Built For Sin

Chapter 1

                                                              Seerat

Three Months Later

Tap. Tap. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.

The soles of my shoes slapped against the granite floor like a persistent canary. I had to dig my fingernails into my thighs to make my legs stop bouncing to the rhythm of my restless, foolish heart.

Shut up, heart.

Chill out, heart.

Stop fussing, heart.

Just f**k OFF, heart .

There was no need to panic. Not even a little. Not even at all.

I was going to get the job.

I elevated my head, flashing the woman sitting across from me my biggest, most enthusiastic smile.

“When we advertised the job for a PA position, we kind of, sort of, what’s the word I’m looking for…? Lied.” Slamming her chrome MacBook shut, she splayed her bony, manicured fingers on top of it, showcasing a ring that must’ve cost enough to buy the better half of my up-and-coming neighborhood.

My throat bobbed, and I smoothed down my tattered pencil skirt. Actually, it wasn’t even mine. It was Natasha’s, my Friend, and One sizes  large at the waist. I only ever got called back from educational Institutions that didn’t require a suit, so I’d had to improvise. I tucked my knotted ankles under my chair, sparing my interviewer my sneakers, a hint of my personality I’d forgotten to disguise.

Everything in the woman’s office screamed excess. Her desk, white and sleek; the seats made of alabaster leather; and the bronze chandelier dripping down between us like liquid gold. The Hollywood Sign poured from her floor-to-ceiling window in all its promising, beautiful, broken promises glory. So close you could see the dirt clinging to the white letters. Her workplace was the size of a ballroom. There wasn’t a drop of color or personality in this office, and not by accident.

Miranda Roberts. Powerhouse agent to the biggest Hollywood stars. Owner of KHE Group. She didn’t have time to get personal. Least of all with the likes of me.

"You’re not looking for a PA?” The forced smile on my face crumbled. I needed this job like Mark Wahlberg needed to show his real junk in Boogie Nights. Really, really bad. Case in point: I was living with Natasha, My friend/Research Partner, and as much as she loved me, I’m sure She does not love having to share her one-bedroom apartment with a twenty-one-year-old avant-garde slob slightly more. My only source of transportation was public transport that meant only bus /Train because cabs are so costly

Travelling by using a Bus in Bangalore was the equivalent of getting from A to Z on a dead turtle’s back.

So When I saw this advertisement of working for Miranda Roberts and earning a GOOD AMOUNT of money, I couldn't hold myself back. I applied for it, keeping my self esteem aside as being a Physics research scholar, who is soon going to get her doctorate, I shouldn't apply to be someone's PA. But yet here am I. 

“I’m looking for…something.” Miranda tipped her chin down, bowing a thinly plucked eyebrow.

“And it does involve some assisting.”

My patience was hanging by a thread, ready to jump ship. I was hungry, thirsty, and desperate for the job. Any job. Being Away from home had kicked my ass, and all the blue-collar positions had been filled by acne-ridden teenagers. This was the third time I’d come into KHE for this vague job this month. 

First, I’d gone through the HR girl who’d left me waiting for forty minutes because her pedicure appointment ran late. Then, Miranda’s personal assistant had grilled me like I was fresh back from an ISIS training camp. Finally, I’d met with the mega agent herself, and now she was telling me I’d been misled this whole time?

“Tell me, Seerat, how carefully did you read the job description?” She sat back in her chair and laced her fingers together. She wore a crisp, buttoned shirt tucked into black velvet pants, and a smug smile. Her champagne-blonde hair was pulled into a painful looking bun, and my skull burned just from looking at the way her skin pulled around her hairline.

“Careful enough to repeat it by heart.”

“Is that so? In that case, please do.”

My nostrils flared. I decided to humor her one last time before collecting my bag and remainder of self-esteem and walking away.

"PA needed: resilient, responsible, patient, and thick-skinned. Non-drinker, NO DRUGS,with a flair for arts and life. If you’re twirling on the sidelines of mainstream, have great attention for detail, and don’t mind long hours and endless nights, we’re looking for you. *NDA needed, criminal record will be checked.”

I pushed a copy of my job application, tapping it with my finger. “This is me. Sans the twirling part. I’m prone to migraines. Now, can you tell me why I’m here?”

“What I’m looking for is a savior. A nanny. A friend. You’re the closest thing to perfect I’ve found, but frankly, this whole thing is going to be a lot like an organ transplant. We won’t know if you’re a match until we put you two together.”

I blinked, studying her like she was a mythological creature. If this was a joke, I’d officially lost my sense of humor.

She stood up and began to pace, her arms folded behind her back. “I have a client. No, not a client. The client. One of the hottest names in the Hollywood Music industry this decade. He got himself into hot water recently and now he needs a big bucket of ice to cool his name off. Drugs, women, ego the size of China—you name it, he’s suffering from it. Your job is not to book flights and make coffee. He’s got an arsenal of people doing that for him. But you will be there when he goes on tour. You’ll cater to his emotional needs. You’ll make sure he doesn’t snort h****n backstage, or stay out late, or miss a show. You’ll be there to grab his hand and pull him away when he gets into an argument with a journalist or a paparazzo. Your job, in short, is to keep him healthy and alive for three months. Think you’re up for the challenge?”

Her words were so sincere and sharp, they sank into my skin like teeth.

A savior. A nanny. A friend.

“That’s…a lot of responsibility. Sounds like that someone is in big trouble.”

“Trouble is his middle name, a part of his charm, and the reason why I have a Xanax tab in my purse at all times.” She cracked a bitter smile.

Wait? What does Xanax meant? I think it's sort of pain killer. Maybe Paracetamol. But she doesn't need to tell me that. 

TMI, TMI, TMI.

“If he’s in no shape to go on tour, why is he doing it?”

“He was supposed to leave six months ago and canceled for personal reasons. If he cancels again, he’ll have to pay thirty million dollars to the production companies. The insurance will never pay up, considering the cause of termination was him swimming in enough cocaine and h****n to bake a five-tier wedding cake.”

I tapped my toes against the shiny floor some more, gnawing at my lower lip. Miranda stopped moving around. She was now standing in front of me, her thin, golden Prada belt twinkling like a sad eclipse.

“Two months on the road. Private jet. Best hotels in the world. If you’ve somehow managed to hang onto the leftovers of your innocence in this country and want to keep it, I’d advise against taking the job. But if you have a thick skin and a taste for adventure, know this—this job will change your bank account, your path, and your life.”

She sounded serious. Concerned. Every word had a weight and it sat heavy on my chest. “You’ll sign a non-disclosure agreement. You’ll take what you see to your grave. And you’ll get paid mad bank.”

Mad bank? Who talked like that? L.A. showbiz people. That’s who.

“Mad bank?” I asked.

“A Hundred thousand dollars for every month of your employment.”

Beat.

Beat.

Beat.

Three beats had passed before I sucked in air, remembering I needed to breathe.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard office folk snort-laughing next to the vending machine. A printer spitting out papers. A spoon clinking in a mug. My gnawing intensified, as it did when my nerves got the best of me, and the metallic taste of blood spread inside my mouth.

Two hundred thousand dollars.

Two months.

That Means Roughly 1.5 crore Indian rupees in two months. Oh My Gosh! 

All my financial problems—gone.

“Who is he?” I looked up, my voice cracking like an egg. Did it matter? Not really. At this point, he could be Voldemort himself, and I’d still accompany him on a lengthy tour in hell.

My Brother’s college bills were piling up. My Family was living in a Third grade Rented house. We couldn’t even afford a Good place to live . And Then there were Dad and Mom's Medicine Prescriptions. Their health needs to be taken care of better. 

This offer was a no-brainer. The only issue would be parting ways with my family, but even that came with a big chunk of relief. My brother isn’t the best person to hang out with . At least for me. And I'm already living away from them. They will think that I'm doing my research work at the university and in two months I will be back, with 1.5 crore in my bank account.  Also what helps more, is that lab is going to be closed for 3 months. I need to do theoretical work in that time, which I can do from anywhere.

Besides, I’d been babysitting my brother since the day he was born. This person was supposedly a grown-ass man. How hard could it be?

“It’s Asher Collins ,” Miranda supplied.

Evidently, the answer to my question is ‘next to impossible.’

Collins was huge. His songs were shoved down your throat by every radio station like he was the only person on the continent with vocal cords. He was like this generation's Adam Levine .But what truly worried me was that he seemed unapologetically arrogant. 

Asher Collins looked through people like it was an Olympic sport and he wanted to make the queen proud, which was just one of the reasons why he’d managed to create beef with every person with a pulse in Hollywood. That was common knowledge, even if you tried to avoid gossip like the plague, which I did.

Wherever he went, a string of reporters and palpitating fangirls followed. I’d get heat the minute his fans spotted me. The paparazzi shadowed him everywhere but to the bathroom. I once read in a gossip magazine—dentist appointment—that some girl had to shut down her ** account after partying with Collins because a dark net website put a bounty on her head. Twenty grand was collected to predict her death date—“fulfilling your prediction is entirely optional,” they said.

Last but not least, Collins was the most antiauthority mainstreamist in Hollywood.

Not too long ago, he was arrested for DUI, and I hated, despised, loathed drugs and alcohol. Which basically meant that our “organ transplant,” as Miranda had referred to it, would likely result in two casualties and one epic disaster.

I cradled my face in my hands, letting out a breath.

“This is the part where you say something.” Miranda’s cherry red lips twitched.

I cleared my throat and straightened my posture.

Time to put on your big girl panties and make sure they stay dry for two months, despite him looking like Chris Hemsworth’s hottest brother.

“I promise to keep him safe and sound, Ms. Roberts.”

“Good. Oh, and I’m going to say this once to keep my conscience clear: don’t fall in love with the guy. He’s not the white picket fence type.” Miranda waved a hand and scrolled her phone, pressing her thumb onto it and making a call.

“I’ll try my best.” My jaw muscles twitched as I swallowed a sneer. Asher Collins was beautiful in a way storms were—only from afar. Just like them, he had the power to sweep and ruin you, two things I was too busy surviving to entertain.

“If your best is good enough, then you should survive this. I’ll have my assistant print out the paperwork. Any questions?” She fired some instructions on the other line to said assistant, then ambled toward the door.

“When are we leaving for his tour?” I peeked over my shoulder, my fingernails burrowing into the armrest.

“Wednesday.”

“That’s two days away.”

“Good at math.” She sneered.

“That’s an unexpected plus. I’ll get the paperwork. The tour is called ‘Notes from the Heaven’ and is supposed to revive his career. Be right back.”

Unexpected? Has she even read my academic achievements? You don't get a University topper in physics every day. I was born with pluses.Anyways ,I will not flex my smartness in front of showbiz people, because I don't think they know how to value it. 'Notes from the Heaven' Interesting 

I remembered that song. It was the soundtrack to my senior year, when everything looked so final and wrong.

Love is just a illusion,

Excuse me for being goddamn delusion ,

You asked me to believe,

As if I had some f***s to give.

 With the door closing behind her, I sat back and blew a lock of brown hair away from my face. Crazy laughter bubbled in my throat, eager to pour out.

I was going to make Two hundred thousand dollars and hang out with the biggest rock star in the world for Two months. And I was going to visit other countries, which I probably could never afford in this life on my Own until Seven to Eight years. I looked up, and the chandelier winked at me mischievously.

I thought it was a sign.

Maybe, Finally Everything is going to get better in my life!