Page 33 of Forbid It

Cassie has further commitments over these dates in NYC so will not be able to attend. Please see the attached for specifics.

Kind regards,

Lane

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

cc: [email protected]; [email protected]

Subject: Summer Itinerary | LA Rebels

Cass will make it work.

Sent from my iPhone

“Tell him you’re spending time with your mother and put your phone away,” Mom snaps from across the table. We’re at Bon Bon, the Michelin star restaurant in New York that my mother dines at four times a month. The ceilings are high, and the table cloth beneath our plates is pristine and white, with black tie liveried waiters waiting nearby to take our orders and refill our nearly empty wine glasses.

I place my phone face down and bite my tongue. I’m already exhausted from the red eye I caught last night, the interview I had this morning, and the meeting about a brand deal straight after. I barely had time to pick up the guitar I keep at my mom’s place before she ushered me out the door to the restaurant. I don’t know why she insists on these lunches with just the two of us when I know she’d rather be mingling with every other person in the room.

But once she discovered how much time I was spending in my father’s box at the stadium, she insisted on these monthly lunches on the East Coast.

I’ve only been to four games so far, but ensuring I spend every weekend in LA has meant there’s very little time at home, very little time on the water, and even less time to think about Robbie King and how he turned me down. Again.

How many more times am I going to go for it before I take the hint? A part of me, the logical side of my brain, says right fucking now, but I can’t help myself. It’s like as soon as I’m in his vicinity, all logic falls out of my head and into my vagina.

“Have you ladies decided?” the waiter asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.

“Yes,” Mom says, folding her menu in half. “We’ll have two kale salads.”

“I really wanted the chicken,” I feebly protest as the waiter sweeps the menu from my hands.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Cassandra,” Mom says, glancing around the room with a wave. “That’s Magdalene over there, do you want her to think you have an appetite?”

I close my eyes so she doesn’t see them rolling into the back of my head. My mother is the definition of a Momager. While my dad took care of the business side of my career, my mom took care of the front. Every stylist, nutritionist, or acting coach was approved by her. I was only able to shake them off when I left my producing team three years ago. My contract was up, and I begged my dad to intervene, to let me cut the nursing strings a little and figure it out for myself. He let me on the stipulation that I prove I can do it, and the sold out tour that followed defied all our expectations.

“What’s the latest with your album?” Mom asks.

I glance around to spot any prying eyes. It’s always the biggest question any artist is asked post-tour. It doesn’t matter that I only managed to walk through my front door six months ago, finally able to sleep in my own bed after a fourteen-month-long worldwide tour. I love touring, I love meeting new fans and seeing new places, but I also want to be home sometimes too.

Once, I calculated that I only averaged about ten nights a year in my own home. Ten.

Ten days where I could take my board out and surf the waves I bought the goddamn house for.

“It’s coming along…” Slowly. So, so slowly.

“Are you working with Daniel again?”

I take a deep breath. “I will be, yes.”

“So terrible what happened to that family. Charles was always⁠—”

“Mom,” I hiss, leaning across the table as if I can slap a hand across her mouth. “Don’t bring that up here.”

My mother does admittedly look quite sheepish as she takes another sip of wine. “Well, when are you seeing him again?”

“Mom, he’s only just got back from his honeymoon.”