Even {m.c.}

one

I walked briskly down the sidewalk, dodging people left and right, suprised that they didn't react at all to my presence. Me, being a midly famous musician, was all hautsy, tautsy on the street now that I'd got a grammy or two up my sleeve (three to be exact). There I was, thinking people are going to notice me and beg for a picture and autograph left, right, and centre constantly, only to be brought down by the fact that no one gave two shits about me.

I had a meeting that day. It must've been pretty fucking important, because that morning, just as I was comtemplating blowing these fancy-pants company people off, my manger called and practically threatened to beat me with the nearest stick if I didn't show. Believe me, I loved Bridgette and everything she'd done for me, but she can underestimate me at times. I assumed this meeting, that had to be so God-damn early in the morning, was about the album I was working on and the logistics of that nature. Something I could handle at ten to eight a.m.

Oh, great, I thought to myself as I approached the riff-raff loitering outside the very impressive-looking record label office. With my pencil skirt and blazer, I probably looked like a pretentious suck-up who always comes to work at these ungodly hours of the morning. The quite opposite of these four hooligans. They were kicking around a soccer ball and hollering unrecognizable profanities at each other. Typical teenage boys. Hard to admit, but they all looked to be about eighteen, only a year younger than me, though I was in prim-and-proper adult mode at the moment. Not helping the whole suck-up image I had going there.

I stuck my head down and focused on the shiny tips of my grandma-heels and walked on. If these guys were my age, I didn't want to make fool of myself by them pointing me out or anything like that. Okay, so maybe the looking down thing wasn't the best idea, because I ended up ramming into one of them, almost straight-on.

"Woah! Watch where you're going, man!" he said as he tried to regain his balance.

I wan't so lucky with the whole balance thing and landed flat on my butt.

"Could say the same to you," I retorted, calmly.

He straightened up at my voice and as I met his eyes, the air of annoyance around him faded.

"Sorry, i-it was my fault , we shouldn't be out here anyways," he spluttered as he extended out a hand for me to take, "Are you alright?"

"It's alright, I'll live,"I said as I griped his rough palm and yank myself up. He had a finger tattoo, I noticed on my way up. Cute.

"Are you sure? I mean me and the boys-."

"I'll be fine, have somewhere to be, if you don't mind." I pushed past him and clicked off for a few paces, "Thanks, though." I offered him a warm smile.

He noded and turned back around to resume his game. All I heard was the hearty sound of a laughing crew of boys as I scurried into the building, my cheeks ablaze.

"What took you so long?" said Bridgette, who's ears were almost steaming at my late arrival. The rude encounter downstairs may have set me back a couple minutes, "We have a very important guest that shouldn't be kept waiting,"

"I'm sorry, it's just that-," I tried to reason.

"Hush now, and be on your best beheviour, young lady," she pretended to chide me with a slight smirk on her face. I swear she thought she was my mom or something.

Brigette ushered me into the room and gestured that I sit across the table from some young-to-middle aged guy who has a patchy beard-thing and is wearing an awful tweed-like jacket. I was tempted to ask how he likes his Frappacino.

He introduced himself as Matt from Wonder Management and Bridgette did the same on behalf of our management, cafefully seated next to me.

"I'm sure my boys will be up shortly, I just sent David for them," he informed us and gave a little chuckle, "They get a little restless sometimes."

"That's fine," Brigette responded, polite as fuck. See, this is why I would never be a good manager, I've been described as a soul-sucking bitch before and those aren't the type of people you go around hiring to represent a company.

A loud commotion appeared outside of the streak-free glass door of the meeting room. It was the soccer-playing boys from downstairs; I should've known. Why else would they let them play infront of their building? Only then did I notice their features more prominently, I was a little busy before, rolling around on the ground, making a spectacle of myself.

The tallest boy had clean, blonde hair, all dolled up in a quiff, wearing an only half-buttoned up plaid sweater and jeans. The bandana-wearing one had on a badly cut-up band shirt and his hair in flat curls. A darker haired boy followed bandana and was also wearing plaid, this time in yellow instead of quiff's red. The last one is the one I regretted most, finger tattoo. I'm surprised didn't notice his hair last time we 'met'. It was really long and crazy, dyed a blackish-red colour; it totally clashed against his white and neon band shirt with the sleeves rolled up. I wondered if they knew that they all kinda matched, or that they were all really attractive. Damn.

Crazy-hair came up to me and put out his hand once more.

"Good to see you again, I don't believe I've formally introduced myself," he said, all smug-like with his to-die-for Australian accent, "I'm Michael."

"I'm Victoria," I replied, mentally rolling my eyes.

"Hey, Vicky, try not to fall on me again, it kinda hurt," he remarked, that stupid smile still on his face as he took the seat diagonal from me.

"I won't, I promise, Mikey," I said, sarcasm practically dripping from my words.

He just winked and settled into his chair, as I returned my attention back to his manager's opening statements.