstep.

           When we entered another section of the nightclub, it took my eyes a few seconds to adjust. We had just spent about an hour in the lounge, and you pretty much needed a flashlight in order to see anything, but where we were now, well, it was a different kind of dark. There were neon lights circulating the room pumped with people, and the only adjective that could justly describe the atmosphere was loud. Music was blasting, people were dancing, and the lights were blinking.

           I was a hot chick barely into the third decade of my life. Obviously, I had had my fair share of experimentation with clubs over the past few years, so I didn’t totally feel like an alien now. Back when I was solely an unemployed model (aka a pretty girl with no income), I used to go to places like this, hoping to meet individuals who recognized my true potential. Typically, I just got hit on my sleazy dudes who just wanted to bang, but there were a couple of occasions when going clubbing had landed me some jobs. It wasn’t exactly the best way to advertise my skills, but it certainly wasn’t the worst. Currently, however, I wasn’t here to search for an agent—I was here to be seen with Mason and make a scene.

           “Drinks?” Mason mouthed, not even attempting to fight against the volume. I nodded my head up and down, and then he towed me over to a bar at the very other side of the place. We passed by people, and when we finally reached the oasis of alcohol, it felt as though we were camels about to store up on water. There were others swarming the bar, too, but we were the only one’s that mattered.