So, this focuses around Justin rather than a female character, but it can be changed to suit.
Justin Timberlake tossed his keys onto his dresser, stifling a yawn. Padding barefoot into his bathroom, he pulled his t-shirt off over his head, letting it drop carelessly to the floor. Half-asleep already, he went through the motions of his nightly ritual, turning on the bathwater to just short of scalding as he groped sleepily for his toothbrush. Steam filled the air as he stared at himself through half-lidded eyes in the mirror, lazily moving the brush over his teeth. Finished, he wandered back into his bedroom, switching on the television as he waited for the tub to fill.
The lure of his bed almost proved too great as he dozed off to the sound of Jay Leno. However, the shrill peal of his cell phone nearly shocked him out of his skin as it let the world know he had a text message. Grumbling, he snagged it and glanced at the screen.
Meet at Platinum. 2:00.
“You have GOT to be kidding me,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. Another message appeared and he scowled.
No rest for the sexy, man. Get your ass up! TOLD ya you should’ve just crashed over here and caught a ride with me.
“Shut up Jayce,” he grumbled, tossing his phone onto the bed and stalking back into the bathroom. With a heavy sigh, he pulled the plug on the tub, changing instead to a shower. His bath–and bed–would have to wait.
Half an hour later, he was showered and dressed in black, which fit his grumpy mood. Making sure he had his keys, phone, and wallet, he ventured out into the balmy Orlando night. The combination of cool wind on his face and a detour to an all night espresso stand improved his temper greatly, and he pulled into the private garage of Orlando’s premiere night club without mishap. Inside, he checked his watch before heading upstairs to the VIP area. The club was only half full, since the majority of the regulars were on location somewhere earning their keep and the right to stay on the guest list.
Acknowledging the familiar faces he glimpsed through the dark, he made his way to the bar on the far side of the dance floor. The bartender smiled and winked when she recognized him. “Hey handsome.”
“Hey Lizzie,” he smiled back. “Just for the record, these work hours suck. How do you manage it?”
“Oh, the scenery is always interesting,” she wiggled her brows at him, making his grin widen. “ And you hear the most intriguing things. Especially up in VIP. You partying tonight?”
“That’s me; Mr. Party Central.” He rolled his eyes to let her know he was kidding. “Where’s the party at?”
“Fifth floor.” She replied. “You’re either early or late though; it’s pretty much fizzled out.”
“I’ll take my chances.” He shrugged with a nod of thanks as she passed him his customary drink. “Thanks.”
Aware that the clock was ticking, he still took his time, making sure to see and be seen by the gossips before casually heading upstairs, presumably to more private surrounds.
“Just for the record, these work hours suck,” he announced again as he strolled into the room. “Do we get time and a half for this?”
“Sure, why not.” Sean “P. Diddy” Combs answered from behind him, making him jump. “Considering you don’t get paid at all, you can get triple of nothing for all I care.”
Justin snorted, walking over to his friend and former band mate, who was currently sprawled out on the couch. “Jayce! Wake up!”
JC Chasez yawned widely and stretched, nearly smacking Justin in the head.
“Where’s the rest of the usual suspects?” Justin inquired, automatically ducking.
“It’s just you two tonight.” Sean replied somberly. Something in his tone made both men straighten warily as they joined him at the table and accepted the two folders he handed out. Justin noted with a frown that these were significantly thinner than usual. “These two cases are a bit…more personal.”
As always, Platinum “researchers” (paparazzi) were second to none when it came to ferreting out information. Of course, they made their living by uncovering the dirty laundry of the stars, so they had to be good. They were a necessary evil in this business. Someone had to do the dirty work.
If someone had told Justin ten years ago that he would be one of the most well recognized celebrities in the world, he would’ve said they were crazy. If that same person had also informed him that in addition to being a celebrity he would also be an agent for one of the largest underground security companies in the world, he would’ve sent that person to see the “nice men in white jackets”.
He had scoffed at the whole idea of Platinum, Inc. when Sean had first approached him. The concept seemed like something that belonged in the movies, not in real life. After all, who would believe in an undercover agency run and employed by celebrities, for celebrities?
Well, apparently Sean Combs, Samuel L. Jackson, and Tyra Banks did, because Platinum, Inc. was a result of a brilliant melding of their minds. After all, the entertainment business was notorious for simultaneously being the most scrutinized and yet most shady and secretive aspect of society around. Celebrities, especially A-listers, had virtually unlimited access to anything they wanted–legal or not. Money was obviously no option. And where the money was, so came the drug dealers, embezzlers, stalkers, and petty thieves and crooks to tempt stars over to the dark side.
Some stars, however, shined brighter during an eclipse.
Platinum agents fell under one of two categories: field agent or bodyguard. The bodyguards, of course, were the obvious security: the mini mountains of men with their arms crossed menacingly, standing as a physical barrier between their charges and the rest of the world.
The field agents, however, were much harder to spot–and yet, they were the ones in the lime light, smiling charmingly and signing autographs–usually on the arm of an equally hot companion. However, nine times out of ten the hot new it! couple was not real, but merely an oft used trick to make sure the agent was near their client 24/7. The easiest way to guarantee all eyes–especially the keenest, those of the paparazzi (some of which were Platinum informants), fans, and critics–will be on the lookout for anything shady is to create a scandal.
Not all celebrities were Platinum agents. Since usually the crème de la crème were targeted, the agents had to be of the same status and caliber. The lists put out by Billboard and various magazines citing the top names in music, movies, fashion, and social status were there for a reason, after all.
Justin enjoyed working for P.I.; mainly because it essentially guaranteed that he would get a chance to be with some of the hottest women on the planet, but also because it gave him a good feeling to know that he was doing something to counteract the—for lack of a better description—evil out there.
“So who is it this time?” He joked as he opened his folder. “Halle Berry? Please, please let it be Halle. I’d be more than happy to guard her body—“He stopped abruptly at the sight of the familiar face laughing up at him.
“Is this some kind of joke?” The question burst simultaneously from both throats as they held up their client’s photos.