Dangerous: A Marcel Styles Fan Fiction

2: Day One

2: Day One

   How do I possibly simplify -2(x - 3) + 4(-2x + 8)? With a few minor calculations, it turned out as -2x + 6 -8x + 32 = -10x + 38. Whether it was right or wrong, I was glad I was halfway done my math homework.

   Being sprawled out on my bed doing homework, just made me less enthusiastic about homework, and school in general. I’d rather be writing in my journal of random song lyrics, or singing into a hairbrush like I tended to. But, no, the school made it their goal to give popular students tons of fucking homework to ruin their surprisingly dorky plans.

   Relief hit me as three knocks on my bedroom door interrupted me from my homework, something I was glad happened. I yelled for the knocker to enter, watching soon after as my father, business suit and all, stepped into my room.

   “Veronica?” he asked, to which I returned my eyes to him, and acknowledged his presence, dropping my pencil onto my notebook. He walked further in and sat on the edge of my bed, letting his light blue eyes meet mine. “Do you know what tomorrow is?”

   “Saturday?” I answered in a questioning tone. My mind actually drew a blank to his interrogation.

   A slight chuckle, much like his growled, throaty voice, came out of him next before his words continued. “Well, then, good thing I’m here to remind you,” he spoke, “It’s your job orientation!”

   Since I’d applied to be a paid intern this year mid-July, my father had been anything but depressed. After all, the intern placement I’d been assigned to had been junior executive’s assistant at his company; a studio company in Hollywood specializing in everything from recording and producing chart-topping singles to making full-length feature films. It was popular, and, thanks to my father being one of two co-executives, I had an entire collection of celebrity autographs because of it. HJ Productions had been my life, and now, I was part of its work force.

   “Are you sure you want to be lumped in with all those other teens on the tour?” dad asked me. “Most of them won’t even be assigned to your department.”

   “I’m sure, dad,” I said with a quick nod of my own.

   He shot me a brisk drowse and confessed his pride in me, telling me to sleep well and have fun tomorrow when I was to go with him into Hollywood and begin my first day of work. As he left, I shut my notebooks and textbooks and pushed them onto the floor. I enveloped myself in the covers and slept through the night. Personally, I thought morning came much too quickly for my liking.

   Once I awoke, I dressed in a light blouse and black skirt, making me look as formal as my father typically did when he went into work. I brushed my dark curls and let them hang naturally, and applied makeup before slipping on my glasses. I had to admit, I looked quite professional.

   I left my bedroom and made my way downstairs, where my parents and little sister, Vanessa, ate breakfast, I joined them, but, too soon, had to leave with my father to make the drive into Hollywood, and to his company’s building: HJ Productions headquarters, named for him, Harvey Bleu, and his best friend, and co-founder, Jonny Wright.

   It was a large building with a vast majority of windows on the front and absolutely none on the back. It was filled with offices, conference rooms and the studios – both recording and soundstage – for their best line of work. They had entire marketing teams, hired the best professionals for their clients and definitely had met every celebrity in the word at least once.

   “Are you positive?” dad asked me as we got out of his car in his reserved parking space – a company luxury, “I could take you on a private tour now?”

   “I’m fine, dad,” I assured.

   He led me through the building to where the new teenage interns were supposed to meet for our tour of the building before we would be placed in our departments and trained on the job by our supervisors.

   Where we met was one of the conference rooms on the second floor. Already there were teenagers there – none from my high school – waiting, and, as Sharon, our tour guide and one of the secretaries, more to come.

   I sat alone, since nobody here was anyone I knew, and their social hierarchy statuses were obviously lower than mine – a girl who was forced to look down upon pretty much everyone who wasn’t a jock, cheerleader or well-known being. More teens showed up in the hour they allowed the new interns to arrive, giving me still no familiar faces.

   It wasn’t a bad thing I was a loner. With my father being a co-founder of this company and now ruling over it alongside his best friend, I was rich, and popular. I wanted this job, mainly to watch from a distance to see as to how the production business worked, but my friends could know that. They knew I wanted to help in music production someday – like when I inherited my father’s shares of this company – but getting a job now as a sophomore in her prime was unheard of to us.

   Out of my bag, I fished the letter I’d gotten from the company; the letter of acceptance to their first ever admittance of teenaged interns to their company. My name, Veronica Bleu, stood out amongst the positive words several times, and the company’s logo was freshly printed in the top, right hand corner. It brought a grin to my face. I was learning the ways of the company on my own, without my father’s assistance (though I was pretty sure he used his connections to make sure I’d gotten this wonderful opportunity)! My dream was coming true!

   “E-excuse me,” came a stuttered voice from behind me. “You’re Veronica Bleu f-from my algebra class, right?”

   I choked back a gulp, hoping it was just a hallucination. I knew that stammer well – mentioning my math class didn’t make it any more helpful – and had heard the nasally tone each day for a week. I used every last bit of willpower I possessed to keep my hands from shaking with an emotion I really could not describe – a cross between a surge of anger and plain embarrassment – though it did nothing for my pounding heart.

   Slowly, with a silent sigh, I looked up, over my shoulder to see a boy with thick-rimmed glasses taped at the part which hung over the bridge of his nose, and acne dotting various parts of his face. His hair was slicked back and his wardrobe was quite professional, as it had been all this week at school.

   His name was Marcel Styles, and he was a fellow intern at HJ Productions.