So, what's the problem?

"Well... it's kind of a non-problem, isn't it?" Sarah asked. "I mean, let's say the photographer had clear pictures of me jerking Damien off with his spooge all over my hands. That's pretty much a worst-case scenario. How's he going to prove that I didn't wash my hands afterward?"

"That's not the point, Sarah. The point is the scandal."

"What scandal?" Sarah asked, feeling her temper rising - this was not what she needed right after an exhausting show. "I was in a bathroom, with my boyfriend at the time, and we were doing one of the things that boyfriends and girlfriends do. Then I washed my hands, cleaned myself up, and went out to meet my fans. Sure, it was a public bathroom and that's not exactly kosher, but what's worse - having sex in a bathroom stall with the door shut, or sneaking in and taking pictures of it? If this photographer tries to sell the pictures, call him a goddamn peeping tom and use the photos as evidence against him. Why the fuck are you even bothering me with this?"

"All right, all right, there's no need to get upset," Willis said, wiping the sweat from his shiny bald brow.

"And if it turns out Damien had anything to do with this, I can make him out to look like a jealous, controlling bastard who emotionally blackmailed me throughout our whole relationship. That's not even all that far from the truth. Why do I have to tell you this stuff, anyway? You're my manager, go manage this!"

Willis tried to reply, but Sarah just turned her back on him and flopped back down on the sofa in disgust. She heard him shuffle his papers into his briefcase, snap it shut, and then head out the door. Now she was alone... and even though half a minute ago she would have appreciated that more than anything, now it just felt like the whole stadium was weighing down on her, threatening to crush the little room she was in.

"Whoa, where did that come from?" she asked herself aloud. She'd never popped of to Willis like that before. It was as if some Diva-demon had entered her head and made her start acting like one of those spoiled, bitchy pop-tarts that she swore she'd never become. And the worst part was, it had really felt good! Besides, he'd kind of deserved it... what was he thinking, laying something like that on her, and right after a big show besides? The idiot had it coming.

Sarah shoved up off the couch and grabbed a bottle of wine out of the fridge. Wallis and Amity were gone, she could have a drink if she wanted one. She mangled the cork with the screw, just adding to her own frustration, but finally managed to get the thing out (well, half of it, anyway - the other half fell in), and just took a good swig straight from the bottle. That felt pretty good, too.

She turned on the stereo. Her own music came blasting out, and she shut it off. Sarah couldn't stand listening to herself sing; all she could hear were the flaws which everyone insisted weren't there, and they were probably right since the record company wouldn't deliberately release bad recordings, but she could still hear every little whistle on the "S" sounds and every time she didn't quite hold a note long enough. She did better when she could relax and not think about it; listening to her own music on the radio made her think about it too much.

She bolted down another chug of wine and dropped back onto the sofa. I could actually really use a good slam-fuck right now, she thought to herself. Sure, Damien was a bastard and a jerk, but damn it felt good when he pinned me up against a wall and penetrated me after a show... even though in retrospect, he probably didn't give two shits about how it felt for me. Hm, maybe I should just invite Silas in here... no, come on Sarah, we've been over that, a good bodyguard is hard to find and he's one of the best. Don't fuck that up.

But I'm so goddamn horny! And the irony is, there's like ten thousand fans shuffling out of this place who would probably love to help me out with that!

Sarah stared at the ceiling for a bit, then blinked and sat up slightly. "Why not?" she said aloud.

Well, actually, there were probably a lot of good reasons why not, but Sarah didn't particularly feel like enumerating them at the moment.

I'm not into ****, she thought to herself. I don't trash hotel rooms, I don't say clueless rich-and-entitled crap in interviews and I don't get married and divorced on the same weekend in Vegas. I don't get political, I'm not into Scientology and I don't bite the heads off of bats onstage. Why can't I just have a random fuck, once in a long while? Is that too much to ask?

"Hey, Silas!" she called to the door.

Silas opened it and poked a shoulder inside. "Yes, ma'am?" he said quietly.

"I'm feeling kind of lonely," Sara said in a sweet voice. "I could use a little company, you know what I mean? So, do you think you could head upstairs and invite a fan down here, someone around my own age, for a little meet-and-greet? Maybe someone from the nosebleed section, who never would have seen it coming?"

"Of course, ma'am."

"And not to be too shallow, but... someone, you know, pretty."

"Yes, ma'am." Silas turned the inside lock before closing the door, since he would be leaving her alone for bit. She heard him turn the sign on the door around, so it just said "dressing room" instead of bearing her name. The whole floor was off-limits to anyone who didn't have a stadium security badge, but better safe than sorry.