Moments later, the waiter returned with a bottle of fifteen-year-old Scotch, pouring it into crystal glasses with a flourish. "Sir, Miss Lavigne's about to perform," He said, gesturing to the floor-to-ceiling glass window of the VIP booth. "This spot's got the best view in the house—better than any concert."
Jason nodded, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Nice. When she's done, make the introduction happen."
The waiter bowed slightly, his eyes gleaming with the promise of more cash, and slipped out of the booth.
Jason and Harley settled onto the plush sofa by the window, their gazes fixed on the stage below. The pounding EDM track faded, and the DJ went silent, the club plunging into an expectant hush. The crowd, momentarily thrown off, started to grumble, their buzz interrupted.
Then a figure in a sleek black trench coat strode onto the stage. The DJ's voice roared through the speakers, electrifying the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for tonight's special guest… Avril Lavigne!"
The coat dropped, revealing Avril in a tight leather skirt and fishnet stockings, her smoky eyeliner amplifying her rockstar edge. She was a global icon, a pop-punk goddess with a fanbase that spanned continents, and her presence set the club ablaze. The crowd froze for a split second, then erupted into a deafening roar, screams and cheers shaking the walls.
"Wooo! Avril!" Harley was on her feet, clapping like a maniac, shouting her idol's name with unbridled glee.
Jason shot her a sidelong glance, his voice dry. "Chill, you fake-ass fan."
Harley ignored him, lost in her fangirl frenzy, bouncing to the rhythm of the crowd's energy.
The opening chords of Avril's breakout hit, Girlfriend, blasted through the speakers, and the club lost its collective mind.
"Hey, hey, you, you, I don't like your girlfriend…"
The lyrics were as bold and bratty as ever, Avril's voice cutting through the air like a switchblade. She strutted across the stage, her energy infectious, owning every note.
"No way, no way, I think you need a new one…"
Jason sipped his Scotch, his head bobbing to the beat despite himself. The song's cheeky vibe hit a little too close to home, like it was narrating the drama between Harley, Christine, and Avril. He glanced at Harley, who was singing along at the top of her lungs, her body swaying with the music. 'Damn, this song's basically their love triangle in stereo,' he thought, a wry grin tugging at his lips.
Avril's performance was a masterclass in rebellion. While other pop stars pranced around in miniskirts, she'd burst onto the scene years ago with a guitar slung over her shoulder, a tie loose around her neck, and baggy skater pants, screaming pop-punk anthems that flipped the script on the industry. Her voice—raw, powerful, defiant—had hooked millions, and tonight was no exception.
"Hey, hey, you, you, I want to be your girlfriend…"
Harley was in her element, dancing and belting out the lyrics, her earlier jealousy forgotten. Jason couldn't help but get swept up in the vibe, his foot tapping to the rhythm. But a darker thought crept in—Avril's fate was sealed the moment Harley, her most obsessive fan, signed off on this plan. 'Poor girl doesn't know what's coming,' he mused, shaking his head.
The song ended, and Avril took a bow before slipping offstage, the crowd's pleas for an encore echoing in vain. Ten burly Black bodyguards formed a human wall, blocking overzealous fans as she made her way to the second floor.
The waiter reappeared, his face lit with excitement. "Sir, Miss Lavigne's back in her booth. I'll go talk to her now."
"Do it," Jason said, gesturing to the stack of cash on the table—ten grand, give or take. "Make this happen, and it's yours."
The waiter practically saluted, scurrying off to the neighboring booth.
Five minutes later, he burst back in, beaming. "Sir, she's agreed to meet you!"
"No shit?" Jason said, raising an eyebrow.
"Come on, let's go!" The waiter urged.
Jason and Harley stepped into the hallway, where a line of stone-faced bodyguards waited. "Sorry, folks," One said, his voice like gravel. "Gotta pat you down before you see Miss Lavigne."
Jason raised his hands without protest, and Harley followed suit. The guard's hands moved quickly, checking pockets and pant legs for weapons. All they found were phones and wallets—nothing suspicious. "You're clear," He said, pushing open the door.
The moment they stepped into Avril's booth, a familiar scent hit Jason's nose—weed, thick and skunky, hanging in the air like a fog. 'Well, damn,' he thought, smirking inwardly. 'Big star, dirty habits.'
"Yo, so stoked to meet you guys!" Avril chirped, her face flushed, her eyes glassy with a high that wasn't just from the crowd's energy. She was practically vibrating, her grin wide and unguarded.
"Idol!" Harley squealed, shoving past Jason to throw her arms around Avril. The two women hugged like long-lost sisters, their manic energy feeding off each other. They chattered nonstop, swapping compliments and giggling over nothing, as if they'd been besties for years.
Jason stood back, his face softening into a paternal smile. 'Let her have her moment,' he thought. While they clinked glasses and downed shots, he slipped into a blind spot out of the bodyguards' view. With a flick of his wrist, he palmed a tiny listening device, tucking it into a seam in the sofa with the precision of a seasoned pro.
Ten minutes later, Harley had her signed photo, her face glowing with satisfaction. They said their goodbyes and returned to their booth. Jason handed the waiter the promised stack of cash, then slipped on his earpiece, tuning into the bug he'd planted.
With no outsiders around, Avril's mask dropped. "That bitch Christine!" She spat, her voice venomous. "I'm gonna ruin her!"
Jason's heart skipped a beat. 'What the hell's she planning?'
Her voice grew sharper, laced with paranoia. "The guy you hired for tonight—he's solid, right? If this leaks, we're both fucked. Life in prison fucked."
One of her bodyguards responded, his tone calm but cold. "He's got terminal cancer. Dead man walking either way. Plus, we've got his wife and kid. He's not stupid—he'll do the job."
"And the cops?" Avril pressed. "How do we play that?"
"Christine's getting hit in Beverly Hills tonight," the guard said. "You're here, partying in front of hundreds of witnesses, including the old couple next door. Ironclad alibi. Cops won't look twice."
Avril snorted, unconvinced. "Don't underestimate the police. My beef with Christine's no secret. They'll suspect I hired someone—especially since I did."
The guard's voice was steady, almost smug. "The guy's already got slow-acting poison in his system. Whether he pulls it off or not, he's dead by morning. Dead men don't talk."
"So this is foolproof?" Avril asked, her voice rising with excitement.
"Relax and enjoy your night," The guard said. "By morning, check the news. It'll be done."
Avril laughed, a cruel edge to it. "Perfect. After tonight, Christine's gonna be a fucking freak show. No man'll touch her, and I'll make sure she's got nothing left to fight me with."
Jason's blood ran cold, his face turning ashen with rage. 'A freak show?' His mind flashed to the worst-case scenario—sulfuric acid, a disfigured face, a life ruined. Avril wasn't just playing dirty; she was out for blood.
His fists clenched, every fiber of his being screaming to storm the booth and tear them all apart. But he forced himself to stay calm. Christine needed to know—now. He yanked out his phone, punching in her number with shaking hands.
Ring… ring… ring…
No answer. "Fuck!" He growled, slamming the phone down.
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