My Personal Popstar

Noah was late. Once again. He'd gotten so involved in working on his new painting that he lost track of time, only to look at his watch and see that he needed to be at work ten minutes ago. He threw down his brushes and hurried out, not even stopping to clean paint from his hands.

Before he reached the club, he slung his items on the counter and rapidly shed his casual gear for his more formal outfit.

As soon as he looked up, the manager was already approaching him, with a wide grin on his face. Noah knew that look too well-it translated to one thing: dealing with VIPs. A task he despised with every fiber in his body.

He took a deep breath and leaned against the counter, readying himself.

"You know what you have to do tonight, don't you?" the manager's smile grew.

"You know I detest this," Noah growled, barely hiding his irritation.

"Do you think I care? You're getting paid, and I want my customers content. You win or lose." The manager's tone held an unmistakable threat.

A knot had built in the back of Noah's throat, but he compelled himself to nod. "Just give me the orders so I can start."

"Two mojitos, one cocktail, six whiskeys, and four Bacardis," the manager stated with a wave of his hand, as if giving a decree from the throne.

Noah balled his fists on the counter. This was his existence-serving cocktails to billionaires he loathed, just to make enough money to get through college.

The moment the manager turned away, Noah let out a sharp breath and tried to concentrate. Before long, the drinks were neatly placed on a tray, ready to be served.

"Noah!" The manager's voice sliced through the din as he came running over, gasping for air.

"Are the drinks ready?"

"Yes, almost. And perhaps catch your breath before you collapse," Noah grumbled, annoyance simmering just below his forced grin.

With the tray held tight, he approached the VIP area. His hold was firm, his pace careful. But just as he arrived at his destination, he bumped-hard-into someone.

A sudden gasp escaped him as green mojito splashed onto a pristine white jacket. A $1-million pristine white jacket.

Silence descended on that part of the club.

Noah swallowed hard, his eyes up. He was gazing into the face of a tall, beautifully handsome man. Gelled bangs, heart-shaped lips, a shiny stainless-steel chain around his neck, and a small mole just above his lips-everything about him cried perfection. But his deep brown eyes, now fastened on Noah, blazed with outrage.

"Do you even have eyes?" the man snarled, his voice artificially steady but full of annoyance. "Didn't you see me approaching?"

"I'm truly sorry for what I did, sir," Noah bowed, despising every moment of it.

The man laughed. "Do you think your pitiful little sorry will remove these stains? You were given one job, bro!"

That was instant upon! Noah had had enough.

"Sir, I know you're angry, but things happen." He kept his tone calm, attempting to diffuse the situation.

The man's eyebrows rose. "Oh, fantastic. Another nobody who thinks he's superior to me." He crept forward, his tone lowering. "You sasaengs get into all the places. We idols can never be safe."

Noah's jaw clenched. "Excuse me?"