“Is it late?”
Scott stirred beside me. “Everything okay?”
“Go back to sleep,” I whispered, already sliding out of bed.
I padded down the hall, pressing the phone to my ear. “Where are you?”
“On the bus somewhere. I don’t know where.”
“What’s wrong? I can hear it in your voice.”
“Mom,” he said quietly, “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”
I closed my eyes and leaned my shoulder against the wall. I’d been dreading this call. Jake didn’t quit things; he endured them. Sixteen years old and living a life I couldn’t see up close.
When we’d signed the contract, I’d told myself it wouldunfold slowly. A song here. A little buzz there. Jake would have time to adjust while living with us at home. But his first album came together in months. Two singles took off on the radio, and suddenly the label was booking small concert halls to chase the surge. Every decision felt urgent. It was all accelerating beyond me, and beyond my ability to protect my child.
But Jake wanted it. He’d grown to embrace the power of his name. He loved performing onstage. How could we take that away from him?
“Are you talking about the touring?” I asked.
“No, I like that part.” He was quick to correct me. “I like the shows. Being onstage. Playing every night.” A pause. “I just don’t like it like this.”
“Like what?”
“The bus, the people… it’s loud all the time. There’s a lot of drug use, Mom. Drinking. The guys… they hate me. They make jokes. Laugh behind my back. And there’s no security. Anyone can climb onto the bus. The other day…” he hesitated.
“What, Jake?” My grip tightened around the phone. “What happened?”
“A reporter got on. Didn’t have a badge or anything. Was going through my things. I spend most of my time up front now with Lassen.”
“The grumpy old bus driver?”
“The only sober adult on the bus.”
That stopped me cold. “And Spencer? Have you talked to him?”
Because of child protection laws, Jake needed a guardian on tour. Scott couldn’t go—he had to work—and I had the kids, so the studio provided one for us. Spencer. Jake liked him. He came across as mature and responsible, but still young enough that Jake wouldn’t feel watched or managed. Spencer would helpwith schoolwork, ensure he ate, and make sure everything was handled.
It all sounded reasonable, so we said yes.
Jake hesitated, then said, “He’s one of them.”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s a cokehead, Mom. They all are. The drugs. All of it.” He exhaled. “Spencer disappears for hours. And when he is around, he’s usually passed out.”
I felt my anger flare. The studio had promised us supervision. Protection. Someone responsible. Instead, they’d handed my sixteen-year-old son to a… cokehead?
“Jake, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t want you to pull me off the tour.”
“But now you do?”
“I don’t want to quit,” Jake said, softer now. “I can perform. I can travel. I just… I can’t live like this.”
Before I could answer, another voice came through the line.
