Helicopter On Speed Dial

The door closed with a soft click, momentarily softening the buzz of conversations outside. Cage was alone at last, but it wouldn't last for long.

He scrubbed his face wearily, his hands stroking the stubble on his chin that he hadn't bothered to shave off that morning. He wanted another shower. A strong drink, and something filling to eat. He wanted to be far away from the reporters who demanded his attention. He needed someone to tell him that his time was precious and that he wouldn't have to slave away in front of others to make them write about him.

Good press, his manager had called it, but it was his personal hell.

A knock on the door sounded, and the assistant appeared, clipboard in hand and an expectant face.

"Ready for the next one?" he asked with a small smile that irritated Cage.

"Give me a couple of minutes," he groaned, stretching his muscles and reaching for the glass to drink some water. He was parched from all the talking.

"Okay. We'll wait for five minutes," the assistant said before closing the door behind him.

Cage pulled out his cellphone and opened up the app, hoping to find relief from all the attention-seeking reporters.

As always Rinten didn't disappoint.

[Rinten: You have helicopters on speed dial? And a trainer? Boy, Mr. Hairless bazillionaire. Adopt me already. I would love to be your young lady. Let me guess, you are from the City H, riding your helicopter into the sunset.]

He chuckled. There was one person in the universe who would tell him he was ugly but still ask to be adopted by him. 'Rinten, sweet Rinten. What should I do with you?'

Refreshed by her comment, he pushed his cell phone back into his pocket and called for the assistant.

"I'm ready," he said in a jolly voice that surprised the assistant. He turned his head to mumble something and then made way for a woman to come inside.

Great.

"This is 'Cougardom Magazine'." The assistant had a tight-lipped smile in response and said nothing forward. Cage held back his sigh and wondered how he would go through thirty minutes of talking to a reporter who wrote for older women lusting after him. What possible questions could this reporter have for him?

'I can't wait to find out,' he thought sarcastically.

He stood up, wiping his palms on his denim-clad thighs before extending a hand in greeting. The journalist stepped forward, eager for contact. Was it just his imagination or was this woman overly friendly? He was used to crooked smiles and less-than-subtle glances, but he couldn't help but feel a shiver run down his spine at this woman's merry smile.

"Cage, it's lovely to meet you."

"Likewise. Please," he gestured. "Take a seat," he said politely.

Pleasantries were exchanged, much like all his other encounters today. Inside, he yearned for a strong drink. He could do with firm handshakes and having a laid back conversation, but he really didn't like being on guard, waiting for the other to spout some question that was meant to catch him off guard, and people from magazines with the name as this one usually asked questions that could make him choke on his breath or his food, or his thoughts. It could make him choke, period.

The woman was high-heeled, pouty-lipped and coming onto him with sly innuendoes, or so she thought. He saw her 'absent-mindedly' suck on the end of the pen and wanted to throw something or the other at her, displeased by where this was going.

The woman had smart attire, legs crossed to make her legs look stunning, and her hair twisted in a sleek knot. She was wearing glasses, but one could see that she was an attractive individual on the prowl for some action.

"You're a very handsome individual," the woman praised, not leaving space for him to evade. "You have been named Sexiest Man in the world twice in a row. What do you think about this?"

How many variations of this same question had he heard today? This week? He could almost hear his brain click as it went into autopilot mode. He had been promoting his latest movie for almost a month now and it was going to premiere in a few days. He could barely think of anything new to respond with. He had heard every question in the book.

"I'm surprised that anyone finds me attractive. I think beauty is in the eyes of the beholder and as corny as that sounds, I think a lot of people just find me attractive. My parents would have you know that I was an ugly child," he said with a nervous laugh. He didn't want to come off as conceited, but he truly didn't understand what others saw in him. He was grateful that they thought him so handsome as to put him on a list, but he personally couldn't see it.

The interview went on, with the reporter droning about what to expect from the movie. How long had the assistant said the interview would go on for? 30 minutes? At this point, everything was starting to blur and look like one big clusterfuck. He knew for a fact that it would be a few seconds before she asked an extremely personal question. And he would have to swallow it.

"Readers of our magazine want to know more about you," she began and he instantly knew what was coming. "So what do you wear, boxers or briefs?" He paused, looking at her face with slight shock. This was indeed new; he hadn't heard this one before.

"I go between both, but shooting demands a lot of my choices are made to make myself presentable," he said in an offhanded way, meant to not show the slight embarrassment he felt.

"I see," the woman smiled.