STAGED

One

Not everything is supposed to become something beautiful and long-lasting. Sometimes people come into your life to show you what is right and what is wrong, to show you who you can be, to teach you to love yourself, to make you feel better for a little while, or to just be someone to walk with at night and spill your life to. Not everyone is going to stay forever, and we still have to keep on going and thank them for what they've given us.

~Emery Allen

My stomach is in complete knots. I've only been to a handful of Hollywood parties, and they're just not my thing. Hundreds of intimidating people don Prada and Gucci like they just stepped straight off the runway, while I wear a cocktail dress bought at a local department store. They greet fellow celebrities with fake smiles and stiff hugs as I sit in awe of their familiar faces. It's hard to shake the feeling that I don't belong.

Tonight's party is to celebrate the closing of the award season and is invite-only; no cameras and media types are allowed entrance into the Los Angeles nightclub. Most of the tables sit abandoned, adorned with extravagant floral centerpieces. The catering staff sport crisp white shirts and black ties, holding silver trays with a variety of foods—little works of art that shouldn't be eaten but admired. And everyone has a drink in their hand that the servers promptly refill if it goes empty.

I take a sip of my wine, hoping it will help me overcome my current bout of nerves. The party is a far cry from my everyday life in Forestville; half of the population of my hometown could fit into this building. And much like the partygoers, just about everyone in my small town knows each other. Except in here, the only reason anyone even looks in my direction is because I'm Asher Prescott's date.

I'm his girlfriend of the past two years, but we're not allowed to talk about it in public.

Asher is a YouTube sensation turned into the current reigning Prince of Pop. He has a following of teen girls who would be crushed if they didn't believe they had a chance with him, or so I've been told by Asher's management team. I suppose they're right; they are the experts when it comes to babysitting the careers of young A-list celebrities.

I stand next to my boyfriend while he talks to a group of major players in the music industry—producers and songwriters he wants to work with on his next record. Just like his last two albums, it's sure to debut at number one on the charts simply because his name is on it.

I nod and smile, admiring Asher's face as he speaks. It has graced the cover of every teen magazine known to man, as it should. He's breathtaking with his perfectly styled light-brown hair and piercing blue eyes. Sharp angles and a cleft in the middle of his chin make up his face's flawless structure. From the few articles I've read, he's six feet tall, but it's not true; he's only five-eight, making him half a head taller than me. I think his management had something to do with the discrepancy in his height. They wanted him seen as tall, dark, and handsome, but I noticed that from the moment I met him. And four years later, he's still the epitome of perfection in a tailored-made Armani suit.

"Ariella Carmichael."

The sound of Asher saying my given name brings me out of my trance, and I fight not to cringe at the use of it. He usually calls me A.J. like everyone else, but he insists it's not professional and sounds too tomboyish for events like this.

I give my attention to the older man standing across from us. His gray hair is slicked back, and he wears a dark-blue suit—the perfect picture of a Beverly Hills used car salesman. I place my hand in his, and he pulls me in for a kiss on the cheek.

"Ariella, this is Mr. Stockton from my record label," Asher says with a bright smile on his face.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stockton."

"Please call me Mark." It's such a simple phrase, but coming from him, it sounds sleazy and sends a chill down my spine.

"Mark." I nod and take a step back.

"Ariella, it is an Italian name is it not?"

"Yes, sir—Mark. My mother was born in Italy."

Not that he can tell I'm from an Italian bloodline. I look nothing like my mother. I inherited almost all my father's light complected traits—brown hair, pale skin littered with freckles, and an oval face. My eyes are the only thing she and I have in common. They're almost too large for my face, where they were beautiful on her; a strange mixture of royal blue and gold around the pupil. Sometimes when I look at myself in the mirror, I feel like she's staring back at me.

"So, what are your thoughts on our boy winning an American Music Award?" Mark asks.

They always ask the same questions over and over again: What do I think about this award? What do I think of his latest album? Am I excited for his next world tour? I force a wide smile and answer with as much enthusiasm as I can. It doesn't matter that the reply never differs; I'm here to be the supportive girlfriend.

"He has worked so hard this last year, and I know he deserves it."

Asher squeezes my hand, letting me know he approves of my answer.

Mark laughs and pats Asher on the shoulder. "I like her," he says before turning back to me. "I hope to see you at one of the after-parties when our boy takes home Male Artist of the Year...again."

I hold my smile and nod, knowing it will not happen. We have to limit our public outings to "safe zones" like this party, touring—where I'm hidden under the guise of visiting my dad who runs Asher's road crew, and Forestville.

Asher's hand wraps around mine, guiding me through the crowded club. "You look beautiful tonight, babe. Just smile, relax, and finish your wine."

As unladylike as it is, I chug what's left in my glass. The cool liquid warms me from the inside, making my head a little fuzzy. I rarely drink since I'm only nineteen. Not to mention, I'm generally not at nightclubs where nobody checks my I.D. But tonight falls outside of the norm in so many ways.

Asher smiles. "Better?"

"Getting there." I bump him with my hip.

"You want me to introduce you to anyone? I saw Taylor Swift over there." He points to a cluster of people in a corner next to the bar. "Or I think I saw one of the Avengers the other way. They all look the same to me."

"You would think that," I say with a laugh. "But no, I'm good. Can we just walk around for a few? I'm still trying to adjust to being here and not making a total ass of myself."

"I'll tell you what, I'm going to find you a place to sit, and you drink some more wine." He grabs a glass from the server passing by and hands it to me. "I have just a handful of people I want to touch base with, and then I'll take you back to my house. It'll be just you and me for the rest of the night. What do you think?" He winks, and my heart flutters.

"I like that idea."

Asher guides me to an empty high-top table and pulls out a chair. "Are you sure you'll be all right by yourself?"

I lift my wine glass. "I'm okay. Go do what you need to do."

He places a kiss on my temple. "I'll be back in about twenty minutes, and we'll head out."

Asher walks across the room to a large group, and his face lights up with an enormous smile. They all seem genuinely glad to see him, shaking his hand and hugging him. He does not miss a beat, jumping right into the conversation like he was there the entire time. Everyone gravitates towards him, that's the effect Asher has on people.

I prop my chin in my palm and nurse my drink. Keeping my gaze on Asher, I let my thoughts wander. Our relationship started as the perfect romantic cliché—popular boy with a charming smile and quick wit meets disconnected gloomy new girl. We found common ground in our love of music and were fast friends. Neither of us thought in that first moment that we would end up together, let alone attending a Hollywood event together.

"I see you're having about as much fun at this party as I am," says a deep male voice, startling me out of my reminiscing.