Christine pulled out a pre-crafted human skin mask, its eerie realism sending a shiver down Jason’s spine as she carefully fitted it over his head. She stood over him, her nimble fingers tweaking the mask’s edges with surgical precision, sculpting it to blend seamlessly with his features. The height difference—her towering over him as he sat—created a dizzying mix of visual and sensory overload. Her perfume, a heady mix of jasmine and danger, invaded his senses, and he felt his pulse quicken. ’Focus, dumbass,’ he thought, scrambling for a distraction before his mind wandered to places it shouldn’t.
"So, what’s your beef with Avril?" He blurted, his voice a touch too loud. "Why’s it gotta be her we snatch?"
Christine didn’t pause, her hands still working on the mask as she answered with a casual shrug. "It’s not some grand vendetta, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just a little Hollywood drama."
She leaned in closer, her breath brushing his ear as she spoke. "A few months back, at a wrap party for a film, I had a few too many drinks with this hot young actor. The kid must’ve been plastered, because he got it in his head that we were soulmates or some shit. Posted on his blog that night, announcing he was gonna ’pursue’ me. Publicly. Like an idiot."
Jason smirked, already piecing together the puzzle. "Let me guess—Avril’s got a thing for this pretty boy, and she didn’t take kindly to him chasing you. So she’s got you in her crosshairs. Still, kidnapping? That’s a hell of a leap for a petty grudge."
Christine shot him an exasperated look, her fingers pausing on his cheek. "You’re missing the point, genius. Avril didn’t just bitch about me in private. She reworked one of her songs into a fucking rap diss track, trashing me in the lyrics. Now she’s taking it on a world tour, blasting my name to millions. If she was just talking shit behind closed doors, I’d let it slide—I’m not that petty. But this? She’s made it public, and if I don’t clap back, everyone in the industry will think I’m scared of her."
Harley, who’d been quietly fuming in the corner, piped up, her voice thick with disbelief. "Wait, hold up—Avril’s into this guy? For real? Isn’t she married?" The self-proclaimed queen of superfans looked like someone had just kicked her puppy.
Christine chuckled, turning to Harley with a patient, almost condescending tone. "Sweetie, marriages in this business are flimsier than tissue paper. Avril’s been hitched less than a year, and she and her husband are already living apart. Divorce is just a matter of time. She’s keeping it quiet for her career’s sake, but everyone in the industry knows the score."
Harley’s face crumpled, her idol’s pedestal cracking beneath her. "No way... that’s so fucked up," She muttered, her voice heavy with disappointment.
Jason’s mind was still turning, a nagging doubt lingering. "Alright, but here’s the thing—if Avril gets kidnapped, you’re the first person the cops will look at. Your little feud’s practically a public record."
Christine smirked, unfazed. "You think I’m that sloppy? Tonight, I’ll be at a high-profile gala in Beverly Hills, mingling with the elite until the wee hours. Ironclad alibi, baby. No one’s pinning shit on me."
Jason wasn’t done poking holes. "Sure, but what’s stopping them from thinking you hired someone? Your beef with Avril’s the worst-kept secret in Hollywood."
Her eyes glinted with amusement, her smile sharp as a blade. "For the cops to pin it on me, they’d need to catch you first—and you’d have to rat me out. You really think I’d bet on you two getting sloppy?"
Jason grinned, catching her drift. "So that’s why you’re outsourcing the dirty work. You’re banking on me being too good to get caught."
Christine tilted her head, her voice dripping with mock sweetness. "You’re a bastard, Jason, but you’re a competent bastard. I trust you to get the job done."
"Gee, thanks for the glowing review," He shot back, his tone dry.
---
Thirty minutes later, Christine’s work was done. Jason’s mask transformed him into a nondescript, middle-aged guy with a scruffy beard and tired eyes—the kind of face you’d forget five seconds after seeing. Harley, meanwhile, was a menopausal soccer mom, complete with faint age spots and a frumpy demeanor that screamed "PTA meeting." She grabbed a mirror, inspecting her new look with a scowl. "Why the fuck am I a grandma? You did this on purpose, didn’t you?"
Christine stifled a laugh, her hand covering her mouth. "Don’t be paranoid. This face is everywhere—cameras catch you, and the cops will have nothing to go on. It’s for your own safety."
Harley flipped her the bird. "Yeah, right. I call bullshit."
With the disguises complete, Christine’s job was done. She slipped on her own mask, transforming back into the burly "Vodka" in seconds, then called one of her lackeys to pick her up. Before leaving, she handed Jason two tickets and sent an address to his phone.
"Avril’s a party animal," She said. "There’s a new nightclub opening in the South District tonight, and word is she’ll be there, sneaking in for some fun. Here’s the address and tickets."
Jason took the tickets, flashing an OK sign. Christine blew him a playful kiss, hopped into her ride, and vanished into the LA dusk.
"Fucking vixen," Harley muttered, her voice dripping with venom.
---
As night fell, Jason and Harley checked their gear in the SUV, the weight of the mission settling over them. Jason fired up the engine, and they rolled toward the nightclub, the city’s neon glow painting the streets in electric hues.
An hour later, they pulled up to the club, its entrance pulsing with energy. A towering Black bouncer eyed them as they approached, his brow furrowing at the sight of a middle-aged couple in a sea of twentysomethings. ’What, grandparents hitting the rave now?’ his expression seemed to say.
Jason handed over the tickets without a word. The bouncer stamped their wrists and waved them through, his confusion lingering.
The club wasn’t at peak chaos yet, but it was already packed, thanks to heavy promotion. Strobe lights sliced through the darkness, EDM beats thumped like a heartbeat, and the DJ’s screams fueled a writhing mass of bodies in the dance floor below. Men and women moved like possessed demons, their silhouettes twisting under the kaleidoscope of colors, every pulse of the music jangling their nerves.
A waiter in a sharp black suit sidled up to them, leaning close to Jason to be heard over the noise. "Sir, do you have a reservation?"
Jason shook his head, slipping a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills—twenty or so, no need to count—into the waiter’s hand with a casual flick. The man’s eyes widened as he tested the weight, then shoved the cash into his pocket with a grin. "Right this way, sir. We’ve got VIP booths and private rooms, the best in the house. Your pick."
Jason leaned in, his voice low. "Heard Avril Lavigne’s here tonight. Any idea where her room is?"
The waiter hesitated, his smile faltering. "That’s... just a rumor, sir."
Jason didn’t blink, pulling out another stack of bills and pressing it into the man’s hand. "No worries. My wife and I are huge fans. Just want a quick meet-and-greet, maybe a signed photo. That’s not too much to ask, right?"
The cash worked its magic. The waiter’s face lit up, and he nodded eagerly. "Not at all! Miss Lavigne’s in a second-floor VIP room. I’ll set you up in the one next door."
He led them upstairs to a plush, velvet-lined room with a view of the dance floor below. "Make yourselves comfortable," He said. "Miss Lavigne’s still downstairs partying. When she heads back to her room, I’ll introduce you."
"Perfect," Jason said, slapping another stack of bills on the table. "Make it happen, and there’s more where that came from."
The waiter’s grin was so wide it could’ve split his face. "Thank you, sir! What’s your drink?"
"Scotch, ten years or older," Jason replied.
"Coming right up!" The waiter practically skipped out, his mind racing. ’Jackpot. This tip’s worth a month’s pay.’
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