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“I’m fucking done with you,” Hank said.
“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t walk away from me. You’re employed by me, remember?” I asked.
“No, better check your damn contract, buddy. I manage you. There’s a difference. And if I feel you need a fucking P.R. representative or an assistant or a fucking rehab for that matter, you’ll damn well do it! Otherwise, the concerts come with me, and I toss your ass out on the street. Got it?”
I clenched my fists as Hank left the bus. Who the fuck did he think he was? I was Drake fucking Blackthorn. He couldn’t get rid of me. I was half his damn paycheck every fucking month! He didn’t manage anyone else like me. He didn’t have some roster of fucking famous singers he could fall back on. I was the biggest name he had.
He needed me. Not the other fucking way around.
Long ago, I didn’t need a manager to tell me how to live my life. I was happy without a stadium full of fans. I performed in front of a crowd because it was my passion and it brought me to life.
Now, I barely even recognized that man. I was a fucking actor. I was in so deep in this fictitious character I’d created for myself, so I could avoid the reality of my fucking life. The reality that had I just driven them with me that night, Shannon and Ava would still be with me now.
That man was gone.
Now. I was just fine being an empty fucking vessel.
Fuck Hank.
Fuck the world.
CHAPTER 2
Delia
My phone alarm rang at exactly ten in the morning. I cracked my knuckles and pushed back from my desk, grabbing the yoga mat stored by my feet. I rolled it out in my little cubicle and started to stretch out my limbs, ready for my five-minute break. Working at a desk all day was murder on my back, so I had to make sure I kept moving. I stretched my hands down to my toes and flattened my palms onto my mat, then walked them forward. I groaned as my lower back stretched.
Working through college was tough, but I was getting by. I refused to go into debt with my schooling, so any debt I accrued was quickly paid off within weeks of taking out the loan. I was splitting my time between classes and being a personal assistant. I sat at my desk, helping people who bought my time to coordinate their schedules and make it to their meetings on time.
It was a decent job and one that paid well. Depending on the package someone bought, they got a certain amount of my time during the week. Sometimes, people wanted counseling, someone to talk to and use as a soundboard, sharing their frequently terrible ideas before I changed everything. Sometimes people wanted me to tap into their schedules remotely and help them with their time management skills. Every once in a while, people purchased more expensive packages that required face-to-face time, but luckily, I hadn’t built a reputation for any of that.
Instead, I was known for being able to whip people’s mindsets and schedules into shape—without ever actually having to meet them in person.
It suited me well, especially considering the degree I was obtaining. I was attending Vanderbilt University to study psychology, with a focus on helping those dealing with substance abuse. Part of helping people with those types of issues was finding the triggers throughout their day that spiraled them, which meant going through their schedule and analyzing every detail.
Doing that as a remote private assistant gave me the practice and experience I needed while paying me a decent paycheck as well.
I stretched back up to the sky, reaching as high as I could. I could feel my back popping, a sign that I wasn’t taking enough breaks. I stood on my toes before I slowly bent backward, working my way into my favorite position. It always helped to lighten the load on my lower back and rush the blood to my head. The light-headed sensation gave me a chance to breathe deeply and take a pause, which helped oxygenate my blood faster.
As I was bending backwards, I caught a glimpse of a picture I kept at my desk. It was of my mom, holding me close to her when I was only nine.
Tears sprang to my eyes as I held my position. Every time I thought about her, my heart ached. She was the reason I wanted to study psychology in the first place. I wanted to try and understand my mother better. Her battle with depression raged for most of my life, and I watched her bounce from medication to medication without any luck. Psychiatrists would try to load her up on different concoctions without so much as hearing her story first, and it spiraled her into darkness I struggled with all through high school.
I came home after my last day as a senior in high school and found that she had taken her own life.
No child should ever have to see their mother like that. No person should ever have to go through seeing a loved one in that position. I sank to my back, holding back the tears as I closed my eyes.
My psychology degree was all about trying to understand her, to try and unpack her mind to figure out how a mother could leave their child behind that way. Together with the addiction that had taken my father away from me as well, I had a wealth of personal experience to put to good use.
It led me to the passion I now had burning in my gut.
A ding on my computer interrupted my thoughts. I pulled myself from the floor and wiped at my face, hoping no one walked by to see my reddened eyes. I navigated to my email and clicked on the letter, hoping it was the updated assignment my professor had sent us an alert about that morning. Instead, I saw I had a new P.A. offer.
I clicked on the email and read over the details. The moment I saw what was required of me, I hovered my mouse over the ‘decline’ button. The whole point of me taking this job was because it worked with my school schedule. I could work in my little cubby and remotely from my apartment on the weekends, and I could help people while still doing my schoolwork. I could flip between someone’s schedule and my school assignment without ever skipping a beat.
But this assignment would definitely require hands-on work.
This assignment required real-world work. Constant face-to-face interaction. I sat down in my chair as I read over the details, my mind swirling with all the things that would be required of me: updates to a manager named Hank, time management of this guy’s schedule, keeping tabs on his drinking?
