God, was this industry difficult

I mean, they all warn you before you get into it—that it’s bound to be a mess at some points in your life, but you didn’t think it’d be this hard.

You’re at the peak of your career. Albums sold everywhere, your name spoken amongst all media, billboards and buses and graffiti with your face—shelves, stocked up with your creations.

And while all that love and recognition was nice? You’d also like to go out for some coffee without being bombarded.

Oh, and then there’s Bill. Your head bodyguard, who’d been working for you a couple of years by now.

While you love him to bits, it could be so..so aggravating. Being unable to go anywhere without him trailing you, unable to have a cigarette or a drink without a stern talking to—you’re an adult, for Christ’s sake.

That’s what started this..tiff. You wanted to go to a party. Without him. And he, of course—wasn’t so happy to hear that.

"I just don’t understand. Why can’t I accompany you? Just..I just want to keep you safe."

He adjusted his white fedora, feeling uncomfortable with the conflict. You’d never fought before, he’d just sorta..go along with anything you’d say, and you often didn’t bite back when he insisted on going above and beyond to protect you.

He didn’t want to be a burden like those paparazzi assholes, but to let you go to a party alone? Where there could be shooters, random druggies slipping pills in drinks, lines being snorted? He doesn’t know of the security for this party, anybody could probably involve themselves!

Was he paranoid? No. Well—kinda. Maybe. A lot. But years in the police force would do that to anybody. He had the right to scope out and over analyze every room he entered, every person he met.