With a calming inhale, I set foot on Californian soil. The blinding flash of cameras, loud enigmatic hollers and the stuttering click of the paparazzi surround me.

I shield my eyes with black sunglasses from the scorching sun and lights as I descend the plane's stairs. I follow my security detail as they lead me towards our car, a car that is to be my saving grace from paparazzi that's a little too fucking excited about my arrival in Los Angeles.

The very last place I want to be is here, but as always, I have no say in what I want.

There's this illusion that makes me feel as though I'm in control of my own destiny but I know better than anyone that it's not true. It's all a carefully constructed simulation that alters my perception of the real world and who I really am.

However, I don't vent and sulk about it, no, I create my own destiny, I make the illusion a reality.

I grin my million-dollar smile and even add a wave just to bait their reaction. Wilson, my personal bodyguard, grunts behind me and I roll my eyes, continuing my journey towards the short black limo.

Wilson opens the door and I slide in, grabbing a bottle of champagne from the cabinet and popping the cork. I drink straight from the bottle and allow the bubbles to trickle down my throat as I gather myself an LA groupie for the weekend while Wilson navigates his way from LAX straight into the Saturday traffic.

Nothing more devastating than being alone in Los Angeles with no one to spend your money on. Not that I'm here for pleasure but who am I to deny myself some risky fun?

"Drive faster, Grandpa," I holler from the back, annoyed by the slow pace we're moving at—that is if we're even moving.

"That's not within my capacity right now, Mr Slaters," he comments from the front through the speakers, not bothering to lower the shield. "I don't have admin control over the traffic."

I roll my eyes, "Funny."

I move towards the tinted windows of the car and look out. The bottle of champagne is still on my lips when I spot my stepmom in the passenger's seat of a black Bentley convertible. I snort when I see her obscene midnight hair flow freely in the black convertible.

Ramona Alonso or now known as Mrs Ramona Slaters, my dad's fourth wife, is just another gold digger here to suck him dry before she gets bored and leaves just like the rest of them.

It's a constant pattern I've now grown used to, they act nice and all in love then when no one is watching, they embezzle money. When the moment is right, or their greedy asses have enough cash stuffed between their plastic tits, they leave. Story of my fucking life.

However, Ramona is lasting way longer than I had initially expected. Half a decade and a few is a very long time but then again these money-sniffing hussies will do anything for cash. It's never been about loving my father, no surprise there, he's filthy rich after all.

I roll my eyes at the thought and take a long satisfying swig of some fine bubbles. I'd never be able to marry so many women in one lifetime or any woman for that matter.

I love women for their cunts and throats, for sure, but I'd never be able to commit to just one at a time. I don't do needy and overcompensating. No strings and commitments are the right way to go. That way no one gets hurt and no one gets used without their knowledge.

That, and also, the fact that I've only ever possibly loved one woman and no one else after her. That said woman is almost a decade older than me, nine years to be exact.

And that's it, that's the problem—she's older.

The traffic light opens for them but I don't catch a clear glimpse of the driver. The driver is wearing all black in this scorching heat and has dark brunette hair. She's also wearing black sunglasses that frame her face so well, she's indistinguishable. I don't know whether she's mentally ill or grieving but no one wears all black in this Californian heat.

She's probably not even from around here.

Wilson successfully manoeuvres us out of the traffic jam when my phone vibrates and I unlock my screen. It's Cohen Steele confirming our small reunion later tonight at The White Pearl, a beautiful high-end restaurant that's only two blocks away from the hotel I'm staying at.

I would stay at the Slaters Estate but it's near the coast and I don't have the emotional capability to deal with my dad's overbearing lectures and Ramona's suffocating kindness.

Cohen and I exchange more contacts and organise a boat party that'll occupy me the rest of the night so that I'm not bored out of my mind. Might even land a girl or two to keep me company through this possibly lonely night.

Wilson makes a few stops at clothing boutiques and stores for me to pick up some tailored suits and weekend attire.

I never pack a bag because I can just buy whatever it is I want and need wherever it is that I land. And if they don't have what I'm looking for, we'll just have to ship it. No way in hell will I have such a heavy-hung bank account and not use it, what kind of treason would I be committing against the economy?

The Johnathan Michael's clerk gives me the eye and I smile at her, very aware of how her cheeks flush and lips tremble. I slide her my black card and she clears my payment. We complete the transaction and I gather my bags, but out of curiosity, I lean over the counter. I see her tense beneath my gaze and I can't help the chuckle that starts at my throat.

My eyes land on her name tag, her chest rises and falls beneath my gaze, and her pupils dilate before they expand. As I assess her, my eyebrows knit together and I fail to hide my amusement in the way my lips curve up into a welcoming smile.

I'm not even doing anything and she's reacting, how fortunate it is to be me, "Tell me Clara, are you interested in an exclusive yacht party?"

She pauses at first, but the poor thing doesn't believe I'm speaking to her.

She blinks and her blue eyes zero in on me, she smiles sweetly and tries to play it cool with a shrug. But fortunately for me, I'm a trained and award-winning actor who is fluent in body language. The effortless and yet casual rise and fall of her shoulders fail to hide the tension of her limbs and the flushed heat of her skin...she's flustered and nervous.

"I don't know, will you be there?" Clara teases in what she thinks is a sexy tone.

I shrug and push off the counter, "You'd have to be there to find out."

I walk towards the door and she calls after me, asking for more details. She doesn't need them, the details will be trending all on their own later tonight, and she won't be able to miss them.

I don't know why I invited her, she's not even all that hot, but let's go with the sad sad excuse of the more the merrier.

The journey towards the limo is a mixture of unpleasant and unconventional. I'm used to the publicity, I grew up around it being a kid actor and all but fucking Christ does it get annoying at times. Can I walk to my car without cameras flashing in my face as if I'm on the runway in Milan?

The pressure to always be perfect is overwhelming and overrated. I don't rebel for attention, I rebel to release pent-up aggression. If I didn't do what I did, I'd have injured a few cameramen by now. I don't have a short temper but I'm also not a level-headed individual.

Wilson passes me a glance in the rearview and I mumble for him to take me to Malibu Beach. I need to hit a wave and relax. Maybe I'll even catch a mermaid in my desperate conquest of chasing waves.

On our way there I vlog the journey to quench my boredom. Many wouldn't think I'd be bored with my grand and highly anticipated life but it's not all it's put up to be. The routines are exactly the same, the acting schedules, the city visits, the photoshoots, the parties, the jobs.

At first, when it's all-new, it's exciting and alluring but over time it gets redundant. I didn't even enjoy my twenty-first birthday, two years ago, because I was far away from home on a movie tour in Europe slaving away on the red carpet and building my career.

A career I don't think I want anymore.

Wilson pulls over and I jump out. I take a deep breath of the fresh air that smells of salt and ocean. I don't bother to hit the restroom, I just stand next to the limo and change. Wilson grunts at my nudity and I laugh as people check me out while they walk past. I adjust myself in my blackboard shorts and stroll towards a hut for a surfboard.

Brent immediately recognises me and starts laughing. I grin and strike a pose, but he only laughs louder, going as far as bending at the waist.

"Wrong part of the world, Hollywood!" he pulls me into a hug and I return it.

"What can I say, Ariel was calling to me," I shrug and he laughs, ruffling my dark hair.

Brent's grey eyes sparkle with humour and I roll mine. I brush past him and untie myself a surfboard from the impressive board collection that he has.

We've been best friends since kindergarten but got separated in second grade when I made my debut in the entertainment industry. Despite all that, the spark of our friendship never died. He doesn't treat me any differently. To him, I'm still just Cal, the boy with a peanut allergy and obsession with the outdoors.

"Not on my beach she isn't," he snorts and takes the board, preparing it. "You don't surf anymore, remember."

I pick a surf leash and sigh, "I need to keep myself busy or else my mind will race and drive me into a wall."

Brent looks at me. His grey eyes narrow and a strand of untamed blonde hair falls on his face, "Trouble in paradise?"

Yes, lots of trouble. There's a fucking thunderstorm turning into a hurricane on my island with an approaching tornado and goddamn earthquake for the finale.

"Nah, nothing like that, just need a moment to myself with Mother Nature," I connect the leash to the board and haul it over my shoulder.

"Wrong time to be bonding with mother nature then," he refers to the crowd of fellow surfers and my personal crew of photographers—whom I never hired.

"If I made the rules I wouldn't be here at this time, you know that," I walk out and make my way to the beach.

I get side glances and whispers from all directions. There's a constant flow of fans approaching me for pictures and autographs, making my walk to the water an unsolicited tour with no paycheck. This isn't the time to be requesting such demanding tasks but who am I to deny them?

I pick up on a jog and take a dive with the board, my body instantly submerges in the clear crystal water. For a cold instant, everything becomes transparent, the current pushes and I push back. I paddle until my muscles ache and my lungs burn. The weight of the board becomes heavy and pulls me above the water, I gasp and breathe in fresh air. I ignore the burning vibrations of my muscles as I paddle towards a wave.

Goosebumps cover my skin and water trickles down my spine. The current pulses electrically beneath me and I ride it towards the wave that comes barreling down the ocean's level. The horizon gets covered by water and the tension in the air crackles with fury.

I push off the surface and find my balance, a loud howl of ecstasy escapes me with a laugh when I catch it with ease.

I'm deeply reminded as to why I've always loved the ocean so much, it comforts me more than the human touch. It's a place that could never abandon me despite my many unforgiving titles.

Even when the wave curves and swallows me into the barrel, I know I won't drown. The ocean would never drown me, not the way the people in my life tend to suffocate me with expectations and practised relationships.

But today, today I'll let the ocean swallow me. I'll allow it to drown me alive.

I was meant to die at the very core of the earth, not on the red carpet.