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Stalkers Ruin Everything
My music video for Illusions,the single that spent seven weeks at number one on the Top 40 chart, had attracted a lot of hate. Hate that had nothing to do with my lyrics, but rather the brilliant videographer someone had hired who became a little too politically artsy. With my life.
I thought I’d just been wearing a sexy military outfit for filming, something a babe in a video game or cartoon would wear. I mean, sexy-flirty-cutting edge was the image I was going for with my albums. The Lacey Connor brand was all about being the girl of your dreams, the girl next door who liked video games and apple pie… and sexy lingerie. Rebellious enough that I’d thrill you, but not so rebellious that you couldn’t bring me home to Momma.
As Rolling Stone described me, I was ‘Fifty Shades of Americana.’
It was annoying, and not really what I’d wanted, but I’d fallen into the trap that the record label had set for me and there was no way out. At least not until my interminable contract ended, which would probably be never.
Like most artists, only about twenty-five percent of what the public knew about me was reality. The rest was all PR and spin. And yet, it worked, or rather I didn’t fight it. Illusions was already multi-platinum, and the American leg of the tour was making a fuckton of money. But the Illusions video, or specifically the thirty seconds I wore that midriff top tied off just under my breasts, had pissed off the wrong people.
That, combined with the American flag on my ass, turned out to be a terrible offense to a certain faction of people. I’d made a mockery of their military service, they’d said. I was unpatriotic. Some even called me a communist. I was none of those things, but when people wanted to believe something about you, it was freaking hard to change their minds.
Sure, I’d offended people before. I’d never get an invite from certain churches after the lead single off my previous album, Goin’ To The Chapel, which had lyrics about things that probably shouldn’t happen in or around a pulpit.
But pissing off the Concerned Ladies of the First Church of East Fuck-All was one thing. The people I pissed off with Illusions were another. As in, assassinations and death threats.
No kidding. People wanted me dead.
And all I was trying to do was write my music and keep my head down.
So I sat in my plane seat, exhausted and frazzled, waiting for the all clear. At least I had a month off to recover, get my head right. And maybe, just maybe, those psycho assholes would find someone else to be pissed off at and level their threats at in the meantime. My PR team said if I just apologized and laid low for a while, it would all blow over.
But they did step up our security measures. In fact, I think there was a whole new set of cameras being installed in my home at that very moment.
So far, the threats had been limited to nasty comments and videos posted to social media. But when we had to hire extra security and the FBI got involved… yeah, that was going to weigh on my nerves.
Finally, the head flight attendant came forward and told Rick, the head of my security team, that the plane was clear. He immediately tapped the earpiece he had, looking like a Secret Service agent from a movie or something, and spoke quietly to the rest of the ‘airport team’ before turning around to face me. “Miss Connor, the route’s clear. Seth and I will escort you to the limo, where Parker will drive us to your home.”
I nodded, too tired to really give a shit about the details. “Okay. Thanks.”
I stood up, looking at the overhead bin, but neither Rick, who had been with me since my last album and knew all about me and my personal details, or Seth, his protege, moved to take my bag.
“Well? Prada bags don’t carry themselves, you know.”
God, I was a bitch.
Seth said nothing, standing up and going to the doorway, while Rick gave me an even look. “Sorry, Miss Connor, but you know the rule. We’re your security team, not personal assistants. If my hands are full with your bags, I can’t protect you to the best of my ability.”
I bristled, clenching my jaw. There I was, physically and mentally exhausted after a two-hour long concert that included enough dancing that I burned through calories like an Olympic swimmer, my muscles both burning and feeling like Jell-O, and I was to carry my own fucking bag? Luckily, before I could lay into Rick, my manager Oliver jumped to the rescue.
“I’ve got it, Lacey,” he said, opening the overhead. “I’m sure I can find one of those cart things.”
* * *
