Page 82 of Bastian

Oh, Christ, no.

Stop it, you foolish heart. Didn’t you learn your lesson last time?

This tyrant with a perfect smile and laughing eyes cannot be trusted.

Overcome with old and newfound feelings, I take a deep breath and dive underwater. Maybe once I go back up again, he’ll be gone… but no such luck.

When I resurface, I find him there.

Standing like a Greek statue with a smile on his handsome face that does not falter no matter all the shit I throw his way.

Sebastian is determined to win this.

And for the first time, since all this started, I realize that I’m well and truly fucked.

Shit.

ARIANNA

GREEK GOD

“I know better than my foolish heart…” — A

“Si, si. Eso me suena cabrón.” Wizz, the Latino reggaetonero, and global sensation leans forward in his seat opposite me with a devious smirk on his face. His stage name is as stupid as his choice of clothing tonight. I am not even going to entertain that mess. Wizz, is a white Puerto Rican male with exotic features. Big lips, curly hair, and a perfect smile. The guy has taken the industry by storm and no one can deny that. People are listening to trap and reggaeton music in countries that didn’t even know the island of Puerto Rico existed. “I’ll agree on one condition, though,” Wizz says.

Here we go.

There’s always something with celebrities.

Taking a sip of my glass, I wait for him to ask for whatever it is he wants so I can be done with him. The guy is talented and has a lot of charisma but the fame has clearly gone to his head. We’ve been sitting down, going through the offer both Quinne and I agreed to, for half an hour, and he has interrupted me more times than I care to count just to brag about his lifestyle.

He’s rich as hell.

He knows it. I know it, and the world sure as hell does, but a little humility wouldn’t kill him, or maybe it just might.

I typically deal with managers or publicists when it comes to artists, athletes, and others in the entertainment industry, but this one insisted on being the one to negotiate instead of his manager, Luisa.

I can tolerate the usual hard-ass managers or pretentious entertainers, but this walking, talking ego has proven to be a challenge.

When he doesn’t go ahead and state his conditions, I know it’s up to me to get it out of him.

Sighing, I ask. “What’s your condition?”

“I’ll agree to do the sit-down interview if I’m allowed creative freedom to express myself without censorship and if you promise that blood-sucking viper you call partner won’t be present.” He means Quinne. The last time we tried to get this dude on the cover of our magazine, Quinne handled the meeting, and by the sound of it, it’s obvious why Quinne couldn’t seal the deal.

Those two butted heads last time, most likely because Quinne has a short fuse and Wizz is well… too much. “Deal.”

I give in because he’s the hottest artist and fashion icon at the moment. It would be foolish of me to decline. I also give in easily, so I can be done here. One more second with this guy, and I’ll lose brain cells.

Okay, maybe that was too harsh. True… but harsh.

“Asi me gusta, mami. Much better than that man-hater.” He leans back with a smug grin on his face. The superstar wears a burgundy Dolce & Gabbana jumpsuit and matching sunglasses.

Sunglasses at night, for fucks’ sake.

You see… I try to be cordial but some people just bring out the worse in me.

I bite my tongue, holding back all the things I wish to say to this idiot, but can’t because I’m aware that he’s the right person to help us reach the younger demographic and expand the magazine, but this moment right here feels like I’m this asshole’s bitch and it’s pissing me off.

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