GILLIAN WAS WITH TWO of his Intersexual band members at a luxury penthouse, with a view of the rooftop pool at the Ritz-Carlton in Los Angeles. They were taking blows of cocaine in the suite room — Gillian’s cellphone buzzed — and he saw the display, his mother was calling...

He stepped out from the tinted glass door. A Secret Service agent outside then tailed him. He walked by the swimming pool where there were Playboy models doing a nude lesbian photo shooting by the pool. Gillian passed by a few topless models sunbathing, and they recognized him only as — the President's grandson — and they foist out radars of seductive attentions to lure him — but he turned away...

In the limelight — with the hounding paparazzi, along with his first-time secret experimentation with various illegal drugs and the constant sexual advancements thrown at him — during the two full nights of partying were distressing to him, ever since coming out of the White House — he was losing focus in his escape plan. The longer he remained exposed out in this reality highway — the world would soon see and know him — for who he really was...

The President’s imposter grandson...

“Yeah hi...Mother.”

Samantha spoke with concern, from aboard the presidential plane...

“Gillian, I finally got you. You did not pick up your phone the whole day yesterday and you did not even reply my WhatsApp messages, I was so worried — with you out there the first time in Los Angeles”

Gillian was annoyed by the following Secret Service detail, who was close by. He channelled his chagrin on her. “This is one thing I don't want from you, Mother — which is to check on me every hour. Listen, I am eighteen, just give me some space, will you? I got my own shit to focus, like my band practice! I can't be damn picking up the phone when you call each time!”

“Okay dear, I understand. So how was the practice with the boys, dear? Are you all set — for a grand show tonight?”

He felt bad for his outburst and lowered his tone...

“Yeah, we are doing well. You are coming tonight, right? Or will the old bitch keep you busy at the Fundraiser?”

He heard her laughing at the other end before she replied...

“I will be there, darling — I am your number one fan, remember? I will never miss it for the world to see you on stage later. Even Madeline has been supportive. A moment ago, she mentioned you in front of all of us, saying that you are her grandson — I guess she is finally realizing — that you are her family too.”

Samantha teased him — so he growled back irresolute, in a lower tone...

“Don’t fucking count on that — and please don't trust her, Mother, that Snake-woman is a sly politician, and she will say anything to deceive anyone around her.” Gillian looked at his wristwatch, “I gotta go, Mother. I have to be at the venue for soundcheck...

“Be sure you are here tonight, okay Mother? Bye...”

Gillian walked back to the suite, and he gave an acrimonious cold stare at the black-suited woman agent outside — who had hounded around him the entire time. He was back inside the dimmed penthouse. The bassist, Jeff took a blow of the coke — he looked up, seeing Gillian's silhouette of rainbow auras — when he entered in, from the sun outside.

Jeff said out...

“Hey Gill, Lana just called while you stepped out, dude — she is offering us a ride with her band when we go to the venue later.”

“Fuck the bitch off…”

Gillian mumbled his affronted thoughts, stretched himself flat on the floor rug — with his feet on the couch, looking at the rotating antique fan above, spinning slowly...

“What do you mean fuck her off? She is Lana Rickett, man — the lead freakin' singer of The Daughters of None. She is starting to take a genuine interest in you, Gill — you better be nice to her, man — because she is our meal ticket outta here if you wanna see a future in our band.”

But Gillian was not impressed at all. A lot of things were going on his jumbled mind, at that moment...

“The reason she is nice to us is that I am from the fucking White House — and she is just riding on the tail just for some cheap fucking Instagram publicity. But, I am always a musician first — and I wanna be known for that, and not for being some cunting President's grandson.”

Roger the drummer was laughing after he fathomed his esteemed problems...

“Fuck you dude, you got it all wrong — do you know who she really is? She has got two platinum albums — and right now she is going on sellout concerts tours in Europe and Asia...

“Hey, do you remember the offer she and her manager made to us at the private party last night? You were not drunk or high at last night’s meet, (were you not, right?) She even wants us to follow her back to London — to meet her recording producers to cut our demos, and then tour with her band in Europe...

“This one is one big one, for us, man — The Kabuki Gods doing the opening acts, for The Daughters of None — in Europe and Asia!”

The enthralled Jeff seconded by saying...

“Be prepared, yo! Chances are we will have to go to the UK with her tonight, after this benefit gig in LA!”

“I can't go — I don't have a passport — and I also, I can't leave my mother behind.”

He replied without thinking. Gillian now had cold feet — Wolfe had also warned him before — that she would hunt to kill him where ever he was if he ever escaped.

Samantha who vouched for him would also be in deep trouble with Madeline Cory if he absconded — he couldn’t let anything to happen to the woman — who had always been supportive of his musical ambition since he first met her — and, she was also his number one fan.

His band members were made quiet, by his continuous excuses. Jeff spoke up again farcically...

“Come on, you are the grandkid of the President. You don't need a fuckin' passport, man!”

Roger also was inkling back...

“Your mother can come to visit us, once we make it big in Europe. (Hey, are you with me, Gill?) You are our bandleader, okay dude? — And this here now, is our big break, okay? Let’s go and take this huge leap — and let’s make some serious music out there.”

Gillian closed his eyes — he felt the pressures of his debut performance that evening — and of their encouragements of escaping later tonight...

Should he let them know now — that he was actually a hostage — for five years?

A mendacity sham — living in the White House — who was pretending to be someone, whom he was really not.