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Just like how she was failing now, letting the band down with her lack of creativity. Letting every single person in the studio audience down. She glanced away.I don’t deserve their admiration. They have no idea how screwed up I am,she thought.
“Yes, the cocaine,” she said. Then the simmering recklessness boiled over, the idea of just sharing all of it sending a thrill coursing through her. It was the same kind of rush she’d get when she got high, and she grabbed onto it without thinking twice. Lauren locked eyes with Martin.
“After our first album debuted at number one and then went platinum, everything exploded for us. Everyone knew who we were, wanted to be around the band. Whatever we asked for, we got. No one batted an eye—it didn’t matter how outrageous the request was.”
In a flash of memory, she remembered one time Stevie had asked for a llama, and one was waiting in his hotel room. It had ruined the room and spit on Stevie. The hotel had politely told them to never come back.
“I thought I was a grown-up—a responsible adult,” she said. “But really, I was barely twenty-one years old. A kid in a grown-up suit with no supervision, a seemingly endless supply of money, and a wild lifestyle.”
She turned her head slightly to the side, angled away from the audience, and gazed past Martin’s shoulder to hide the pain. It gave her a moment to collect herself, reassert some control before she saidtoomuch.
“And emotionally, I wasn’t in a good place,” she said. “I’d been through a rough couple of years—lots of ups and downs that started when I left home. It’s hard. Leaving everything you know—everyone you love. You don’t realize what a big hole it can leave in you, how empty you canreallybe inside. And I tried filling it with all the wrong people and all the wrong things.” She bumped her fist against her chest. That kind of pain was all too familiar.
“You certainly generated your share of headlines,” Martin said.
Lauren’s retort was quick. “Hopefully I still do—but for different reasons.”
“Of course—” He tried to backpedal but Lauren cut him off.
“—But you’re right. I acted out. A lot. There are a couple hotels that still have me blacklisted, even after all these years. Everyone jokes about that, but frankly, it’s embarrassing. I went to too many wild parties, closed down too many clubs. I put way too much snow up my nose. I was destroying myself—and the band—and it took a long time for me to realize that.”
“What changed? What brought you to that realization?”
Lauren could hear the eagerness in Martin’s voice, the hope he was going to get some sort of bombshell revelation. She narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t enough for the TV audience to notice, but it sent a clear message to Martin—a warning that her willingness to be that exposed was running short.
“We busted our asses those first few years,” she said. “We did four albums in three years and supporting tours forallof them. By the time we didDog & Pony Show,I was in trouble. Honestly,Dog & Ponyisn’t a very good album. There are decent songs on it, but compared to the previous ones? It was so far below what the band was capable of—what I was capable of. When it tanked, I blamed everyone else. It was all their fault but never mine.”
Lauren took in a deep breath and pressed her lips together. She could feel Martin—and the audience—holding their collective breath along with her. She’d always been cagey about the moment she knew she needed help. But they wanted the truth? Fine, she’d give them the goddamn truth. Maybe then, people would stop asking her the same fucking question.
“The guys, they really laid it out for me—what I was doing to myself, what I was doing to the band,” Lauren said, her voice catching ever so slightly. “It was a come-to-Jesus meeting, and I was horrible to them.Horrible.I said things. Awful things. Things I’ll regret until the day I die. And then…” She stopped as she felt the larger tremble in her voice. Lauren took another deep breath and lifted her chin again—there was no way in hell Martin Sandoval was going to make her cry on live television.
“Then?” Martin’s voice was deceptively gentle.
“Then Augie played me a song he’d written. He said it was something he wrote to play at my memorial service. And he wanted to make sure I heard it before I died.”
Even acknowledging that song existed ripped open an old wound in her heart, leaving it raw and exposed. Hearing Augie sing that day had broken through all her denial. It had been excruciating. But it had also thrown her the lifeline she needed as she realized that someone still cared if she lived or died, even if she didn’t.
At the mention of this mystery song no one had ever heard, she saw the idea form in Martin’s head. She put an immediate stop to it: “And no,youdon’t get to hear it.No one’sever going to hear it. I made Augie promise me that.”
Lauren’s sigh was morose, and her shoulders dropped. “I can’t pinpoint exactly what about that moment made everything change. But I knew then, right then, that if I didn’t fix things—if I didn’t getright—” She tapped her head. “—I was going to lose everything. I was destroying my talent. Ruining the band. Demolishing my career practically before it even got started. I checked into rehab two days later. When I was finally off the blow and the worst of my withdrawal symptoms were over, I listened to all the albums we had out at the time. One after the other.Concrete BeachandSunset Highwayare amazing. The third one,One for the Road, is good but you can hear the decline—my decline. You canhearwhat the drugs are starting to do to me. And then I listened toDog & Pony Show.”
She looked at the floor. “The only real difference between the first one and the last was me on coke. And I promised myself I wasn’t going to be one of those singers you see ruined and desolate by the side of the road, sitting all alone in the wreckage of their careers.”
Lauren shifted in her seat, straightened her spine, and pulled her shoulders back. She was supposed to be invincible. Perfect. She offered Martin a level stare, daring him to ask another question about her addiction. He got the message.
“I know that’s a very personal subject, and I truly appreciate your willingness to be so candid with our audience tonight.” Martin looked at the camera. “Right now, we’re going to take a quick break to hear from our sponsors, and then we’ll be right back with more from Lauren Stone onBackstage.”
Lauren had never talked—in any interview—about the song Augie wrote. She spent the commercial break with her eyes closed, trying to find an inner place of peace and quiet amid the raging turbulence. It was impossible, not while one person fluffed her hair, another dabbed foundation on her cheek, and a third yelled something about the lighting. The studio audience hushed and she knew the director must have signaled they were going live again.
“Welcome back! Before the break, we were talking with Lauren Stone about the more difficult days during her early career,” Martin said. “Lauren, I appreciate you being so forthright. We’ve discussed some heavy stuff. What do you say we do a quick lightning round of fun questions?”
“Delightful.” She hoped the cool tone of her voice made it clear that delight was not the emotion she was feeling.
“Very good, then. Favorite food?”
Lauren didn’t hesitate. “Italian and pizza, no question. Best pizza I ever had was from Dom’s Pizzeria Supremo near where I grew up. Never found anything else that comes close.”
“Pets?”
