Her disappointment is obvious, but I couldn’t care less. Women like her are sharks. She wants either to date me or to get a scoop. Neither has any hope in hell of happening. I pride myself on keeping my personal life—not that there’s much—out of the spotlight.
“Too bad. We could have had some fun. You need to lighten up a bit.”
The nerve. I’ve told my manager, Cheryl, countless times that I don’t want to do interviews the day of a performance. If I could get away with skipping them altogether, I would. Except even with sold-out shows, she claims I can’t have too much publicity. I know she’s got my back, but damn I’m tired of the grind. Mom would chastise me, telling me I’m being a whiny, ungrateful boy. Fuck, she’d be right too.
Cheryl’s probably right, but it doesn’t mean I have to like it. At least, she appears to help pull me away from Missy, and herds me out into the limo the record company sent.
After my first number one hit, I bought the property we live on outside of Fernwood and built a house for my mom. The same people who turned their backs on us when I was younger, now they try to get on her good side to get to me. Like that will ever happen. Still, knowing that Mom is safe and happy when I’m on the road gives me peace. The woman gave up everything for me, working two jobs to keep a roof over our heads. No more. Even though she fights me on everything that I try to do for her, including the housekeeper.
The door to the limo closes, and Cheryl gives me one of her “looks.” “Okay, want to tell me what crawled up your ass? You’re lucky no one else could see the attitude you were throwing at Missy. I know she’s rabid for you, but you’re better than this.”
“I’m sorry. She just got on my last nerve touching me like that. Even on camera. Seriously? What is wrong with that woman? Has she never heard about personal space?”
Cheryl snorts. “Of course, but only for her. Not when she’s in pursuit of whatever she sets her sights on. But you need to do better.”
I lean my head back against the seat and stare up through the closed sunroof. I wish we were back in Fernwood, sitting under a tree with my guitar and a notebook—my happy place.
I ignore her last comment. “The tour is almost over. It won’t be an issue after tomorrow.”
“Jace, c’mon. You know better than that. Sure, you’ll have your privacy while you’re home, but the paparazzi will follow you and stand outside the gates waiting to get photos or a few words. And if not there, then in Fernwood. Promise me you’ll work on your attitude or at least hiding it better.”
“I’ll promise to try, but no guarantees. We’ve been on the road almost all year. I really need a break, I’m exhausted. You know the spotlight isn’t my thing.”
“I do, and I’ll never forget how hard it was to get you to perform that first time. It’s crazy that it’s been eight years since your first tour. You’ve come a long way from the shy teenager I heard practicing in your backyard.”
“Sometimes I wish I stayed in the backyard.”
“No, you don’t. You’re tired, I get it. You’ll have your peace and quiet—I’ll make sure you’re left alone for the next month. More than that, I can’t promise. Roland has already been bugging me for new songs.”
“What the hell? Did he forget we’ve been on a worldwide tour for the last nine months? How was I supposed to write new songs?”
Cheryl sighs. “Except you did. We both know it, and so does he. If you wanted to keep it a secret, you shouldn’t have played them. Did you think he wouldn’t find out when you debuted the two new songs in Amsterdam? All the record company cares about is the next hit. They’d like to release a new album in the next six months while you’re still hot from the tour. It’s their secret sauce.”
My head aches. It started during the interview, and now my temples are throbbing. It doesn’t bode well for tonight’s performance. Fuck.
“Is there any way I can blow off this meeting with Roland? I’ve got a headache that needs to go away before tonight. Sitting through a meeting with him and whoever else he drags in there is not conducive to that.”
“Are you making this up?”
I turned to look at her. “It’s real. How often do I ask for favors?”
When she doesn’t answer right away, I groan, “C’mon, Cheryl. I do everything you want without complaining…” At her raised eyebrow, I add, “much. But if I don’t get rid of this pain, the show is going to suck tonight. Can you handle this meeting alone this one time?”
“I know you do. It’s why I love you.” Then she leaned forward and told the driver to go to our hotel. “We’ll drop you off so you can rest. I’ll swing by your room after the meeting. Just so you know, he’s going to want you to commit to a new album sooner than later.”
“Yup, got it. I’ll do my best, but he has to realize that sometimes the songs just don’t’ come. I can’t force them or they’ll be shitty.”
“I’ll remind them that you’ve never missed a deadline before. That should be sufficient and I’ll push for some leeway. Does that work?”
“Very much. Thank you, Cheryl. I know I don’t say this enough, but I appreciate everything you do for me and Mom. It was your hard work as much as any song I wrote that make me a star. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.”
“Dammit. Keep that shit up and I’m going to cry. You know how I hate that.”
Oh, I knew, and if I mentioned the sheen of tears in her eyes, she’d probably make me go to the meeting after all. Cheryl Buckman was a total hard ass as an agent. It was just a façade. I’d learned quickly that she was a total softie with her friends. Of course, she’d kill me if I ever said that out loud.
three
. . .
