It was embarrassing. No, humiliating. People recognized her. They assumed she was doing well. They assumed fame had blessed her with the spoils typically coupled with celebrity status. At one point, that was true, but in a little over sixmonths, the money that filled her bank account had been slowly disappearing.
She lowered her head to the steering wheel of her BMW and closed her eyes. This was insane. Samari would have to get a job soon or she wouldn't be able to afford her bills. At least her apartment was paid for, one of the only smart moves she’d made after receiving the advance from Cobra Records. But it required money to pay the utilities and fill her refrigerator.
Money she was running out of faster than she assumed. The tiny royalty checks she received weren't much. She had no idea the advance would be expected to be paid back in the event that her sales didn't cover the money handed over. Apparently her sales weren't as great as she’d assumed they would be.
Platinum didn't equate to dollars and cents, or at least that was what she was told. Samari’s contract was shitty. The lawyers who handled her contract she now believed were hired by Cobra, who of course made sure to protect their interests and screw her over. Samari didn't know anything about the legal side of things, and truthfully, at the time she hadn’t cared.
All she’d wanted to do was create music and sing. That was offered alongside the promise of making millions of dollars and traveling the world. Half of that manifested. She had done a world tour but barely made six figures. However, those millions had been made. They’d just bypassed her bank account and landed in Cobra’s.
Touring after her first platinum single brought in endless amounts of money. The shows were sold out night after night, city after city, and not much was spent on her. She didn't need it. She produced her own tracks, another line item that took away from her royalties. She used the label’s studio which should have been a perk of being signed to them, but no, Cobra had billed her for it.
Then there was the expense of production costs for the tour. Another line item that lessened her royalties which she personally didn't understand. There were no over the top displays of lights, torches, dancers, or anything remotely creative about her shows. She didn't want any of that either. Just her on stage.
Samari was also a loner the entire tour. Her only family was her mother and she couldn't travel with her because she had a life and bills that required a consistent check. Her mother couldn't disappear from a job for months, or even weeks, at a time but she also wouldn’t because Samari’s childish dream wasn’t something she supported. Regardless of that dream being a reality because of the contract that promised an amazing future.
No one was close to her besides her one true and real friend, Sheree, whose husband and pregnancy prevented her from being by Samari’s side. She didn't need a bunch of people around. That wasn't her thing. Unlike most, with Samari there was no entourage to speak of but that didn't stop Cobra from putting a team in place.
A very expensive team who was supposed to handle wardrobe, hair, makeup, and all other client requirements. Another line item that accounted for why her royalty checks were so small. The funny thing was, she dressed herself, maintained her own hair, and refused makeup. However, she clearly paid for that team to catch first class flights with her from city to city and provide services to someone. Services she personally never received.
Yet another thing Samari had no clue about. She just wanted to sing. Being on stage was such a rush. To connect with the fans and have them singing her songs with her word for word was euphoric. The excitement on their faces when Samari made eye contact and acknowledged them was pure bliss.
It was a high, one she’d missed so much that the void physically hurt. A high she wouldn't be experiencing anytime soon. She had been shelved, by industry terms. Samari couldn't make new music because the label refused to pay for it and they wouldn't release her from her contract so she could do it on her own. Every time she asked, she was hit with the runaround or excuses about this or that. Timing was their go-to, most often used when she asked about making new music.
What Samari knew for certain was that they’d used her, gotten what they could from her, and were now on to the next big thing. Nefatari. She was an eager and willing eighteen year old who exuded sex, had very little talent, but would do whatever the label asked of her. She wanted to be famous no matter the cost, whereas Samari had standards and simply wanted to make good music. Music that would be around for years to come and not just the hot new song of the minute.
Dragging herself from her car, she raked her fingers through her unruly coils. Her look was half shaved, half brushing her shoulder. The shaved side had recently grown a little longer than she liked. For months she had been considering growing her hair out again. She hadn't had a full head of hair in years, it was either both sides shaved or at least one. The look fit her face and she had grown accustomed to seeing herself that way.
The problem with having a signature look was that people recognized her. Samari hated it because they always wanted to know why she was shopping alone and didn't have someone handle it for her, when her next single would be out, or if the rumor connecting her to this person or that person was true. She tried her best to be polite but it proved to be exhausting, simply fucking annoying, and it hurt. Her life wasn't what they thought it was, or what even she assumed it would be, and the reality was devastating.
It took her a little under thirty minutes to gather what she needed. To save herself the scrutiny of dealing with others, she’d learned the art of speed shopping. By the time she made it to the register, she felt certain she would survive the experience without having to explain her life to anyone until…
"I hate to keep staring but you look familiar." The cashier flashed Samari a curious stare as she moved the items across the scanner.
Samari smiled politely and nodded.
"Man, I wish I could put my finger on where I know you from." Samari bet she knew and simply wanted her to acknowledge her identity first. Again, the cashier searched Samari's face just after scanning the last item, almond milk. Samari kept her eyes on it as the cashier placed it on the other side then snapped open a paper bag.
After the cashier rattled off her total, three forty-two, sixty-seven, Samari unzipped her bum bag to remove her wallet. The cashier's eyes followed the motion and that was when it clicked. Her smile grew wide as she scanned Samari's neck and shoulder, piecing things together. Samari's face was one thing. Possible recognition. Even her signature hairstyle, but the tattoos, they couldn't be overlooked. The clef on her hand and wrist and the matching one on her neck that extended to her shoulder blade.
"Oh my God, it’s you. Samari Janaé, right?" The cashier used a hushed tone, which Samari appreciated because it didn't drawn any additional attention. She was the only one in her line, thankfully.
Offering a subtle smile, Samari nodded, praying it would end with maybe a request for an autograph or selfie. Both she would provide but would cringe at the thought of it surfacing. Since her quick thrust into fame, she had done her best to steer clear of social media, hoping to avoid false stories or blog appearances. But as of late, she’d kept a really low profile.
Most days she could avoid it by frequenting areas where people were familiar and used to seeing her. Not just that. Paparazzi had no interest in what she had going on. However, the blogs did. They loved a good failure story, and in their eyes, she was a failure.
"Shit, you are her. You're so pretty. Beautiful, not just pretty. I'm sure you hate this but can we take a picture?" Samari’s eyes swept the front where they were standing. "It can be quick. I love your music. I can't believe you're here, in my line. Why are you? Don't you have people for this? Wait no, dumb question. I bet you just do it to be normal, but shit you're not normal. You're Samari. I can't wait to get new music. Anything coming soon?"
Again the cashier used a hushed tone for the five million questions she sputtered. Questions she didn't allow Samari time to answer.
"Sure, we can do a picture and I'm working on a few things. I hope to have something out soon." Samari's smile was genuine, even if her words weren't and her heart ached because of the lie. No she wouldn't have anything out soon. The label wouldn't allow it. They had her contractually enslaved to them and it was causing a mild depression. They took three shots. The cashier asked Samari's opinion on which to post and she told her any of them. After paying for her groceries, Samari left the store with three stuffed reusable grocery bags clasped in her hand and a heavy heart. This was her life and it fucking sucked.
She had been home for a few hours and immersed in her writing when she was forced into a break. There weren't a lot of people who could pull her away from her music, and per her Sound Beats smartwatch, one of those people was reaching out.
It had been a little over two weeks since she had seen her friend and a day since they’d shared a conversation. It was about time for her to check in so Samari smiled, closing her notebook and reaching for her phone.
"You always know the exact moment to call and fuck up my vibe, don't you?" Samari’s cheeks hiked as she flipped from her stomach to her back. The spot her body filled on the sofa was where she had been since she’d made it home and put her groceries away.
Music was therapy. Her solace and her hiding place. She needed that today, so the second she was home, she grabbed her notebook and let the words flow. Samari hummed tunes in her head until it all made sense, and before she knew it, a song took flight.
