A/N: Thanks for all the reviews, follows, favorites, and to the people that went and checked out my other story, which you should probably do to if you haven't already because that would make me want to write the next chapter extra loooong. And sorry about not updating that one yet, I'm still putting together little bits and pieces of the chapter that I've written together. Please, please, please, review, it means the world to me, even if its an anonymous review, I really don't care as long as you do it. You know what'd be even better than reviewing? Telling me what you like/want to see. It makes me happy and it makes me want to write longer chapters for this fic, too. Oh, if anyone hasn't, go read The Bengal Tiger. Just do it. Go, go, go! Not to mention, this chapter's kind of long. 4,000 words. There are a few Skins quotes in this chapter, and yes, I used an Arcia quote on Emily, shame on me. Anyway, please read and review. Sorry for any mistakes. Gordon x (Update, a lot of the major mistakes have been eliminated, feel free to read and not cringe now!)

.0.

"Wake up, fucker!" James screams into my ear. I grab my pillow and smother my ears with it. Out of the crack of my eye, I see him grab the curtains and yank them open. He strides over to the sliding glass door leading to the balcony and yanks those doors open too, letting in the scent of grass, and the stupid chirping of birds into my flat. I shut them tight, scowling.

"Wakey, wakey!" He shouts again. He climbs onto my bed and starts to jump up and down. "Cook, if you'd like to keep your manhood, you'd stop doing what you're fucking doing." I growl at him, pillow still tightly resting over my head. "Nonsense, babe. I've got so much dough I could pay for a new one, anyhow." He keeps jumping up and down.

"I swear to fucking God, James. I'm going to give you a sucker punch to the bollocks." I throw the pillow over my head, sitting upright. I rub at my eyeballs aggressively, and sighing harshly. He picks me up by the arms and tosses over his back, carrying me like a sack of potatos. I beat on his back. He jumps down from the bed, and runs downstairs, beating on his chest with one hand like a lowland gorilla. He yells, "Score for Jamiekins, zero points for Shithead Emily!" He throws me down on the leather two piece couch in the living room. I give him a rustic smile.

"Is there a specific reason why my alarm clock didn't wake up, and you did instead?"

"Tony sent me. Though, you'd probably already guessed." He says, flashing my a cheesy grin. I remember how his bottom row tooth had been knocked out of his gums. Turns out his mouthpiece didn't do much for him. Although, Donnie O'Keefe was a tough shot. He takes a spliff out of a cigarette packet and sparks it from out of his from pocket. He tosses it onto the table, not before strolling into the kitchen. I close my eyes again lazily. I've been doing loads of eyeclosing these past few days. I deserve it. I'm knackered. And it's 4.45 AM. I drag a pale palm down my face.

I glance up at Cook who's in the kitchen fixing up his own idea of breakfast. A lager, a shot of whiskey, one lime slice, and a half glass of water. He walks over to the backdoor, punching in the passcode and slinging it open. He heads back over to the kitchen and collects his "breakfast", so to speak, and carries it outside. He sets it on the tables outside. So my flat isn't really a flat, it's a house. A two story one with a big backyard. And a balcony. I've got those little tables outside, you know, those kind that the fancy top shit restaurants have? With the little martini umbrella shade thingies. Yeah, them ones. He sets the drinks down on one of those tables.

He turns back to face me. "Over here, Emilio." He says, patting one of the chairs next to him. I get up and yawn. I stretch my arms above my head. The house is barely lit up with the dark skies that are British weather at five in the morning. I walk over to him, sluggishly, before sliding the door closed. I don't bother to put on any shoes. I sit down wearily while he squeezes the lime over his mouth, onto his tongue. He doesn't even wince. He's had worse stings, James has. He sucks on the lime.

"Better than fucking marmalade on toast, Ems. Want some?" He asks me, showing the fruit at me. I grimace and shake my head. "Suit yourself then." He slurps on it. He downs the lager and then moves onto the whiskey shot. As he throws his head back he stills for a few seconds. Probably enjoying the high of the shot, and the lager pooling into his brain. He sniffs.

I take the time to look over him. His dark brown hair is still how it was yesterday night, just messily combed, or not even combed at all. He's wearing a denim jacket, buttoned open, with a white fitted t-shirt underneath, with caramel brown khaki pants, and black and white Nike shoes. It's not long before he grabs the glass of water and knocks it back like another shot, and slams it back onto the table.

"Good breakfast, innit?" I smirk at him.

"Wannit, you mean, babe? Past tense, yeah?"

"Fuck off." I reachover from across the table and poke him in the cheek.

"Hungry?" He asks. "I could whip you somat up in the kitchen. How about a tomato and pickle sandwich?"

"As tasty as that sounds," I say, rather huskily, "It also sounds shit." I add.

"Right, well, you gonna get in the shower anytime soon? London's two hours away, yeah? You got yourself a six minute shower."

"Shit!" I run upstairs, stripping off all my clothes in record time, dashing into the shower, and turning on the water. I can hear James laughing as he storms up the stairs, waiting in front of the bathroom door, looking at his iPhone's timer. I rush the bodywash over my body, brush my teeth in the shower, and then I hurriedly hop out. I pull the towel over my body, drying myself off so fast that I'm probably bruising myself.

I rub lotion all over my body, opening up the door where James is and telling him to get me some knickers and a bra. He swings open the door and tosses it at me. I slip them on and run over to my bed, which has an outfit my manager probably picked out for me laid out. I pull on the white, silk tank top, the skinny as fuck light wash jeans, the golden cross necklace, black flip flops, and the purple zip-up hoodie. I pull open the door and see James leaning against the door, doing something with his phone. I make sure I've got everything. Mobile? Check. Wallet? Check. All ready to fuck off.

He glances up when I emerge. "Only took nine minutes. Ready? Looking top shit by the way, Ems." I nod at him, jogging down the stairs. "We taking your car or what?" I ask him. He hums a reply. "I've got a meet in old London, anyhow." He says, following me down the stairs. We dash out of the front door. James unlocks his car doors with a "beep" noise. He owns a 2012 Mercedes-Benz E 63 AMG. Nice car for a bloke like him. I slide in on the right side, the passenger seat. He starts up the car and we take off.

"You didn't have nothin' in the house, Em. We'll stop somewhere 'fore we get there, yeah? Pick up some doughnut holes and coffee."

"Right." I say. Sleep's grip has tightened on my body. I recline my seat back, before I drift off.

"Yeah, can I have one of them biscuit things?" James says, leaning in toward the intercom. "And fifteen of those cake pops, a cinnamon roll, a caramel apple cider, a bacon sandwich, and a strawberry smoothie." He shouts, effectively waking me up.

"Your total is £18.47." A boy's voice, no older than seventeen sounds out. Cook drives up to the next window. "You ordered a chocolate chip biscuit, fifteen cake pops, a cinnamon roll, a caramel apple cider, a baco nsandwich, and a strawberry smoothie, correct?" The brown skinned, black haired, lanky boy asks. "Yep." James replies. The boy looks up from the two bags he was examining and glances at James. His eyes go wide. I'm all too familiar with this look. "Holy bollocking shit cakes!" He exclaims. James smirks.

"You're James Cook Jr! And you're Emily Fitch!" He points at the two of us. Jamie smiles at me. "Calm your tits, mate. You'll get an autograph. Or even better," he glances back at me, sporting a toothy smile, "Hand over your mobile, yeah? You'll get a picture, as well."

"Holy shit!" The boy hops up and down. "My name's Anwar! Anwar fucking Kharral! I knew this day would come!" He says, his skinny limbs flying all over the place. James reaches for the bags on the counter and sits them next to me. He opens up one of them and takes out a napkin. He signs, To the best Starbucks employee, before stopping and asking, "How do you spell Anwar, mate?" Anwar spells his first and last name out for him. Look outside, rolling down my window. There's two, three cars waiting for us to hurry up. One bloke sees me poking my head out and honks his horn. I flash him a small middle finger, before giving him a smile as well. James finally finishes scrawling out his little handwriting, he passes the napkin to me. I take the pen that the excited boy had thrown at James previously, and use it to write Emily Fitch was here :). I pass the napkin back to him."Thanks, loads!" He says after he hands over his mobile, some kind of Android, and uses the front camera setting to take a picture of all three of us.

"No problem, mate." James adds, before handing over a twenty pounder, and telling him to keep the change.

We drive off. "How long you been awake?" He asks, looking at me for a split second. "Dunno." I raise my arms over my head. "When are you dropping me off?"

"Erm..." He mumbles, fiddling with the volume of the radio. "Right now." He finally says.

"Siri, babe." He says into his iPhone.

"Yes, James?" She asks.

"Aw, perk up a bit, sugar. You know I like it when you sound chirpy." He smirks at his phone in hand and glances at me. I smirk back.

He finally asks her for directions, and we head to Naomi Campbell's big bad building. Although, I suppose it isn't quite hers... "Fucking hell! The fuck you think you're doin', mate?" James shouts and honks his horn. He gets out of the car and slams the door shut, whipping off his James Bond sunglasses. I wake up again, it's been at least 30 minutes. He comes over to my side and opens up the door for me. He unbuckles my seat belt for me, and lends a hand to help me up out of the leaned back seat. He throws his arm around me and works as a crutch for me. "Still a bit tired, yeah?" I nod. He kisses me on the cheek. I hadn't realized where we were at. A dark car park. One of them garage ones. We take the lift up to the building.

We pace a few aisles and things. "Right there," he points, "One of the fittest to walk the planet."

"What? Nah, mate. Not even fucking close. I'd shoo her away with a fucking stick, yeah? Look at her. I mean, if I'd known you were into grannies, I could've matched you up with one of my cougar groupies."

"Oi!" He protests.

"Here we are, then."

"Right so, that's me," I nod.

Cook removes the glasses off his forehead and slides them back down over his eyes once we've reached our stop on the lift. We stand before a very, very, very large glass door. Actually, the whole fucking twenty million stories are of glass. You can see everyone's little cubicle/office, whatever the fucking bollocks you wanna call it. We stop in front of the huge panel doors. James kisses me on the cheek and kneels down to look at me in the eye. "What, you proposing now?" I ask him, in a very husky I've-just-woken-up-and-I-feel-a-bit-shit-to-be-hon est tone. "Wish I could, girl." He flicks the metallic silver ring on my index finer and matches mine with his, giving them both a subtle bump. He stands up to look at me. Concurrently, we repeat the words we've been saying for a long bloody time. "Clobber the twats, leg over the lasses!" We say together in sync, while bumping our ringed fists. He pulls me into a hug. "I love you." He says. I tell him that I know. Shame, right? Acting as if I won't see him for ages to come.

"Laters, lezza." He shouts, before heading back off into the elevator. I push open the big glass door. I'm met with a peppermint smell of a receptionists office. "Can I help you with something?" The voice asks, filling out various forms with a dark ink pen, sitting behind her desk, typing away with another hand. "Yeah, I'm Emily Fitch. I'm here to see -"

"Right. Three aisles down, take one left, one right, and another left. There'll be an office with Gregory McGuinness' name on it. "

"Okay..." I trail off, heading in what I hope is the right direction. My flip flops make an eerie clapping sound up and down the hallways as I try to find the correct office. The repetitive grey carpeting, white walls, and tree brown doors are doing no help for me. Finally, after five minutes of aimless waling round, I find it. Took bloody ages, but I've made it. "Yes, come on in." A man says, with dark brushed back hair, glasses, and a short height. He is wearing a white button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and navy blue slacks. He readjusts his glasses before taking a seat at a mahogany round table. He motions for me to sit. Quite the hectic place this is. I examine it with my eyes. I'm met with a room quite more fucking larger than I expected. In the room, there are several large windows, but with sun streaming through. There are people bustling about, trying to rush into other rooms occupied inside this room. Is this fucking Inception or what?

"My manager Tony Stonem sent me here. I'm supposed to sign some papers and a contract. I'm here to see Naomi Campbell?" I offer the man while he gives me a confused look.

He pushes his glasses further up his nose. "What movie?" He quizzes me.

"I forgot the name. It's got action though," I lean in a bit closer to him. He gives me a questioningly look.

"Look, Mate, I'm the real deal. You wouldn't have let me in here if I weren't, right? I just want to get this over with. It's way too bloody early for my likin', yeah?"

He gives a thin smile. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Fitch." He shakes my hand. "Come." He leads. I stand up and follow him through a path of different doors inside the office. He knocks on the door and opens it up to another large room, which looks like it might host conferences or meetings. All the members sitting at the table look up at us. Particularly me. I feel so out of place when stared down at by all of these dark-haired business cunts. But one of them isn't the same. That peroxide blonde.

"Emily Fitch. Boxer." He says to everyone in the room. "Here to sign some papers, as well as a contract and then some."

Murmurs like "right" and "yes" go out in the room. I make my way in, flip flops clapping once again as I take a spot. The only empty chair in the room is right by Naomi Campbell and no other. I push out my chair, looking a bit surprised when I found out they roll. Everyone's eyes are still on me as I move about the room, even after the door's been shut.

"If anyone wants to stop fucking staring at me, that'd be topsy-doody, yeah?" I mutter, while leaning back in the chair, and setting my feet up on the table. I glance around at them all. "Like the bloke before me just said, I'm here to sign some papers? Contracts? Whatever it is you want out of me." I offer, looking at everyone again. N one speaks. "Listen, this is a fucking waste of my time. I've got shit to do, yeah? Cuz I'll have Tony come pick me up. Fuck's sakes, its way too bloody early for all this." I begin to stand up out of my chair and exit.

"Emily Fitch. Nice to meet you. My name is David. David Blood. I would stand up to shake your hand but I am brought back to boundaries by this table." He smiles at me. I look him in the eye while he talks. I take my seat back slowly. "I'm sorry for the consistent silences, Emily." He apologizes.

"Yeah." I nod at him. I study the man. He's tall, lanky, rosy cheeked and curly haired. His hair is of a dark brown walnut colour, and his skin a whit porcelain. He's wearing a white collared long sleeve shirt, and black slacks. I can't make out his shoes. The prick is sitting with one leg across the other. A bit like a girl. I suddenly realize all the men sitting at the table aren't not looking at me, they're silently doing their own tasks with their stupid arsewipe calculators and pens and important papers. Naomi had got up and left the room long ago, looking bored. It was just Blood and I.

"Connoway," he shouts in a calm manner, like he's used to doing. "Yes?" A dark, choppy haired young man's head shoots up. He slides his calculator and paper's away from his hands and neatly folds them to his chest. "Would you please fetch the folder F from floor 12B?"

"Right so." The man stands up. His black and white suit reminds me of a penguin as he briskly runs for the folder. He's back in about three minutes, but while he's gone, Blood and I talk. "So," he starts, "Mister Connoway is going to go grab some papers for you to sign. He'll be back in a jiffy. I should explain a lot to you. This," he starts, as he gets up out of his chair and trails around the extremely large room, "is Clayworth Incorporation. We are one of the most important movie organizations in the world." He cracks his knuckles. "We know you're here for the movie you shall be starring is with Miss Campbell. And we are delighted to have you on campus." He smiles tightly. I raise an eyebrow at him.

Clayworth comes back into the room looking pink-faced and sets the folder onto the long table, in where Blood was sitting. "Thank you, Berry." Blood says to him, while still looking at me. "Oh, it's Clayworth." The man corrects. "Don't. Backtalk me."

"Right." Clayworth nods, a fearful expression grazing his face.

"As I was saying," Blood continues, "In this folder," he picks it up, and skims over the contents inside, "Is your contract, some forms you'll have to fill out, and a few other legal things you'll want to read."

"Yeah, that's great. Can I go now?"

"Of course." He smiles at me again. "I'll just pass you over these papers, and I'll let you be on your way?" He slides the folder across the table toward me, and with a pen.

"Hasn't Tony gotta be present for, erm, this?" I lean back a bit more in the gray, leather chair.

"It was my understanding that you'd be signing them with or without Mister Stonem."

"Cuntish prick you are." I mutter to myself as I sloppy sign all two million papers.

.0.

It's a little bit in the afternoon. I'm sprawled out on the couch, no longer freezing my tits off, because the heaters on full blast. My mobile starts to ring by my bedside. I turn down the seventy inch TV. Of course they exist. I can't watch footy without a screen as nearly as big can I?

"Alright?" I answer.

"You signed all the contracts. Great. I'm arranging something between you and Naomi. A chance for you two to finally talk."

"Have I ever told you how cool it is that you just spring shit out on me?"

"Sarcasm won't get you anywhere."

"Punching the shit out of people will. How about setting up another match? I'm hardheaded. Literally." I ask him, referring to my knockout.

"Yeah," he stretches out the word, "no. That can't happen. Not yet, at least. Just do this movie. We've been over this."

"Can't be anything today," I switch to another subject, "Jamie's over at mine."

There's a crackle over on his line. "Like I said, I'm arranging something. When it's settled, I'll give you a ring." He hangs up.

"Bananas!" James screams from upstairs in the guest room.

"What's going on up there, James?" I shout, breaking out in a grin.

"Red! Come here! Fucking now!" He screams back.

I throw the cover back from the couch and bound up the stairs, swinging open the door to his room. "What is it?" I ask him, flopping down on the bed. He's leaning back against the headboard, looking up at the telly screen with pure triumph. "Barry!" He shouts jumping up and down on the bed. Its a match between him and Davie Nicholls. "Look at it!" He says, sitting when he jumps back down. He slings an arm around my neck. "I'm lookin' at it," I push him. "What is it?" I say, turning back to look at the screen. "Did you not just see that?" He grabs the remote and rewinds it.

"Full fucking knockout, there." He says pointing to himself slugging Davie.

"Woah, you fucked him up one." I say, hugging James closer.

"Good and proper, babe."

"So, give me the lowdown on what happened earlier?" James says, lowering the volume on the television.

"I met this bloke named David Blood, he was a fucking weirdo to be honest. And the building had these long arse aisles; receptionist told me where to go and after getting lost I finally found my way-"

"Long story short, princess?" James asks, lighting up his fag.

"Fuck you," I laugh, "it was just fucking odd. I sat next to Naomi in this conference room. Didn't say anything to me, just left after a few moments. And everyone was weirdin' me. They were staring for at least twenty seconds."

"Mmm. Weirdal." He nods, cigarette in mouth.

My phone beeps, a familiar noise that only happens when I get a text. "Check your mobile, darlin'." He nudges me with his right shoulder, leaning back on his hands.

"Don't you have things to do? You, you can still box, you should be busy. I haven't got shit to do till tomorrow." I poke him in his chest and reaching for my mobile, sticking out in my shorts.

"'Course I'm busy. Actually, I need to jet right now." He says, looking at his mobile.

"Okay. What are you doing?" I ask him, glancing at his face. He climbs off the bed while swiping and tapping at the screen of his phone.

"Photoshoot apparently." He slides on his denim jacket. He grabs the stair railing and climbs down them fast. I walk him down to his car. "And a phone change. I guess I'm switchin' from a Blackberry to a Samsung Galaxy SIII. What the fuck is that?" He asks me when we reach the door.

"A phone, arsehole. Didn't you have an iPhone early this morning? What happened to it?" I ask him.

"That's what the meeting in London was about. Second phone this week."

"That's shit. They made you drive all they way to London for a new phone?"

"Yep," he says, rummaging around in his pockets for his car keys.

"Cool. Now get to fuck, mate." I open up the door.

"Love ya, babe." He grabs me by the ears and pulls me in for a hug, I spear him in the stomach with my head and push him away. "Ah, you love me." He teases.

I watch him get into his car before I shut the door. My mobile goes off. I go back up the stairs to grab it. "Yeah?" I answer, narrowly missing the call.

"Don't fucking yeah me, yeah?" Tony says angrily. "What took you so long to answer?"

"Get off my tits. What is it that you want?"

"I've just arranged for you and Naomi to go out for tea." I rub my forehead and sigh and then ask him when this will be.

"Tomorrow, 10 AM, Emily. Sharp."

"Fine." I hang up.