Melanie VarrsMature

Melanie Varrs. He smiles to himself as he thinks of her name. He swears blind he knew her twelve years ago in school, when her name was Mel Wills, she wasn't the kind of girl you'd forget. He was the kind of boy you'd forget faster than a goldfish, unless you were a beer-chugging playstation-player enthusiast.

But of course she just laughs his memories off, and in words dripping in french accent, fake or otherwise, she explains again and again how she was raised in Paris, went to one of their finest Universities, moved to England three years ago and just picked up the culture, language, and occasionally, accent. Whatever, he doubts he'll ever know for sure.

They met for the 'first time' eighteen months ago, and he was sure he recognised her then. She was struggling to carry some equipment, he had no idea what it was, but it was bloody heavy. Positive he knew her, he offered to help. She accepted, then had a giggle at a big man struggling with the same thing that had bothered her just moments ago, and he's been her roadie/PA/bouncer, pretty much ever since.

Once he'd met her camera crew, who all took a near instant disliking to him, he tried to persuade himself that this tall, shaven-haired, suit-wearing, beautiful woman who'd snared him was really some evil lesbian harpy queen, so he could quit and go back to his old life. Life, thats a good one. But every time he was near boiling point because of stress due to the team, or due to dealing with one of her many little annoyances that made her seem about eight years old, she'd say or do something that would change his mind and go back to her side, like a dog who's been given a treat and forgiven all. She was definitely the soothing music to his wild beast.

It wasn't all that bad really, he'd learnt to deal with most of the things that bothered her, and knew when to speak his mind and when not to. And as for the crew, her semi-dependance on him had allowed him to rise through the pecking order rather quickly. He couldn't exactly tell them what to do, but they couldn't do anything to him either.

About two months into his employment, the lead cameraman had gone monkey nuts after Henry had bought the first round at a celebration for their first big documentary, it was on an aboriginee tribe. The head cameraman, everyone called him Lens, had ordered a JD and coke, no ice, lemon. Henry had gotten everyones order, twelve drinks in all, paid out of his own pocket, and gotten JD and coke, ice, no lemon.

Lens started screaming, swearing about how Henry could 'do fuck all right!! If at all!'. Henry had offered to get them to change it, but Lens wasn't having any of it, it still wouldn't taste the same, he needed a fresh one, if the 'idiot monkey boy' could understand that.

Henry had already necked three shots of sambuca with a vodka chaser each whilst buying the other drinks, so he was pissing dutch courage, and he wasn't exactly 'level headed', especially when booze was in the mix. So by his standards, his reaction was long overdue considering the months of abuse, veiled and not so, he'd suffered from Lens and the team.

He snatched Lens' unsatisfactory drink from the table, downed it in one, ice and all, then grinned. Lens, predictably, had shot up from his chair, his face red with anger, embarrassment and what looked like constipation. He was up in a second, and down in two. Henry didn't know he had it in him, but apparently he did. He'd thumped Lens so hard his nose was now a crumpled lump, flattened against his face and streaming blood. He fell back onto his seat and in seconds his posh white shirt was sticky with blood. Everyone had gasped and stared at Henry in shock. He'd necked his own drink, then left, immensely proud of himself and horribly ashamed at the same time.

The next day he'd swaggered into work, unwashed, ready to be fired and humiliated, filled with the kind of confidence that can only come from knowing you're going down no matter what you do or say, and you can't change it.

The funny thing was that he'd sat down on the couch outside Melanies office, waiting for the hammer to fall, when the door was flung open and instead of an angry and slightly hungover Mel(who'd still look attractive nonetheless),it was Lens, whose face was bandaged all around the nose, from which a violet patch was spreading, precursor to a bruise. He didn't even acknowledge Henry as he stormed out of the building, and out of his face forever.

Melanie had merely scolded Henry for overreacting, as if he was a two year old who'd just thrown his toys out of the crib. She occasionally talked down to him like that, as if she was more intelligent than him, and most of the time he accepted it, because more often than not it was due to him being an arse at some point. After telling him off, she'd then joked about how he'd bought her a single instead of a double the night before, smiled sweetly, then asked him to get her a coffee. When he'd gotten back with the coffee just the way she liked it, she told him he looked awful and smelt worse, and to go home, shower, and have the rest of the day off nursing the hangover he obviously had.

He'd said 'righto' and left, an absent minded smile on his face.On his way out of the office he could tell from the blank looks on the rest of the crews faces that there was now a silent understanding between them,

He was untouchable. And since then he'd been fiercly loyal to her, even if not to her face. So he'd become her personal helper-assistant-thing. He'd heard the crew calling him her bitch when they thought he was out of earshot, which he couldn't help but smile at. Nothing was further from the truth. Up until now she'd never dressed in leathers, gotten him in a gimp suit and started whipping, or anything like that. Her in leathers though........

Shut up. He shakes his head free of that thought, and tries to concentrate on the real world. He is not a pervert. He hates porn. But everyones mind wanders at some point or another. He's only human, no matter how much he hates that fact sometimes.

All of a sudden he becomes aware of a short girl who's standing in front of him, a slightly uncomfortable look on her face. She has a reporters laminated name tag thingy, but looks so young she can't be older than eighteen or so. Must be work experience.

The End

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