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“What, you keep track of me?” I sound hostile. Ifeelhostile. All those old memories come rolling back. The constant struggle between the band and Simon. The push and pull. The demands. The pressure.
God, the pressure of trying to measure up and failing miserably every single goddamn time.
“I still keep tabs on you, Tate. Besides, what’s the harm in me keeping track of your follower count,” Simon says, so nonchalant over the whole thing. “There are countless sites on the web that can do exactly that. And you should stop playing stupid with me. It was never a good look for you. You know exactly why you’re blowing up.”
“You tell me why you think I’m blowing up,” I throw at him, praying no one caught me doing something stupid at Scarlett Lancaster’s party.
“Your performance last night?” Simon speaks slowly, as if he’s talking to a simpleminded child who has issues comprehending information.
“Right.” I fall back onto the mattress, my head hitting the pillow with a thud. “At Scarlett Lancaster’s birthday party.”
“Yes. Why didn’t you tell me you were performing for the Lancasters?”
“Are you for real right now? Give me a break. We haven’t talked in years.” Like I’m obligated to tell him my every business move when he’s the one who dumped me. Doubt he’d care how many “happy birthday” announcements I’ve made and sold over the last year.
Quite the lucrative business venture, but I’m sick of that shit.
“That birthday party iseverywhere. All over the gossip sites. The society sites. Fashion sites. Every. Where. Scarlett Lancaster is an emerging name from a very wealthy and well-known family. They are serious old money, and her daddy is the rebel among his brothers. You singing at Scarlett’s birthday party last night has gone viral. There are videos all over the web of your performance, and Tate, you sound fucking fantastic. Women of all ages posted on social media about their reactions to your singing, and they were losing their goddamn minds over you.” Simon hesitates, like he’s sitting on a bomb and dying to drop it. “And then there’s that one photo.”
His compliments have me feeling like I’m on some sort of high. When was the last time I heard someone—Simon of all people—tell me I sounded fucking fantastic? Near the end of my career, I sounded like a dying cat squalling into a microphone. It was like my balls dropped and all of a sudden I couldn’t sing anymore. I couldn’t hit a note, let alone hold one. “What photo are you talking about?”
“You know which one.”
“I have no clue.” I rack my brain, running through last night’s events chronologically. Arriving. Being greeted by Fitzy Lancaster as if I were his long-lost friend, him handing me a check—a check—for the remaining money he owed me for my performance. Me still believing there was some sort of catch.
Who pays a has-been that kind of money?
A rich motherfucker, that’s who.
Speaking of that check, I need to make sure to walk it into my bank first thing Monday morning.
“What exactly happened last night while you were at that party anyway?” Simon asks. “Did you drink at all? Snort a line? Pop some pills?”
“Of course not.” I’m offended he thinks I still do that, but then I remember Simon and I haven’t talked in a long time. And the last time he saw me, I was still an addicted mess. “I arrived at the Plaza—on time, I might add—and performed for her birthday. That’s it.”
“What about the daughter?”
I stare at my bedroom ceiling, noting the water stain just to the right of the overhead light fixture. Need to call the super about that and have it fixed. “She was into it. I pulled her up onstage and sang her ‘Happy Birthday.’”
Wasn’t as into my performance as most of the other women, but I didn’t let that bother me.
Not too much, anyway.
“You sure all you did for Scarlett Lancaster was perform onstage?” Simon asks. “Or was there more of a performance happening...behind the scenes?”
The memory comes hurtling back, lodging itself in the forefront in my mind. Of me and Scarlett tucked away in a dark corner, bantering.
More like arguing.
Catching that photographer watching us. How he took photos of us while we argued. Me asking for her help, which resulted in us?—
“Because from what I saw, there wasn’t much talking going on between the two of you. More like you had your tongue shoved down her throat,” Simon continues.
I brace myself for a lecture, like I’m sixteen all over again and just got caught partying in a hotel room with empty liquor bottles strewn across the bed and the place trashed, a pair of wadded-up black panties left in the sheets. “Is it bad?”
“Is what bad?”
“Is what they’re saying about me and Scarlett bad?” My voice drops to a harsh whisper, and I hate how agitated I suddenly feel. How this moment takes me back a few years, when my life was out of control and I didn’t care. It was like I had a death wish. “Is the photo causing a scandal or whatever?”
