This is my very first Camp Rock multi chapter :) I really hope you like it. Thanks Abbie for beta'ing.

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Except Eddie. :)

Dedication: This whole fic is dedicated to Sarah (Abnormally-Sweet-Person). Because I love her to bits, and she is my Smitchie and Jemi twin.

You're awesome Sarah, and don't you forget it.

You sit outside the conference room, trying to look like you're not listening to the conversation going on inside, when you very clearly are. Well it would be difficult not to hear, and watch, seeing as the walls are made of glass and the door has been left slightly ajar. You can see the three boys sitting on one side of the table, with a man in his early thirties sitting on the other. The boys are listening intently, one of them nodding every so often, while the older man talks. He talks with his hands, you notice, just like Sierra. Big flamboyant gestures, that kind of make you laugh, despite your current situation. You watch the boys facial features, and can tell that the man hasn't quite got to the good part yet, because they are all calm. Perhaps, you think, they are unaware that this meeting is special, and that they think this is all just normal.

You are pretty sure that bar the lady you showed you to the sofa you are now occupying, no one is aware you are even in the building. You just waltzed in, flashed a card he gave you, and were immediately ushered to this corridor to await your fate.

You know thousands of girls would kill to be in your position. What you have been asked to do would be less of a chore for them, more of a dream come true. But that's why you were asked to do it, because you aren't a screaming fan girl, and you would just rather be at home. Not the house you're staying in right now, but home, with Sierra and a movie and popcorn, like the old times.

Suddenly as a bang echoes through the glass walls, you snap your head up, to see that one of the boys has stood up and has slammed his fist onto the wooden table. He is glaring at the man, who seems unfazed, and has continued talking. The other two boys are sitting in stunned silence, while the third is still seething. He looks incredibly angry and you for one are not looking forward to going in there, because it's going to get ugly.

For a second you watch him. His chest is heaving and his cheeks are flushed from his outburst, but in his brown eyes all you can see is confusion. He doesn't understand why he has to do this, what he has done to deserve this cruelty. And you just want to stand up and agree with him, and ask for your life back. Because right now you don't feel like this is real.

Then the older man is ushering for the younger boy to sit back down, and so he does, slowly, and looks at his band mates. They are looking at him in total confusion too. And you see him relax. They have no clue, and so he can trust them, they did not betray him. Lucky him. You have no one left. Or you do, but she is thousands of miles away in a state that no one ever thinks about.

You watch as the band members begin to have their say, often cutting off the older man. You don't really listen to what they say, just sit and watch them. They are angry, questioning, every now and again clenching their fists against the table.

You hum under your breath, and silently wonder why you bothered to show up. It sure as hell didn't look like they were going to see you today.

You throw your head back, so its resting on the back of the sofa, and stare at the white ceiling. You can no longer see the conference room, and as you begin to play around with some imaginary lyrics in your head, you pretend you are no longer in this skyscraper, no longer worried about what you've been asked to do, but you're with your guitar, you have a notebook filled with words and you are just playing. If you could be anywhere in the world right now, you would be just playing.

You wonder do the boys in the conference room ever do that. After all they are huge superstars, they get to perform in front of thousands of people. You've never even sung for Sierra, so you don't know whether having an audience makes the experience more exhilarating. Although you're pretty sure it does.

You dream of doing that someday. Just playing, only just playing in front of people. The stage fright you have overpowers you every time. At least you say its stage fright. Inside, you know it's because you have such low self esteem. You're not sure if you're good, and you're too afraid to try to find out in case you get shot down. You can deal with never singing for an audience, but being told you're no good. That would break your heart.

And then suddenly the door to the conference room is being thrown open, and you are faced with the man, who is smiling brightly at you.

"Miss Torres, please step right in. We are sorry to keep you waiting, we were just going over the final arrangements for our little facade," he apologises smiling.

'More like telling them for the first time,' you think, but you keep your mouth shut and you smile wide, because that is just who you are. You are in this all the way, you want the prize you have been offered, and so you're going to play the game.

"It's fine," you smile at him, rising from the red sofa, "and please call me Mitchie."

"Mitchie," he nods, and steps to the side to let you into the conference room. You gingerly walk in, taking your time. You can feel the boys' stares on you immediately, the anger in the atmosphere and the sense of hatred. You keep your eyes on the older man, who smiles and nods at you, as he makes his way around the table back to his seat. You follow him, still avoiding their gazes. You do not want to look at them yet, for fear of crying. You are suddenly wondering why you agreed to this. They all hate you already, and for one band member in particular you have just about ruined his life. At least for the next 6 months.

You lower yourself into a chair and then for the first time, raise your eyes to meet their stares. And you are hit with silent, intense fury. Saying these boys hate you is an understatement. They despise you, loathe you, and probably wish you were dead. Two pairs of deep brown eyes, and one pair of hazel ones. Maybe you could deal with one person hating you, but you are starting to think three may be just a little too much, and you feel the tears prick in the back of your eyes.

'No,' you tell yourself, 'be strong. They will not see you cry.'

"So boys this is Mitchie Torres," the man is saying, and you try to concentrate, "Shane's... new partner. Now obviously you have to get to know one another a little better before..." You stop listening then. You've heard all this, he's told you it all the previous night. Then suddenly the man has produced two notebooks and one has been placed in front of you, the other in front of Shane.

You glanced at Shane, and for the first time it really hits you. This is Shane Grey, sitting right across from you. Shane Grey and the rest of Connect 3. Jesus Christ.

"These," the man is pointing at the notebooks, which have a plain white cover, "are your manuals. Yours Mitchie is for Shane, and vice versa." You look down at yours. The simplicity doesn't give away the fact that there is a life between the pages. The thickness of it scares you. You're supposed to learn it all.

Then you glance at yours, which Shane is staring at, his hands under the table, a blank look on his face. Yours is much thinner, you notice. Figures, seeing as you can't look up Mitchie Torres' favourite movie on Google. Everything in there, is anything he has learnt in the last week, and anything your mom has told him. It looks like it could be 20 pages at best, while Shane's looks like there is about 100, at least.

Then suddenly he is reaching up, and has flipped open the first page. His eyes scan the words, and his lips are pursed, as he reads. Then he is looking up, gazing at you with those hard eyes.

"Favourite ice cream?" he asks, as you frown, wondering why he is asking you. It's right there.

"Caramel, McFlurry," you said instantly. Man you love McDonalds. He scrunches his nose, looking at the page now, like he's disgusted.

Without looking up he reaches out his hand.

"Pen," he says and as if by magic the other man has conjured a pen and it's in Shane's hands. You watch as he scribbles furiously, then looks back at you. You must've been staring at him curiously because he explains.

"They said you liked Baked Alaska," he elaborates, and it's your turn to pull a horrified face. You can't eat any ice cream but the cheap fast food kind. You glance at the man sitting beside you.

"For a billion dollar record company you guys sure don't investigate well," you point out, and you don't miss the smile that the oldest member of the band, Jason, cracks. It's only there for a second, but it gives you that boost of confidence.

You open the first page of your manual and scan the words. It all seems oddly familiar, perhaps because you're sure all this stuff has been in magazines, and therefore recited numerous times by the female population of your old high school, back in Wyoming. Favourite colour: Green. Favourite drink: Dr. Pepper. Favourite Movie: Lilo and Stitch. That last one surprises you a little bit, but only because it's your favourite movie too.

"Best childhood memory?" you ask after flipping to a random page, trying to catch them out with a hard one.

"Summer in Vermont, with Nate and Jason," he replies instantly, like he is reading from the page. You sigh in defeat and lean back heavily on the chair you are sitting in.

You refuse to look at the others around the table, and stare at your hands, as the man strikes up a conversation with the boys. They are talking about the label, and the new record, and Shane's image.

You know he hasn't been behaving the best lately. It's in all the magazines, on Hot Tunes all the time. He is taking what he has for granted, and that angers you more than he does, more than your mother, more than the move. Millions of people would kill to be in his position and he is acting like he hasn't been blessed. Stupid boy.

You continue to pick at your nail polish, wondering what's going through their heads at the moment. You glance up, trying to figure it out by their facial expressions. Shane is visibly angry, and he is shooting daggers at the man, who is talking loudly beside you. If looks could kill, you and him would be long dead.

Your eyes flicker to Shane's left, to Jason. He is staring off into space, looking at something no one else can see. You think that maybe he is wondering what he'll eat for dinner, or what movie he'll watch when he gets home. He's not worried about anything, and while you're pretty sure he feels bad for Shane, he probably doesn't realise the effect it's going to have on his band mate.

Then you look to Shane's right. The youngest band member's eyes, unlike Jason's, are very much focused on the present. In fact they are staring at you. The glare he had for you earlier is gone. He is merely looking at you with intense curiosity. You guess that he is probably wondering what is in this for you. If things go the way the record company has planned you aren't going to come out of this looking like an angel. You know that though. When you stare back at him, and catch his eye, he blushes and adverts his eyes. You smirk a little to yourself.

You jump suddenly, as Shane jumps up again, and slams his fist onto the table.

"Sure she's here," he sends another withering look your way, "but who's saying I'm going along with this? I didn't sign up for this. I'm not obligated to do this."

The man sitting beside you looks up at Shane, who is heaving he is so angry.

"Come on Shane. Your image will improve, you'll sell more albums. It's a win-win situation for you," the man points out, trying to reason with Shane. You watch this little argument fascinated. It's clear to you that Shane has no respect for this man. He is merely some guy who works for him. Suddenly you feel sorry for this guy. He is just some man trying to man a living, and doing his best not to lose his temper with this jerk of a pop star.

"No, Mr..." you say, trailing off looking at the man.

"Eddie," he tells you.

"Eddie," you continue this time turning your attention to Shane. His blazing hazel eyes meet your equally fired up chocolate ones, "he isn't going to do it because Connect 3's album sales will increase, or to make himself look better to the media. No, Shane's going to do this, because he said so." You stress that 'he', because you know that if the rumours are true, it'll take the band members merely seconds to register who you are talking about. Then you see it, as you hold Shane's gaze. The defiance drops and is replaced with fear. Absolute terror blazes in his hazel orbs, and you almost laugh at his shocked expression.

You look across to Nate, and even Jason, who are staring at you wide eyed. You chuckle sardonically.

"Yeah, didn't you figure it out, I'm his daughter."

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:)