“And thesecond-best member of a boy band is worthy of me?”
“Do you know how much press coverage you’d get for Aspen for her being in the picture if you and Xyler Mercy became Britney and Justin two-point-oh? How long has that been? The world will eat this up.”
I’m not a suspicious person.
I’m really not.
But ever since the moment that Cooper Rock dropped that little bomb that Aunt Zinnia was the reason he disappeared, things have been shifting into focus in my brain, and I don’t like the picture I’m getting.
And that’s why I want to talk to Cooper.
No, that’s why Ineedto talk to Cooper. Alone. Without witnesses. While he’s bound by the NDA that my security team is making him sign before he gets here, and when I can look him straight in the eye and decide if he’s trying to cash in on my fame for some reason of his own—he’s turning thirty this summer and can’t play baseball forever—or if he wants to add my more-famous-now name as another notch on his bedpost, or if he’s telling the full truth when he says that Aunt Zinnia told him to go away.
I launched my career on my mother’s name and with my aunt’s management acumen behind me. Both of them were in the music industry long before I was born, and I wish every day that Mom were here and that we could do this together.
But lately, there are things I’m starting to question that I’ve never wondered about before.
And this isnota good combination with my already over-sensitive stomach, which seems to be getting worse by the day.
Freaking stress.
“I don’t want to fake-date a boy bander,” I say firmly.
“You haven’t dated anyone at all since that awfulGeofferson with a G-E-O. I’m worried about you.”
I must be in a mood, because my first thought is that she hadn’t said a word about it until she overheard Aspen saying the same thing at the studio last week.
And the other thoughts that have been swirling are that throughout my entire career, every single big event has been surrounded by massive tabloid coverage—somethingbeing said about me in the media anytime I launched a single, an album, a video, or was in consideration for an award.
I used to worry that I only broke into music because my mom was Evelyn Sweet and no one wanted to tell her daughter no. Mom would’ve been a legend if cancer hadn’t taken her too young, sitting among the greats like Madonna and Mariah Carey and Annie Lenox, with a healthy acting career on the side to boot.
Now I’m starting to worry that after my mom’s name got me in, it’s only gossip and not my talent that’s kept me here.
“You’re not playing games with the press to get my fan base riled up and talking about me so that the single will launch higher in the charts, are you?” I ask Aunt Zinnia.
Her exasperated sigh echoes around the room.
Hashtag glares at the phone and yowls.
“Waverly,everyone does this.”
It’s a punch to the gut, and my gutcannottolerate punching right now.
The right answer?Waverly, you can’t hit higher than number one, and that’s what you’ve built. You’ve built an empire that will take you to number one every time.
The truth?
My entire musical career is a fraud.
“I am noteveryone,” I say quietly.
“No. You’re Waverly Fucking Sweet. The fact that the press takes the bait when it’s you and not when it’s the Mercy Brothers proves we’re justified. They know who’s big. They know who matters. They know—”
“Oh mygod, Aunt Zinnia. What happens when you leak a story to the wrong person andwe becomethe story for manipulating the press to make me who I am today?” I rise, start to pace, feel that warning in my gut, and head for my medicine bag instead. “What willthatdo to my career? Toyourcareer? When they find out you’ve been playing them?”
“You’re twenty-seven. How many female artists stay relevant much past thirty? You’re wasting the last few years you have in this industry helping other people, whoalsowon’t last, instead of yourself.”
I miss the rest of whatever she says next because my phone lights up with a message from Cooper.
