Not Another Player

30.Ummm...

The Chain // Fleetwood Mac

It's official. As I sit in the lobby of Char's hotel waiting for her to walk through the door, one thought permeates all the rest:

Who's the stalker now?

Damn. I gave Emily a ton of shit for keeping tabs on headlines about us and here I am waiting in a dark corner like a creeper. To be fair, it's already blasted online that I'm here so if Char's the least bit aware of what the world is saying about us, she knows I'm in town. She should realize I'd come right to her, but I don't even know if she knows I found out where she's staying.

Star Tracker's home page has footage of me getting off a plane in Vegas. Glancing back down at my phone, I let the video play one more time. The image is grainy and dark, considering the late hour I arrived and the fact this camera was more than likely using a mega zoom lens to capture the action. The view gets closer as the camera zeros in on my face and what looks like a scowl plastered on it. Eyes glued to my phone, I shake my head as I watch myself seemingly bark orders at a person who approaches me. The film doesn't tell the true story, though, so the website makes up the rest. It's the assumptions painted as facts burning me up the most.

That I'm pissed Char's cheating on me.

That I'm an entitled Hollywood brat who expects the world to bend to my every demand.

That I'm a jilted boyfriend who tried to manipulate and control the narrative of my relationship with a music executive when said relationship went sour.

That I was just in it to stick it to Curt Wainwright.

The last one makes me laugh, painful though it is. I've never even met Curt other than that one run in at the hotel lobby while we were on tour. And yeah, I'd like nothing more than to stick it to him, but those emotions have less than zero to do with the scowl on my face as I exit the airplane.

I was asking the guy, my driver in Vegas, if he'd been contacted by Clinton's team. Clinton's the one I'm pissed at. The asshole never mentioned they would all be flying to Vegas last night when he gave me the intel on Curt. They were probably already in Vegas for all I know. 30 minutes away by plane and no one bothered to mention it to me. So yeah, I was a little keyed up. I still am.

But that has fuck all to do with my feelings for Char.

I watch the video show me entering the back seat of the black SUV before cutting off completely. Zack used to tell me how stupid it was for celebrities to all drive around in the same dark car with blacked out windows. It was like a calling card telling everyone you passed that someone rich and famous was inside. I felt every inch of the implications as I rode in the celeb-mobile from the airport to the hotel. It felt like every photographer in Vegas was on our tail. This place doesn't have the slick back entrance like my hotel in L.A. No celebrevator to hide in. More pictures and video were taken of me entering the 5-star resort, but lucky for me this place actually hired decent security. I'm safeguarded in the lobby but for how long? I've already been sitting here for 45 minutes, waiting. The time is doing nothing to soothe my angst. I take a few deep breaths before giving into temptation and replaying the video for another look. But it refuses to start back up.

I refresh the browser to bring up the link again but this time the screen where the video had been is now grey. The words 'video no longer available' scroll across the pictureless box.

Clinton. His team must have taken it down. He said they were scrubbing the internet and he wasn't exaggerating. I don't want to know what FCC violations they're committing. There have to be a few. On the other hand, fuck that website for invading my privacy.