Being a movie star really sucked.  Mark fingered the cigarette in his
pocket and blinked at the flashbulbs popping in his face.  It was his
third cigarette of the day -- all he would allow himself.  Gotta quit
before the shooting of the Vortex sequels.  Master Wong had insisted.
Something about a "bad wind."   Mark had laughed at the time but the Kung
Fu Master had been right.  He'd gotten winded doing the easiest moves
until he quit for the duration of the last shoot.  So, by May, no smokes.

A reporter shoved a mike into his face.  He mumbled praise for the
director and his co-stars.  The guy just smirked at him.  Well, sometimes
being Mark Stanley sucked, too.  He guessed the media was just doing its
thing, but he never saw reporters as anything more than vultures when they
were in a crowd.  One on one was okay, but even then . . .  When he read
the interview later, he found that they got it all wrong. Some of them
took delight in savaging him.

Another burst from a flashbulb dazzled his eyes.  He squinted, waited for
his vision to clear and waved at his "handlers."  The burly guards muscled
in and guided the crowd back, murmuring "Time's up, clear a path."

He let go of the cig and strode behind his guards, noting they were
behaving themselves.  He'd gone through at least a dozen his agency sent
before he found some who would protect his privacy but wouldn't be
obnoxious with the fans.  Eyes clear now, he scanned the crowd bustling
behind the press. He recognized a few regulars, women and men who always
were at a premiere or the gigs he played with his band.  He raised a hand
and flashed a smile at them.  Screeches burst forth and he hustled into
the theater.

He made for the lounge the Fox made available for celebs. He usually
brought his sisters with him to premieres, but they had something going
tonight.  Anyway, it was a minor role in an independent film. No biggie.
And no girlfriend to accompany him to the premiere . . .

His last entanglement had ended when his agent found an "I had an affair
with Mark Stanley" missive in the Globe and was able to trace it back to
her.  Problem was, he'd liked her.  They'd had some good times.  Oh, well.
  Being a star sucked when you wanted to find someone who liked you for
yourself, not for your image. And actresses.  Grasping, most of them.
They just used him.

He sighed when the door to the lounge closed behind him.  It was empty.
Good, he was alone for the fifteen minutes or so before the movie started
and he would have to make an appearance.  The silence triggered a little
trill in his left ear.  Tinnutis, his doctor had said.  It had started
when he was filming Devil's Prey.  He was so wound up, acting with the
legendary Charles Houston, his ears had gone all weird.  Shaking his head,
  he slumped toward the bathroom.  Pulled the door open.  Stopped dead in
the water, mouth hanging open.

A woman, glossy chestnut hair swinging in a loose wave down to her butt,
stood in front of the bank of mirrors.