The Guilty - Jason Pinter [1]
people all over the world. They shouted at her. Nothing she
hadn't heard before. Yet as she stepped onto the red carpet,
rolled out just for her, listening to the throng of fans chanting
her name, Athena Paradis couldn't help but feel that the world
had given itself to her.
She waved to the dazed crowd, stopped to sign a few autographs and blow air kisses through ruby lips, laughed at the
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Jason Pinter
mismatched chunky schlubs who would be fantasizing about
her that night as they lay alone in the dark.
One-thirty in the morning, but the flashes and strobe lights
made it seem like broad daylight. It was just late enough for
the party to be in full swing, just late enough to make sure
she'd be the last memory in a night her fans would never
forget.
Despite her seeming nonchalance, Athena spent many
nights in breathless anticipation of these delicious moments
when all eyes would be on her. Hearing digital cameras
beeping, fingers tapping on cell phones as flabbergasted fans
sent grainy images to their friends. Young men trying to give
her the same lame sultry looks she'd seen and laughed at a
million times. Yet she would always smile just enough to
make them think they had a chance.
This was Athena's world, her oyster, and it was delicious.
Everyone else watched from outside the snow globe, hoping
that one special night they too might be touched by her magic.
In three days, Athena Paradis would release her very first
album, The Goddess Athena. Her promotional tour was in full
swing, and tonight at the Kitten Club was a prime stop. She
was scheduled to guest DJ, spin and sing tracks that had never
been heard outside the recording studio (created with the gentle
touch of some very talented--and patient--sound producers,
vocal coaches and technicians). Athena's autobiography, HOW
YOU CAN BE LIKE ME, was ghostwritten by a pleasant sixtyyear-old Jew named Herman Goldstein. It spent eight weeks
on the New York Gazette bestseller list. Her signings all required extra security. Herman wasn't allowed to attend.
Three bouncers the size of minivans controlled the crowd.
The mayor's office had sent several off-duty cops just in case.
Athena's manager and publicist had called Mayor Perez's
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office nonstop requesting massive police protection for their
twenty-two-year-old gold mine, but the second-termer refused. Not that he didn't want to help. The mayor was well
known for his reliance on sizzle over steak, providing a good
show to distract people from their everyday woes. He'd
written three self-help books and was constantly photographed alongside celebrities, including Athena Paradis. But
the police union was busy negotiating a new contract, and
they were squeezing him hard. Adding additional unnecessary force tonight would only cost overtime the city couldn't
afford.
Every nightclub Athena graced with her presence would
fatten her bank account by fifty thousand dollars. The
hotter--or more desperate--the club, the more they paid.
Most promoters, like the Kitten Club's Shawn Kensbrook,
tripped over themselves to pay Athena ungodly sums of
money for a simple appearance. She would show up, pose for
the camera, down a few kamikaze shots, dance on the bar, and
within a week the patronage tripled. Best advertising in the
world, and a hell of a lot more entertaining than an ad in a
movie theater or those worthless postcards.
Tonight, though, wasn't about appearance fees. If she
seduced the crowd, it would be worth its weight in platinum
for her album.
Athena sauntered past the throng of gawking men and
starry-eyed women, slipping into the pulsating darkness. Her
entourage was immediately met by Shawn Kensbrook, club
promoter extraordinaire and co-owner of the Kitten Club.
Just three years ago, what was now the Kitten Club had been
an abandoned warehouse in Manhattan's meatpacking
district. It was destined to be torn down by developers or
vermin, whichever got there