Page 1 of Can’t Say No

1

DELANEY

I’m so screwed.

An ear-piercing screech echoes through the massive speakers at the foot of the stage, cutting my backing track in the middle of the chorus. The crowd, bless their hearts, keeps sing-shouting along to a lesser known track from my last record. A fact that I’m definitely rubbing in my team’s face since they doubted anyone would know this song.

“It just doesn’t have the same staying power as some of your better songs.”

Staying power my ass.

The arena is electric, an acapella version of my lyrics filling the space, wafting from the floor seats all the way up to the rafters. The crowd is a mix of teens and their moms who are undoubtedly here to see the headlining act, a social media starlet on a meteoric rise to fame, and a slightly older set of young women who are clearly tried and true Delaney James fans.

I shoot a death glare over to the sound tech, who’s cowering just off stage, and make a mental note to fire the person who cut this song from my set. I mouth fuck you, along with a mostly hidden middle finger for good measure.

With my perfectly practiced pop-star smile back in place, I turn to face my adoring fans, “Well, I guess that’s my cue!” I scream out to the crowd, projecting the hell out of my voice since they cut my mic, “Love you guys!”

Walking backward, I blow kisses and wave with an elegance that would make Miss America jealous. That is, until I trip on the stupid fucking heels my stylist insisted I wear.

Gasps, grimaces, and then, laughter, ripple back through the crowd.

All semblance of grace gone, I scramble to my feet, looking more like a baby giraffe than the nation’s sweetheart, and rush backstage.

I’m met with slow, disapproving head shakes from my whole team as I pass. My bold choice to play some of my old songs is starting to look a little less bold and a lot more stupid. The deep scowl on my manager's face screams you’re an idiot.

Yup, I’m totally screwed.

The sound of cameras clicking at one end of the hall pushes me towards my raging manager, Remi, at the other end. Night five of a twelve-week arena tour, and I’m already pissing everyone off. Booked as an opening act for Molly Jo, the rising star poised to dethrone me, I’m not sure why my manager is so shocked by my behavior.

Which, if I do say so myself, is not nearly as bad as everyone is acting like it is. I just stayed on stage a little longer than I was meant to. Simply poor time management skills on my end. And sure, the stage manager was fussing in my earpiece and the crew was waving at me from the wings, but I was in the zone, lost in my craft, and I didn’t notice.

At least, that’s the story I’m going with.

“Get your ass over here now!” Remi squeaks out through gritted teeth.

One last glance over my shoulder at the pressing horde of paparazzi, and I’m clicking down the hall as fast as these ridiculous heels will carry me. Remi grabs me roughly by the upper arm and practically drags me out the side door of the arena and into the waiting town car.

I rub my arm, the sting from her freshly manicured nails grounding me in my depressing reality, even as the tequila swirling in my veins threatens to pull me under.

I’ll add that to my list of excuses. One too many ranch waters and I lost track of time. I’m sure the press will eat that shit up.

I can see the headlines now:

Pop Princess Drinks Too Much and Makes a Fool of Herself at Concert.

It has a good ring to it.

Remi says nothing as we drive away from the venue, she just yanks out her phone and starts ferociously tapping away.

Damage control. Again.

I let my head fall back against the seat, closing my eyes and preparing for the inevitable ass-chewing from my team. Long gone are the phone calls showering me with praise for yet another incredible performance. Nowadays, I get to sit in meetings and hear all about how I’m a washed-up has-been and how the younger generation has more talent in their little fingers than I’ve ever shown.

Remi’s voice cuts into my spiral, talking low and angry to someone speaking with equal vitriol on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah, I’ll put it on speaker.”

I keep my eyes closed tight, willing myself not to care, willing myself to be anywhere but here. If I try hard enough, I swear I can feel the gentle breeze off Crescent Lake and can hear the water lapping at the shore. I haven’t been back in nearly a decade, but I go there so often in my mind that the memory still feels fresh, like I’m sixteen again, before I had to leave that life behind.