GUY

"Of course I can destroy that shit. I'm Guy fucking Carver"

The crowd roared around me.

One man that I've no idea who it was (even though he was in my house) was challenging other people to break an empty beer bottle two meters away with a tennis ball.

It didn't take much effort on my part to do that because besides all my great artistics and physics attributes, my aim was bloody great.

I hit the glass and it fell on the ground, but I barely heard the glass breaking because of the loud music inside the house.

The people in the backyard celebrated one more time, then they got bored and dispersed themselves to the mansion.

After that, there's not much to do.

These parties were always the same. I tip someone that would have music and beer in my house and this someone talked with other people. Suddenly, the house was full.

The first thirty minutes were fun until I got pissed with the same Justin Bieber's song playing all the time and the ass kissers.

It was tiring seeing the same shit happens after so many years.

For example, I knew that the two girls that were rounding me during the party would go on a threesome with me, but the next day they would try to take pictures to post on social media and say that they slept with a famous person. Except there were thousands of photos with me like that. This couldn't even render so many likes. Maybe ten followers on Twitter.

The guy screaming in my kitchen would be tossed on the floor in the morning with a hugeous hangover. The house would be a mess. My two cleanings would sacrilege the name of my poor mom because they knew that the same night another party would happen.

"Oh, God!" Someone screamed at my side. "The cops are here. Hide the weed"

I turned and saw the tall man wearing an expensive outfit that didn't suit the party. He was accompanied by four cops that caused a little rampage among my guests.

That was really necessary?

"Carver" The man approached with his hands on his waist.

"Thatcher" I opened that big smile that Buzzfeed loves to talk about. "How long has it been, lad? I feel like I saw it months ago"

"We saw each other this morning in a meeting about your decorum".

Thatcher was my agent or press manager or just manager. I never knew exactly what Thatcher did and didn't do in the fifteen years he worked with me. Lately, his only function was to spoil my fun.

But before, when I moved to America to start my career as an actor, he used to respond to my legal advice.

For a while, Thatcher was more my father than my real father, which was weird since I was his first artist, so he was barely 25 when he assumed my paternity.

That doesn't mean he didn't do a wonderful job sticking his nose in my personal life like a father did. Now was an excellent example of this and I was far from being the sixteen years teenage dirtbag I used to be.

"The cops are here to arrest you in case you don't send all these people home. It's four a.m, Carver! Your neighbors are complaining about you!"

He pointed to the policeman that was busy with two hot blondes. The marks in Thatcher's forehead sank deep. Suddenly, he looked like a fifth years old man with a fucked up job and a horrendous wife.

"They seem fine"

"Guy" he closed his eyes. "You know how Stacker is with the actors he worked with. If you lose this job..."

Bloody hell. This chit chat all over again.

I heard the same discussion this morning. Actually, I heard a part of it. The new social manager was really hot and I couldn't take my eyes off her.

But I got the general idea: "you're irresponsible, Carver", "Stop involving yourself in so many controversial" and "Don't fuck with this job, Guy". I was aware that, at that moment, my image wasn't the best and I needed to avoid scandals.

I probably was being canceled on Twitter right now. But this was already happening. One more party wouldn't make me less problematic. Why couldn't I enjoy myself a little and drink my face off? It was my money, anyway.

"The works aren't coming as they used to be. This series is your only chance. Start being responsible, Carver!" Thatcher said, pissed.

"Good Lord. You sound like my mother" I said, grabbing the whiskey on the table and drinking straight from the bottle.

Thatcher detached the bottle from my hand with more force than it was needed and I almost choked on the drink.

"One day, I'm going to fire myself and you'll never find another manager that can take your crap like I do." he pointed his finger in my direction.

"Thatcher, you're a good friend" I slowly approached, still looking for that bottle in his hand. I passed my arm in his shoulder, aware of his angry eyes in me "And I think you just need a couple of beers and a lad. I can arrange that for you".

Thatcher was static.

In Malibu, no one resists an invitation to a party, after all we were in the land of the opportunities. There's not time to lose, especially if the invite came from someone like me — a Hollywood star.

Except Thatcher.

He took his job far too seriously for my taste.

Who doesn't like to give a little break to get high and drink a cup of tequila from the body of a Victoria's Secrets model? Not Thatcher, I can tell you that.

"We've other things too" I raised my shoulders.

"Carver, end this party" He ripped my arm from his body "I'll wait in the living room".

I rolled my eyes and asked someone to turn off the song.

The crowd realized the party was over. The cops woke up and started to do their job, helping people get it out of the mansion. Some people took the last bottles of beer and drinks. Probably they would search for another party to keep the fun up.

The girl by my side with whom I traded some kisses in the bathroom hugged me from behind and slid her hand on my shoulder.

"That means I have to go too?" She said with a sugary voice kinda irritating.

"No, I never said that, Tiffany".

"Maya" she corrected without losing her smile "But it's OK. We have the whole night and morning to teach you my name."

I smiled.