When the city of New York was having a piercingly cold, scenic morning, Shawn was waking up beside his own vomit on his favorite purple Egyptian-silk bed sheet. His right hand was smeared with the sappy ejecta, which apparently wasn't the reason of him waking up at as early as five. The elastic band of his boxer briefs had painfully clung his hips the whole night, making him wake-up within three hours of sleep.
He moved over, exposing the skin pressured under the elastic, and labored his left hand down at its tightly-fitted grip with as much control in his fingers as a two-year-old behind a steering wheel.
He struggled for a few seconds, but soon sleep started betraying his eager blue eyes and made way for the putrid smell of vomit to chisel his brain. And just the next moment, he sat up and allowed the aching head rush to settle before he turned to his right and took support of the nightstand and got out of the bed to stand on his shaky, hairless legs. He had to walk far away from the smell that had already started building another shot of bile in his gut.
He had got to stop trusting every pill he was offered in his parties. His sister had asked him multiple times before she had handed over a tiny box to take only the ones that she got for him-the pink ones if he wanted to forget something and the white ones if he needed to fill gaps in his memory. The one from last night was blue and bitter. Its taste virtually appeared in the tip of his tongue-it was really very bitter.
Looking around at his vast bedroom- so vast that it could house two nuclear families if they for some reason had decided to live together- everything was in place, from a velvet ottoman in a corner that he barely even passed a glance at to a furry peach rug at the foot of the bed that if you had noticed there was no way you weren't going to step on it, it looked that soft.
Even the two feet tall and three inches wide crystal vase at the side of his king-size bed hadn't been knocked over. The rest of his room didn't give any idea of what he had been doing last night; the bed was the only mess that made sense, but for Shawn, sex had to be anywhere but the bed. He didn't have sex last night, at least not in HIS bedroom.
The last thing he remembered was climbing up the stairs with a strikingly tall blonde and two bottles of French vodka in his hands, and a petite Mexican girl had joined in right after they had entered his bedroom. 'I hear you fuck good,' she had said with a sly arch of her upper lip and shut the glass door from inside that instantly was smeared with automatic fog just as it touched its lash.
Slowly, he walked towards the bathroom on the far end of his room. He needed to rinse off the dried out vomit from his left shoulder. Was it even his that he had been sleeping on? The idea of touching another person's fluid no matter coming out of which end had always irked him. He'd avoid exchanging saliva when he made out, and never went down on a girl. But it worked for him, girls didn't complain much because he was Shawn Rayo, the man of every teenager's fantasies and being a successful pop artist was another kicker around women.
He had to do something first for his headache before he phoned Silvers and found out his follies from the night. He knew exactly how the conversation was going to take place.
'Shawn's horns strike AGAIN! Can't seem to keep it in your pants, can you? I need me a raise. There's just so much to clean up after you're done' Silvers would say in his fading Boston accent and wild brown eyes getting wider like his grinning mouth.
Shawn wasn't a fan of his comical expressions but Silvers was pretty damn good at his job. He had been working for Shawn for a year and hadn't disappointed once, in fact, he was usually a step ahead of him, anticipating Shawn's doings before they were even done. Silvers had taken over his dating scene so smoothly that Shawn had become completely dependent on Silvers's services.
Now, every time Shawn was around women, like in parties or trips or award shows, interviews, and even his own concerts, Silvers lingered in the background away from the cameras but not so much that he couldn't keep a tab on who Shawn was talking to, or who he was even looking at. One look at his face and Silvers could tell Shawn's intentions with the girl; whether he was attracted to date or to just hook-up, Silvers had him read inside-out.
His maroon, cotton bathrobe hung in its same place inside his needlessly capacious washroom – on an ivory rack tower made specifically for the twelve-hundred dollars' worth piece of fabric. Shawn had the hang of his wealth after not long ago when he signed a multi-million dollar contract with Allura two weeks after turning nineteen; what an extravagant way of ending your teenage.
After his first album was a big success, selling over four hundred thousand copies worldwide in the first quarter of its release, Allura roped him in for a four-album deal and Shawn leased his lavish home with his first paycheck. His father had lent him a quarter of the base amount that Shawn returned within six months of touring. Shawn hated any kind of association with his Dad; he had accepted his offer to help him with his lease because his mother had forced him to.
He didn't have a close bond with his parents, but there were still fragments of care left for his mom, his Dad had lost his chance the day he had brought in his mistress to dinner the day Shawn had turned fourteen.
'I'll be needing someone, probably six, but now.' Shawn spoke into the receiver of a wall-mounted landline in an authoritative tone, demanding his job be done right away. He didn't like anybody coming to his house unannounced and so he hadn't appointed any house helps, except for the eight security guards that had no purpose to come inside.
Whenever he thought his home needed some cleaning, he would phone a company a mile away and they would send in their cleaning team. Although, there was one employee that didn't need permission to enter his home – a retired Mrs. Millers, his cook that his mom had again forced him to have the last time he had visited their home looking like he had lost fifteen pounds during his world tour. Mrs. Millers was a family friend and didn't mind having a few extra bucks just for preparing two meals a day, and an apartment four blocks away from Shawn's where she lived with her sixteen year old grandson and a ragdoll named Purrella.
Once he was out into his bedroom in a purple towel wrapped around his waist, he grabbed a black silk rob from one of the closets and his cell phone that was still on the bed, and left the room for its murky air. He changed into the robe on his way downstairs to the kitchen.
If it was one thing Mrs. Millers wasn't allowed to do it had to be to never climb the threshold to the floor above. She was confined to the open kitchen and the entryway which was why Shawn could easily walk around the top corridor flaunting his preciously naked body until he had slipped into the robe. He knew nobody was going to see him, nobody dared to see him. Every corner of the bottom floor was under surveillance, but his off-limit floor had no cameras, except for the one that faced outward the gigantic glass window in his bedroom.
"Good Morning, Mr. Rayo." Mrs. Miller greeted from behind the counter-top. She flipped a toast and placed it on the other three that were already on a plate.
"Good Morning." Shawn pulled the head chair and sat down, eagerly waiting for his breakfast to be served. He looked around his home, everything was crisply placed. No signs of any wreckage from the party last night.
"Did anyone call?"
"Yes. Mr. Silvers had called an hour ago. He said he had tried your cell but it was off apparently. He asked me to let you know he is on his way from Belmont and will be here by 8." Mrs. Millers replied as she put the breakfast on a tray and brought it to the table.
"Thank you, Mrs. Millers." Shawn replied exhaustedly. He immediately grabbed a toast with his bare hand ignoring the fork and knife elegantly placed on a hand towel. It tasted exactly the same like every other day; thick egg coating with a pinch of cinnamon and sugar, fried in specially imported butter from Turkey.
After the second toast was over, he took a sip of the orange juice and thought about Silvers. He had messed up. He had taken two strangers to bed. It was against the rules that ironically were set by Shawn himself.
Last November, when he couldn't make it to Chicago for Thanksgiving, a bunch of his friends had invited him for a party just between people who couldn't go home for the holiday. That had unintentionally meant spending the day with two known and a dozen unknown people.
The drunken night had ended with Shawn sleeping with a seventeen year old, but that wasn't half the problem. The girl had taken pictures of him when he had passed out naked. What followed was some legal battles to fight off the charges of a sex offender, and half a million dollars bribe to the guardian of the girl; her older brother, who was also present at that party.
It hadn't mattered to Shawn when he was blackmailed with his nudes. He didn't think they were a big deal, but he knew it would hurt his family. He had to pay off the ransom.
Soon after that incident, Shawn appointed Silvers, a law student, to verify all the girls that went near him or those that could be a potential hook-up. If Shawn was invited to a party, Silvers followed. His job was to get a signal from his boss over the girls that he felt attracted to, and Silvers would do a quick scan on the internet, or even talk to them if needed. Then once Silvers showed the green light, Shawn was free to move forward with them.
But, the last night's party was an impulse decision after a tiring concert in Vatican Square. From hanging backstage with the fans to inviting them all to his four bedroom bungalow had happened so quick that Shawn had forgotten to notify Silvers.
And now, he regretted that he did.
He looked at his phone, still dead. He turned it on hoping to find any evidence from the night. Maybe a selfie, or even a whole video of what was going around him would have helped Silvers trace back the girls.
Leaving the empty dishes on the table, Shawn got up with the cellphone in his left hand, and trotted to the wash basin in the left corner of the kitchen wall. His eyes never left the screen once it was on.
In a quick motion, Shawn browsed through his text messages and gallery hoping to find something useful. He found backstage footage from before his performance. Most of the texting had stopped once they had gotten into their cars and headed for his home.
Shawn forwarded the clip of him goofing around the staging area with his dance team and musicians to his lawyer friend. There were a few girls in the clip, but he didn't remember if they were in his party or they were simply his crew. 'More work for Silvers.' He mumbled, as he locked the screen back.
There were no texts from Silvers, except for a missed call reminder. Shawn wondered if he was saving it all for the one on one meeting they were about to have in an hour. 'Whatever.' Shawn said under his breath. He sauntered to his dressing room in the same floor. He had an ad-shoot to get ready for.