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This woman is pure fucking gold.
This is the Isla that I’ve come to know, fierce and unstoppable.
Isla goes down the hall to tell her mother and father that we’re leaving. I asked if she wanted me to go with her, but she said she could handle it on her own. I have no doubts about that. We’re getting the hell out of this shitty little city and skipping the wedding, if it even happens now. Something inside me highly doubts he’ll have the balls to tell his bride-to-be what he did last night, though.
I finish packing up my things and sit on the bed. Thoughts of my mom come out of nowhere, or that’s what I think at first. But then I realize it’s probably resurfacing because of all this stuff with Isla and Manuel. How he just up and left her out of nowhere, too.
“I love you, but I have to think about myself,” she said. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and I knew that meant she was serious. She tied it back when she did anything serious at all. When she cleaned, when she knew she was about to brawl with my dad, when she wanted to have a talk with me, like now.
“Think about me!” I screamed at her. “Your kid!” I was five years old, but I had already lived a hundred lifetimes in those five short years. I’d seen more than a five-year-old should. I had been involved in more conversations than a child should have ever been involved in. I saw my drunk father beat her, watched the bruises form on her face as I cradled her in my arms in my twin-sized bed, refusing to sleep in case he came back for her. I still remember the pattern in which they faded. Red, blue, purple, green, yellow. Almost a whole ass rainbow.
“I can’t take you with me, Bordeaux. I have nothing to give to you. Your grandma will help as long as you’re here. She will look after you, I promise. I can’t give you the kind of life you need or deserve.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. I stood looking at her with Thomas, my stuffed teddy bear best friend. At that moment, I hated her. I hated her for leaving me with my father, for what she was about to do, for the life she took away from me.
“Just go then!” I screamed. “Go! I never want to see you again, so you better never come back!” I had heard my father scream those words a million times, and I became him to protect my heart from breaking into a million pieces. I hardened myself against the bullshit that had been assigned to me at birth and chose to hate her instead of miss her. It’s easier that way.
My cell phone vibrates against the fake wood of the nightstand next to the bed where it’s still charging. I pick it up, pulling myself as far as possible from those memories, and see that it’s my manager.
“Bordeaux!” she huffs. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days. What the fuck are you doing?” I physically jerk the phone back from my ear to shield myself from her high-pitched shrill.
“I’m at a wedding thing. And you have not called once, so don’t give me that crap, Carleeta.”
Hellfire Records spun my band into instant stardom but at the price of our souls.
I’ve chosen to spend my time off as far away from everything to do with Hellfire, aside from my bandmates, who I’ve been keeping in touch with damn near every single day. I love them, I just hate our label.
“Your Midwest tour has been finalized, and you need to come into the headquarters with the guys and Declan so we can go over logistics. You’ll need to be here Monday.” She hangs up and I lock my phone, resisting the urge to throw it against the wall.
Before we made it big, we dreamed of being signed to a major label and touring the world, just us and our instruments, doing what we love for millions of screaming fans. What we didn’t realize was that it wouldn’t be that simple, not with Hellfire behind us.
We were told what we could play, how we’d play it, and the amount of time we were allowed to mingle with fans and sign memorabilia. Everything from the time we woke up to the time we slept was scheduled while on tour. Our first studio album was compiled of songs none of us really even liked, let alone enjoyed playing. I’ve always loved to write songs, or just write in general, but the label won’t even look at any of the things I write. They get their shitty songs from shitty writers and know they can profit off it, so why let us have any say?
We were nothing more than record label guinea pigs for them to try out new ideas on.
We’ve been allowed slivers of leniency over the past few years but still, it’s nothing we ever thought it would be.
And now, I’ve found Isla and I’m going to be forced to leave her to tour the Midwest, singing songs I hate and essentially lying to my fans about enjoying it. Miller, Declan, Flynn, and I are counting down the days until our contract is up and we can get the fuck away from Hellfire.
The four of us love the people who love us. We appreciate that they sing along to our songs—even if we hate the songs we sing—but we cannot wait to put out music that we believe in.
I send a text in the chat group the four of us have, asking them if they all got calls about Monday, to which I get a resounding yes, along with angry faces and middle finger emojis.
Declan: Carleeta is such a bitch. I’m so sick of the way she talks down to me like I’m a fucking child.
Miller: 385 days to go, guys. We can do this.
Flynn: Fuckers. Maybe they’ll be bit more lenient with us during this tour.
Me: I don’t want to be a downer, but let’s not get our hopes up. We just have to keep our heads down, do what they say, not break the contract, and come out the other side with our fucking dignity intact.
While I wait for Isla to return, and to keep my mind off her situation, I talk to the band. I want my phone in my palm in case Isla calls or texts or needs anything at all.
We chat a bit about what we expect from this short tour, the things we want to bring up to the team on Monday, and how we can come together to try to get the things we want. I know in the back of my mind that most of what we say will go in one ear and out the other, but I want to at least bring up the things we’ve talked about together.
I don’t know how to tell Isla that I’m leaving. Not now that we’ve finally made this connection. She has to know that it’s part of the territory, though. People like me have no choice but to leave, even if we don’t want to.
Twenty-Three
Isla
