“Do you have any idea all the work Connie and I have to do to keep this train on the tracks? To ensure your image and reputation stay intact?” He looks at me the way a cat looks at a knocked-over glass, equal parts disgust and inevitability.
My dad leans forward, but I push him back.
This is my battle; I don’t need anyone else fighting it for me.
I push myself up, using my mom and dad’s legs as leverage, and meet Paul’s glare. The table between us is the only thing keeping us apart.
“And whose fault is that? I didn’t want to do promo here, but you insisted. You put me on that couch that Rita was on. I didn’t want to do the club PA, but you insisted. Even though you know being in those environments isn’t good for my sobriety.And that led to all of this.” I pause briefly, allowing my saliva time to help stop the dryness in my throat. “You were the one who wouldn’t let me speak out that there’s nothing going on with Rita because it’s ‘good publicity’ forStolen Moments.” My fingers make air quotes at him.
My ears start to burn up as the rage takes over.
God, it feels good to let this anger out.
To not swallow it down with alcohol and keep it all bottled inside.
Yes, Paul is responsible for helping build my empire, but he seems to be mistaking himself for the emperor, and it’s time to remind him of that.
“We’re handling the situation. The Sun is running a story in the morning with the blessing of her family that will address the issue and stop the speculation from continuing.” Paul reaches for his phone as he lets out a sharp exhale. “In fact, all the speculation led to massive exposure forStolen Moments.” He passes me the phone, and I can see thatStolen Momentshas 17,450 people simultaneously listening to the track, according to Spotify for Artists. “That number is your biggest number ever, and you’re on track to reach the top three globally with the song tomorrow.”
My heart jumps for joy at the thought, before I remember that Paul actively tried to prevent me from recording and releasing it. My gaze drifts back up from the phone to him. He has a cheesy grin, showing off his veneers, and I want to knock them right out of his mouth.
“The song you didn’t even want me to record,” I say flatly. “In fact, you actively tried to stall so we would run out of time in the studio.” I throw his phone back at him, and he stumbles trying to catch it.
“Look, I was wrong with that, but we don’t always get whatwe want, Alex,” he says. His grin has been replaced with a stern look as he slides his phone back into his pocket.
Before I can respond, I feel my dad’s hand on my shoulder as he steps up beside me. My mom gets up on the other side to join him.
“I think you need to remember who works for whom here, Paul,” my dad says. He leans over and pushes a finger into Paul’s chest, forcing him to take a step backward.
“Come on, son, let’s get you out of here and hit up catering.” My mom shakes her head at Paul and motions at Lucy and Rob to follow us, leaving Paul in the room alone.
Her tight squeeze makes me feel all warm inside.
Maybe they don’t stick up for me against Harrison, but they do defend me when it matters most. And for that, I need to be more grateful.
“Thank you,” I say, squeezing her back.
Two more shows. Two more days.
Two more shows. Two more days.
I keep repeating the mantra to myself, trying to push away the last of the anger, while my mom goes up and grabs some food from catering. She insisted that I wait at the table, while Rob, Lucy, and my dad sit at another table to give us some space.
The catering room is set up like a school cafeteria. Tables and chairs are scattered around the room. Servers are positioned behind the three options for dinner: grilled chicken, rice, and vegetables, vegan curry, and battered fish and chips. There’s a whole wall dedicated to deserts I can finally eat, now that theMen’s Healthshoot is in the bag, and a fridge stocked full of water and sodas.
My mom makes her way back over, two plates of fish and chips in hand.
“Mom,” I sigh, as she hands me my plate. “I asked for the chicken.”
“God, Alex! Live a little!” She shakes her head as she puts her plate down and pulls out the seat next to me to sit. “Apparently it’s tradition here in the UK to eat fish and chips on a Friday.” She unfolds the napkin and tucks it into the top of her T-shirt. “Who are we to mess with tradition?”
To be fair, she’s right.
The tour is coming to an end. I have no other commitments to stay in shape for, aside from the film, which reminds me that I really do need to read that script.
“Is he always like that these days?” She scoops up some of the mushy peas with her fork.
“Like what?” I ask, used to Paul’s behavior. I cut into the battered fish.
