The Writer's Assistant (ManxMan)

Chapter 3: A Pickle

A/N: 23.06.2022

New update!

I'll be uploading a Q/A video soon on my YouTube. If you guys have any questions, please leave them in the comments 🌝

My YouTube username: letsgohomehidee

✏✏✏

Shit!

I quickly squeezed through the crowd, apologizing as I pushed and stepped on people's feet. I checked all the bathroom stalls but couldn't find my phone. Where had it gone? It was in my hands ten minutes ago.

My muscles tensed when I remembered bumping into someone when I left the bathroom. Had I dropped it then? Did someone pick it up already? I rushed back to the bar still drunk and clearly not thinking straight. I tried my best not to slur as I made grand gestures, explaining my situation. I asked them if they had seen my phone or if someone had returned it, but they seemed clueless. I probably looked like I was in a bad state because they offered to call an uber to drive me home, but there was no way I could leave this bar knowing that someone might find out about my relationship with Aaron.

Well, past relationship.

My heart sunk deeper into the pit of my stomach.

I looked around me. Everybody was laughing and chatting, dancing and having fun. People were drunk and partying the night away. My vision doubled and everything moved in slow motion. The loud music in the back was making my head heart. I wanted to get out of here. I knew I took one too many shots. I normally controlled myself and never overdrank, but I guess tonight was just one of those nights I needed to drink away my pain.

Jack was right. My life really was a chaotic mess.

I asked the bartender if I could borrow his phone for a sec. I was about to call Jack but realized that I didn't know his phone number. I didn't know anybody's phone number by heart except for Aaron's, and he was the last person I wanted to call. I ran a frantic hand through my hair, trying to think of someone I could call.

What if I called Oliver?

Another rule for every personal assistant was that we needed to memorize the phone number of the celebrity we worked for. Even though Oliver never gave me his phone number, it was already registered in the agency and written on his profile. I knew his birthday, where he was born, the schools he went to, and his phone number before knocking at his door.

I punched in his number, anxiously waiting for him to pick up.

"Hello?"

My heart jumped when I heard his voice.

"Oliver!" I exclaimed, unable to hide my excitement. "I'm Daniel, your personal assistant."

"Good evening, Daniel." A pause. "Are you outside?"

"I'm at a bar," I answered sheepishly. "And I'm kind of in a pickle."

"A what?"

"A pickle," I repeated.

"Okay." A pause. "Nice."

"I'm sorry for calling you at such a late hour, and I know that this isn't professional at all, but I'm really in a lot of trouble and I'm kind of drunk," I admitted in shame. "I didn't know who else to call because I lost my phone and the only person I could think of was you. I'm really, really sorry for bothering you."

"It's fine," he said calmly. His soothing voice strangely felt reassuring. "What happened?"

I took in a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts.