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Nicolette
“Nic, we need to go. Pierce is waiting for us at Starling.” My dad calls out from the living room of our little apartment right on sunset boulevard in Los Angeles, CA.
“I’m comin’ pop. I was tryin’ to finish my face.” I call out, coming down the hall and putting my heels on.
I’m a pop singer, and my label has called a meeting before leaving for Florida. Just before my sixteenth birthday, Starling Entertainment Industries picked me up, flying Pop and me out from our home in Tennessee to California. That was nearly five years ago.
Coming into the living room, Pop is watching the news like always. “You haven’t gone out in a few weeks. The press is starting to forget you again.”
“Is that what you think today’s rando meeting is about?”
“Could be. Come on, let’s go.” He ushers me out the door and into the waiting car, we go. “Did you eat today?”
“I had a cinnamon roll breakfast smoothie this morning after my workout.”
“Good, good.”
I hate when Pop answers me this way. I swear he is looking at his phone, not paying me any attention.
The car pulls to a stop in front of Starling, and I can already see Pierce outside pacing while on the phone.
“Pop, we’re here.”
“Okay, baby.” Pop climbs out before taking my hand to help me as well.
We walk the short distance to Pierce. He looks stressed. “Hey, P—Man, ya okay?”
Jamming his phone into his pocket, he lightly hugs me and kisses my cheek. “Look, ya gotta try an’ keep your cool. K? I—” He looks at Pop. “—we can’t have ya flyin’ off, especially if the rumors are true.” He’s talking a mile a minute, ushering us inside and past Naiomi, the receptionist.
“What rumors this time? Did I miss somethin’?”
“I won’t entertain it. There’s no way. I mean, you cut a record in quarantine, for fuck’s sake.” Pierce is chewing the side of his thumb. A sure sign he’s not telling me everything he knows.
“And? What’s that got to do with the price of tea in China?” I look from Pierce to Pop. Both not looking at me. This is not going to be good.
Coming off the elevator, it’s business as ever on the thirtieth floor. We don’t stop walking until we’re in front of Rosie, Mitchem’s secretary.
“Rosie, hi babe, we have a meet with—” Pierce is cut off.
“Mister Crier is waiting.” Rosie stands, and we follow her to the door. “Can I get anyone anything? A beverage? Coffee? Sparkling water?” We shake our heads as she announces us. “Mister Crier, Nikki B, Mister Richards, and Mister Bennett are here.”
Mitchem Crier—the label’s executive and the man that signed me—stands. Then, I spy David Spencer, my lawyer, and Jerry Wallace council for Starling. We haven’t all been in the same room together since the day I signed my contract almost three years ago.
“David?” I question as I’m led to a seat. “What’s going on? I should be getting on a plane to go to Flordia.”*
“Just have a seat, Nikki. This won’t take long,” Mitchem says, with an edge to his voice. David just sighs, shaking his head. I sit, and Pop stands behind me, hands on either side of my chair. My heart is pounding, and my anxiety is starting to show. “Nikki, if it was going to happen, I wanted to be the one to tell you—”
I cut him off right there. “Tell me what? What is it? Am I not going to Flordia? Do you want me somewhere else? For cryin’ out loud, just spit it out.” I rub my chest, where my heart is beating uncontrollably.
I feel Pop’s hands as they rub my shoulders. “Nic, calm down.”
“Yes, please.” Mitchem stresses. “Your first album Juici was a sensation. They were calling you the next princess of pop. You sold over a million records. Do you know how hard it is to go platinum on a first record? We had such high hopes for you.”
“Had? What do you mean had?” I jump up from my seat. I’m starting to boil. “I’ve done everything you God-forsaken people have told me to! I sing what you tell me to. I do dances I have no business doing, and let’s be frank, I got an album done on time during a pandemic when I should have been staying home and safe.” I snap.
“This is exactly the issue. Your attitude, you act like we owe you something. I plucked you out of obscurity. Without this label, you’d be slinging dishes and singing karaoke like the rest of the wannabes. We gave you a shot. A two-album deal and a hundred grand advance. But let’s face it, you didn’t give nearly enough heat or heart to Double Shot between your tantrums and doctor visits, and your sales reflect that.” Mitchem shakes his head, pushing a stack of paper at me. “This is your contract. You read it. You signed it. We have decided that based on the fact that the new album cost us more to produce than it’s made, we are flatlining it and you.”
