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They are all so flat. Cardboard cutouts would be better company. All of the conversation D has with them goes in one ear, rattles around the vast empty space for maybe a second before slipping out the other. D gives them the same courtesy. Or at least he would like to but unfortunately he holds onto just enough humanity to actually care enough that next time he meets the model in the cliche red wine dress, he'll ask about her dog's asthma issues and she'll be surprised that D cared enough to find out about little Fluffy's condition, not remembering tonight’s hour of nonstop drivel about the poor puppy. D believes that the dog might be attempting slow suicide to get out of its personal hell with this woman acting as his specific Lucifer.
D is going to have to buy his public relations manager some Dom Perignon for finding this sweetheart of a girl currently posing as his date. She has maybe an inch more depth than the rest of these vapid sheep that flock to these events, but man, she understands the unwritten rules of Hollywood society like when to smile and what small noncommittal noises to make. She handles the conversations with as little input from D as possible which is fantastic because it minimizes the likelihood of D snapping and killing someone or worse saying something that would crash his reputation.
D snags two fresh flutes of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter, handing one to his date. What's her name again? Rebecca? Rachel?
"Jordan! Those shoes are fantastic. Who did you have to kill to get those?"
So that's her name.
"Richard got them for me. Isn't he a sweetheart?"
Brent must have handled it. And scripted her. Two bottles at least. D takes the compliment with a dip of the head and a sip of bubbly. Jordan takes up conversation with the new challenger thankfully migrating from Fluffy's ailments. D doesn't engage with the new topic. He has no idea what the new topic is. Instead he lets the passive mask fall over his features and he studies his surroundings instead.
It's a pretty swank place. Some aspiring star's place. It's a party to celebrate his debut, a piece with a lot of veterans but he managed to hold his own. Too bad he can't hold his alcohol the same. Even Roxy does better and she's not legal. This entire place could do with some Strider influence. Everything is too clean and too neat. D thinks back on the apartment in Houston with piles of shit lumped into the corners, weapons spread out on the counters, puppets hanging from racks or really anything that can resemble a hook, the boys laying about lazily. God, he missed home. He’d give up all of the luxury of the five-star hotels in a heartbeat to have some actual comfort.
The open bar is inviting but not really necessary with the fleet of staff not even waiting for one’s hand to be empty before asking if said hand needs a refill. The snack spread isn't very impressive except for the cupcakes. D has been eyeing them all evening but Julie... no, Jordan keeps directing him to the lighter fare, even steering him away from the pigs in a blanket and mini weenies. But there are only so many quiche bites one can handle. Besides D is known as the skinny fucker. How many cartoon editorials have drawn him as a skeletal figure? Or how many criticisms has he gotten from body image supporters? It's not like he can control his metabolism. He totally deserves those cupcakes for putting up with all of this bullshit.
He politely excuses himself from the gossip. Jordan graces him with a demure but sarcastic smile which makes for a very interesting expression. Like a snake grinning. D resists the urge to shudder. Instead he ducks and weaves through the landmine field of drunken conversation traps with the mostly untouched dessert bar in his crosshairs. His mouth waters as he draws near to the hills of frosted delight. He dodges splashed drinks and avoids the saccharine expressions designed to hook him in. But he will not be deterred!
Keeping an exclamation of victory tucked carefully behind his mask of nonchalance, D lifts one of the treasured cupcakes from the display and immediately stuffs it into his mouth.
Oh dear sweet lord. D holds back the nearly orgasmic moan to a polite whimper. He soons finds only crumbs on his fingers that he enthusiastically licks off. He eagerly goes after the next, the second tasting just as amazing as the first. And the third as well. He finds a plate and starts piling them on, eating another one along the way.
Some movement at the edge of his vision catches his attention, but by the time he looks over to it, whatever, or whoever, it was has ducked behind the corner already. Curious he takes a step in that direction.
"Richard!" The near screech catches D by surprise and he cringes down at his full name. But thankfully the small tower of cupcakes on the plate survive. "Can you believe the planner? Bringing these fattening atrocities in here?" The shocked disbelief is very evident in the harpy's voice and D dreads turning around and facing its owner. He swallows the most recent bite of heaven and slowly rotates on his heels. As he licks his lips for the last little bit of icing but man that’s a big glob and he doesn’t think he gets it all. That assumption is confirmed when he catches sight of the absolutely horrified look on the aging director’s face.
“Have you tried one of these? I’m thinking about making my next movie about these. Next big blockbuster? I think so.” He waves his free hand in an over dramatic gesture.
"You have the most... interesting ideas, Richard."
"Thanks!" D smiles at her and her expression falls even further. "If you'd like, it could even be a cooperative piece."
"No. No, that's quite alright. I have several projects already in the pipeline. Besides, our... styles don't quite align." Give her the understatement of the year.
"And that's why it would be so fantastic."
"Oh, there's... my writer just came in. I've been meaning to speak with him for some time now. If you would excuse me."
D hasn't had a conversation cut that short before in his entire career. He makes a mental note to hit up the dessert bar more often to see if he can get similar reactions.
As he lifts little piece of heaven to his lips, he happens to scan the room and catches sight of Jordan bearing down in his direction. His eyes go wide in panic. He holds tight onto his stack of cup cakes and quickly glances around for an exit. The corner that caught his eye presents itself again. He has no idea where it goes but he'll take it. He sees her approaching quicker but she can only move so fast in six inch stiletto heels.
As he reaches the corner he reacts to a problem even before he is fully cognizant of it. He whirls around someone with instinct bred from strifing with his brothers many times before. He ends up with his back against the wall on the other side of whoever was hiding at the edge. The cupcakes remain safe.
"Who are you running from?" the young woman asks.
"My date. Who are you hiding from?"
"Everyone. No one likes them."
"No one likes anything here. Except themselves. But that's not really true either. They just pretend. Everything here is pretend. All pleasantries, fake smiles, alligator tears, and silicon boobs. Though there is one good and genuine thing here, actually an army of small and good and genuine things. And those are these cupcakes." He lifts the plate in show.
"Oh!" she exclaims, "You like them."
"Of course. These fell directly from the table of the gods. These were made with heart and soul of a masterclass baker. These are little bits of prepackaged nirvana. If I didn't know better I'd say they were drugged because holy shit these are addictive. These are like sex in my mouth. Very excellent sex in my mouth. If the sexiest man in Hollywood -which should have been me but the voting was rigged- and Miss America had children, these are the product. Seriously I could wax poetic about them all night long. These are good." As he's rambling he takes the moment to look over who he is talking to.
She's pretty much his total opposite. Her dark hair is curly but not permed. She has the cute round glasses that highlight pretty blue eyes. She's slightly plump which is a sight for sore eyes used to the emaciated skin, bones, and boobs that usually walk around. Her natural curves fit her shorter frame; the top of her head hits him mid chest. Her outfit though really sets her apart from the rest of the party. Instead of the latest slinky dress of the rack of the most expensive boutique on Rodeo Drive, she's wearing a crisp sky blue blouse that tucks neatly into a black pencil skirt. Instead of deathtrap, six-inch, ankle-breaking heels, she has very sensible flats.
D instantly likes her.
"You really do like them. Wow."
"But instead of staying here talking about these, I need to get the fuck out of here."
"People are after you?"
"Yes, I am the great D Strider."
"Who?"
"Oh thank God."
"I have a van."
"I love you twice over. Let's go." He sweeps his arm out and she leads the way. She navigates the hallways like she owns the place. They find the back door and she neatly beelines to her van, lights flashing when she remotely unlocks it.
D falters as the design on the side of the van. Several things hit him at once. One, light blue must be her favorite color. Two, the spoon silhouette definitely says Betty Crocker even if it is in the wrong color. Three, she's must be the baker of the cupcakes.
"Who are you?" he calls out. She pauses, hanging out of the driver side of the door.
"Jane Crocker. Head of the independent baker and catering divisions."
"Independent baker?"
"I am spearheading the movement to shift from mixes to from scratch."
"Those cupcakes."
"All from scratch. Both batter and icing."
"Can I marry you?"
"Not before a single date, D"
He starts grinning madly. "I love you and am falling fast." He moves around to the other door of the van and climbs in. "Let's get the fuck out of here."