Page 33 of Now Their Starlet

“Yeah,” I let out a deep breath. “This is where you tell me to focus on the stuff we can change, right?”

“Took the words right out of my mouth.” Eli reaches out and massages the back of my neck, his thumbs digging gently into my pulse point. I melt into his touch like butter on a hot summer’s day. “You feel better?”

“Yeah,” I nod, taking another sip of my water. The lump in my throat that’s been a constant companion at merely the thought of performing seems to have settled. “You know, if things get serious with Andi—though I’m honestly not sure how much more serious bonding would be compared to coming up with a whole legal plan to save her—Edison would be our father-in-law.”

“Maybe having him as a father-in-law will make up for the mother-in-law from the fuckin’ seventh circle of hell.”

“He’s pretty dope, but I’m not sure anything will make up for that.” I crack my knuckles and shake my hands out. “Okay, I think I’m ready. Let’s do this.”

I make it back to the makeshift stage, handing my water bottle to Eli, who waits on the sidelines.

“You feeling better?” Cameron asks, lifting up his sunglasses to meet my gaze head on.

“Yeah,” I nod, reaching up to massage the back of my neck. It’s a poor imitation of Eli’s soothing touch, but it grounds me enough to swallow down my embarrassment. “I’ve got my shit together a bit more.”

“No need to talk about yourself like that,” Cameron says, leaning down to adjust some of the settings on one of the three cameras we have set up. Apparently, Edison’s big on having multiple angles.

It makes me wonder what Andi would look like working with Cameron and Edison. The three of them all know their stuff, but approach things from such different perspectives.

“Hey,” Cameron says, his brows drawing down. His gaze roams across my face, taking in the subtle changes in my expression. “We’re gonna get her back, okay? Promise. The universe... It’s not cruel enough to leave Andi in a situation like that.” His jaw works and he averts his gaze, staring out at the view without actually taking it in. “We won’t let it. I won’t let it.”

“Yeah,” I nod, taking a deep, steadying breath.

I step up onto the makeshift stage, picking up my electric guitar and slinging the strap over my shoulder before sliding it so it’s upside down on my back. I need my hands free because Everett and I set up a whole bunch of loops on the BeatPad for the synths.

I always do live music videos for my lead singles. They were easier to film in my bedroom growing up with Leo or Eli’s help because it was just me and my guitar. But this song is different.

But I can do this. I’ve practiced. I know exactly what I’ve got to do and when I’ve got to do it.

I meet everyone’s gazes, and they all give me supportive nods.

“Action!” Edison calls out.

I can do this.

CHAPTER 9

Andi

Ifeel like I’m wasting away in here. Probably because I am.

It’s been almost a week since that charity gala. Despite the almost torturous, overstimulating process of getting ready, there’s a part of me that misses the hint and taste of freedom of being outside.

The one good thing about being locked away in here is that I my lack of access to the internet means I can’t see what people are saying about me.

I’m sure it’s nasty.

I’ve always put on a front that I don’t give a shit, that I don’t care. You kind of have to build a thicker skin when you put yourself out on the internet like I have with my vlogs and social media career. Some people are stupid. If you imagine the most average person out there, half the people on the planet are stupider than that. My point is, you can’t be everyone’s cup of tea.

I certainly wasn’t, and nothing will change that.

The thing is, after starting that “fake” relationship with Beck that very quickly turned real, it exposed me to a whole new level of internet fandom scrutiny I hadn’t been exposed to before. Add in this whole conservatorship mess, and I’m sure people are running wild with the narrative that I’m some insane bitch.

As someone who grew up on a reality TV show that was scripted to the Gods, I know the ways that the public will pounce on narratives painting someone as the villain and the other as the victim. Both have their downsides.

Obviously, being painted as a villain sucks, but being painted as a victim comes with an almost covetous, parasocial relationship. They put you in a box and you’re not allowed to step foot outside of it or everything will crumble down around you.

I stare at my ceiling, feeling a familiar tightness in my chest.