&&.you know how it is; [open]

[ALEX KING.]

She was pissed, plain and simple.

Of course, she was generally in a bad mood. But today it was simply unbearable. She barely even checked to see if the sweater she had just put on was on backwards, that was how mad she was.

Living in a hotel room generally didn't aid things much. But it didn't matter to her. She was a college student, and she didn't feel like renting an apartment. And here, she got room service. And the people who worked there did her laundry for her. It was actually nice, if you stopped to think about it. But Alex never did. She was just too busy.

There was a picture on her desk, one of her first day of her senior year. She called it "Happiness," because that was basically what it represented. If she felt down, she'd stare at it, but it wasn't helping much right now.

So what had sparked this? Whose arrogant fault was it? The doctor. Let her expand. She'd gone in for a check up, and apparently was showing signs of mental instability-- how, she had absolutely no freaking clue-- and so they sent her to the Psych Ward. She'd talked to a few people who talked slower than Ben Stine, answered some question, and stared at a few dots. They told her she was showing signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and that she should take these pills, a few of those pills, and some more of this pill.

She was so full of pills she rattled. Anti-Depressants, mostly, but there were so many it was hard to keep track of. She had it all written down in her purse, but she didn't have them memorized. She would probably end up like Anna Nicole's son and just croak because of all of this shit. And she had some old Weird Al Yancovich song from the nineties stuck in her head, his high pitched Jewish voice playing like a broken record. If that wasn't enough to make her crazy, she didn't know what was.

She headed down to the bar, her sweater black, and not showing much skin. Her friend said she dressed like a Maw Maw, but that wasn't really true. She'd wear slightly revealing things occasionally. If she felt up to it. Right now she felt like shoving liquor down her throat faster than Weird Al could tell her about how he was on a Grapefruit Diet. Yep, still stuck in her head.

She pulled her jeans up absentmindedly. She refused to look anything close to attractive that night, eyeliner barely rimming her light blue eyes. She still got looks, though, which she returned with a scowl.

It was funny, this whole Hilton hotel thing. Paris even stayed there occasionally. Usually with some friends. Male friends. Need she say more? You could hear them throughout the whole freaking hotel. But, stupidity must run in the family, because the hotel still gave her alcohol, even though she told them she was under twenty one. She didn't fight it, at least not tonight. She needed it pulsing through her. She just wanted to stop feeling so, well, pissed.

She wanted to go back to fun again. Back to smiling, laughing, being the star of her life. Having people praise her constantly, reassuring her that she was worth something. Maybe the depression had always been there, but people's compliments stopped it from shining through. It certainly made sense, now that she'd distanced herself from most people.

But, she wanted to be carefree. Spontaneous. A college kid. She wanted to laugh, flirt even. She wanted to trust. She had pepper spray in her bag, ready to immobilize anyone who even tried to ask her for things. She was wary, and she hated it. Twenty going on sixty, that's what it was like. And she hated it.

So, as she sat on her stool, she actually smiled at the guy next to her, and accepted his offer at striking up small talk. She found out he was from Denver, snowed in, and wifeless. He looked kind of desperate, actually. It was sad. She sort of felt like giving the poor man a hug, but that was over the top and rather slutty, since he wasn't getting any without his wife or anything. So she just smiled sympathetically and chugged her margarita. The bartender smiled, and she gave a weak smile back. It would be a long night. But, maybe, just maybe, she could come around.

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[[Harper Billings]]

Harper Billings had probably been in the Hilton all afternoon. She was equally tired as she was stressed. She was sitting at the bar, clad in jeans and a sweater. Her soft blonde hair was in a messy low bun, with strands coming out. Her heels clacked on the metal barstool as she highlighted, read, highlighted, read. Repeating the process, with an occasional laugh from time to time. She looked down at the book through brown, square-rimmed glasses. Glasses that she rarely wore, other than at her apartment or a class in college.

It had been a rather uneventful day for Harper today. Her agent, Seth, called her asking her to meet him here at the Hilton for some business. Excited that maybe she was going to audition for another small-budget film, she hurried down. Sure enough, there were other people than just Seth that wanted to meet her. She greeted them with manners as always and laughed at them when they made jokes, and thanked them when they ordered lunch for everyone. The deal of the matter was that they wanted her in a new movies of theirs. They told her what it was going to be about. A complicated mystery where Harper would be playing one of the leads along side of another up and coming star. Harper loved mystery and she had never done one since she had moved to Los Angeles. The young woman had been confused at first, at why this was her first project where she didn’t need to audition. It turned out that they had seen her in a recent movie with a strenuous love plot. Harper was to say the least, flattered. Seth had said offers like this don’t come often. So after Seth and looked it over she signed with them on the spot. As they all packed up and left, Harper decided she would just stay here and read the script. She wouldn’t be able to concentrate with her brother moping around, composing depressing ballads on his guitar, telling her how much their life sucked. She didn’t feel like being let down at the moment.

So, after she said her good-byes, she found her way to the bar and sat down, flipped open the manuscript and started to read. So, the dialogue was mature humor, that normal mysteries didn’t, and Harper was excited that she got this. This would be nice, bringing in a nice chunk of cash. Her brother and her lived in a two-bedroom apartment. It wasn’t on the glamorous side of Los Angeles, but it wasn’t on the poorer side either. It was nice, before they took a step up to a nicer complex.

“You Harper Billings?”

Harper looked up to see a bartender, an older woman, looking at her with uncertainty in her eyes. “Yes, is someone looking for me?” she asked. “My daughter absolutely loves you. She has seen all your films, and she and her friends just love your style.”

Harper blushed, still not use to the small-fan recognition. She had only been in a few films were she actually was the lead, and that was only in the past year and a half. Her first job in Los Angeles, she wasn’t even a supporting actress. Rather a character with only a few lines, it was like for the first two. Then, it got better. A lot better.

“Actually,” the bartender chuckled, “could I have an autograph. My daughter would just love it.” Harper smiled, ”Of course. What’s her name?” Within a few minutes, Harper sighed a quick note to Sara, the bartender’s daughter. She was flattered to say the least, and people like that kept her motivated with her work.

[ALEX KING.]

She was deep in discussion with a man seated to her left, face serious, and yet bemused at the same time. It wasn't exactly an argument, more of a debate. He told her that people never had an exact personality, that they were always changing. Blissfully young, to old and cranky. That you could try to stay one way, but that it wasn't actually going to happen, that as hard as you tried, it was never going to happen. He sipped his alcohol feverently as he told her this, eyes adamant and face stern. She merely took a sip of water, leaving her margarita untouched. She wanted to stay sober, get the information out of him. She was dying for this, really. The ability to prove a point. It sounded silly, and you could say it was. Being so cold to people, then turning around and rejoicing when they tried to bother with you. It almost proved his point, but that wasn't really relevant.

But she didn't believe him. She told him that no, you were always one way. You were born that way and you died that way. It may seem like you were changing, may seem like some sort of metamorphosis was occurring under your skin, but really, you were always the same. It just took longer for certain characteristics to dominate, took longer for it all to emerge. The bar seemed quiet as they talked, his voice loud and slightly slurred, and that of her own, quiet and reserved. Not only because, well, that was the way she spoke, but because of the memories that flooded into her mind, playing on the large mental screen, over and over. The whole argument made her wonder; made her wonder if her words were true, wonder if his were true. Had she changed because of her mother's death? Or had it always been there, this quiet, coldhearted, self absorbed shell that remained?

It was why she liked writing, liked the ability to just be sarcastic, but not have people hate you for it. To let out your mind, let out your thoughts, without having to face the people who read them. It was daunting, true. It scared her to pieces, the fact that people read what she was thinking, her opinions. But at the same time, it gave her a thrill, something she hadn't felt for the longest time. It made her heart pound, made her head whorl. It was fascinating, and yet terrifying. Just like most things she faced. I mean, what wasn't she afraid of?

There was having others be disappointed in her. She couldn't face the idea that other people could think badly of her. She felt bad enough about herself. And having others do the same made her freak out, so to speak. Which was ironic, really; she could be ridiculously rude to most people. You might wonder why. Because being rude, not putting on some happy face, it was so much easier than pretending for someone else's sake.

And finally, the whole thing was over, as the man next to her slumped over on the table, eyelids closing drowsily, a bead of drool even starting to form on his lip. A man came and frowned, trying to wipe up the alcohol the man had spilt. She turned away from him, facing forward, rubbing her hands off on her thighs absentmindedly. There was something about the dark wash denim that comforted her. It was odd, she knew, but it was true nonetheless, and she was grateful for the calming sense it brought. She folded her hands on the bar, staring contemplatively at a bowl of peanuts. She almost glanced at the clock, almost wanted to go shove herself under the covers that would be washed and folded the next morning-- at precisely ten a.m, in fact. But she didn't.

She heard the voice, and her head turned sharply. She hadn't noticed the other girl hadn't noticed her at all. She had been reading and highlighting, and she considered this for a moment. It almost looked like a script, but at the distance, she couldn't tell. She didn't stare too long, let her head turn and her gaze return to the peanuts. But her ears caught the words, caught the ask for an autograph. Autograph, huh? Well obviously she must be some sort of celebrity. Honestly, Alex had never seen her before, never heard of the name "Harper Billings." Sure, it may seem crazy. But she didn't go to the cinemas much, so how could she have seen her?

As the employee next to her finished wiping up the mess, they moved their arm awkwardly, an empty glass falling to the ground, shattering into what seemed like a million pieces. She whipped her head around, stared at the mess for a few moments. Sighing, the worker ran off to get a dustpan and broom. Carefully, she slid from her stool, bending down and trying to get everything into a neat pile. She wasn't sure why she'd done it, why she'd risked cutting herself up just to get something neat. She supposed it might be her slight obsessive compulsive tendencies. A slight thought creeped up her neck as she stood, the idea that maybe she was trying to make it easier for the woman who had to clean the mess up. But she ignored it as best she could. No, that couldn't be right.

[ ooc. sorry, couldnt get a way for her to speak to harper without bringing her out of character a bit ]

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