Page 3 of Love Is a War Song

The public was in an uproar now, but my music video hadn’t even dropped. That would be the final nail in my coffin. Though I was sure the music video and the album would be scrapped by my record company to save face with the public.

This company was a machine and the rich old white men at the top were never subtle about letting me know just how small and inconsequential I was within it.

I never wanted “I Need a Warrior Tonight” to be on my album, period, let alone my lead single.

I had brought recordings of my own songs.

I wanted songs heavy on piano like Alicia Keys’s.

Not that I had her vocal range, but I wanted lyrics that flowed like poetry.

I had walked into the meeting with Grand Records with rose-colored glasses.

They offered a ten-album deal with real money on the table.

My heart sank when they laughed off my ideas.

They wanted a sexy Native pop star on their roster.

The people demanded diversity, and this was their plan to expand.

It was clear if I said no, then they would just find someone else.

I wanted to sing more than anything in this world.

I couldn’t let this opportunity I had worked for since I was a child go to someone else.

So, I agreed to do the album their way, in hopes that if I showed up and didn’t ruffle any feathers then they would let me include my own songs.

If I kept paying my dues, then the next album would be all me—my vision.

I threw myself back on the floor, arms over my eyes, and wanted to sink into the carpet forever.

We all fucked up, but I was the one posing wearing a feather headdress.

I never stopped to ask if it was okay, or what image of myself I wanted out in the world.

I blindly followed orders doing what I was told like a lamb to slaughter.

Where was the public outrage for the men who controlled my future as a new artist?

“Get up,” my mother ordered.

“No,” I sniffled. What I wanted and needed was a hug and I couldn’t even remember the last time she gave me one—at least one that was genuine.

When did our relationship change to all business?

My life was never normal, but this was something I needed to work on in therapy.

How could I get my mother back to being my mom?

I was in a crisis. I didn’t need to be coddled all the time, but at this particularly distressing time, it would be nice to just have a mom, not a manager.

“Dry your eyes and get ready. Where’s Chelsea?

What are we paying her for?” My mother started pacing the room.

“You just need to get through this performance and then tomorrow, we’ll go on the offense on social media and all the daytime shows.

I haven’t spoken to my mother in years, but to save you I’ll do it.

Don’t ever say I’ve never done anything for you. ”

I sat up from the floor. “What? You were serious about that? You never talk about grandma or Oklahoma.”

My mother sat down on the edge of the bed and rubbed her temples.

All my life when I asked if we had family, all she said was they were dead to her.

As a five-year-old, I thought that meant they were all actually dead.

Then, when I was thirteen, I understood the nuance.

My mother hated her family. When I tried to ask why, she would snap at me to mind my business and go back to studying my lines.

I never received Christmas gifts or birthday cards from this family. I did remember one phone call my mother had when I was little. I couldn’t hear what was said on the other end of the line, but I heard my mother say clear as day, “Never contact us again.”

That was the first and only hint I had that the family tried to connect with us. But it was just me and my mother, who was always younger than all the other moms at my auditions and worked twice as hard as everyone I knew. All I wanted was to make her life easy and to sing.

Singing was my refuge. I auditioned and acted in whatever Mom asked me to.

But singing is what I did for just me. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d hum melodies, riffing off my favorite songs until they became something new.

When I was nervous, I’d quietly sing to myself.

Right now, the music in me was dead. What if I could never sing again?

I jumped when there was a knock on the door.

Texas was an open carry state, and thanks to all the creepy hate mail—thirty percent were vague death threats, and the other almost seventy were overt and explicit ones, a small portion was bizarre and gross love letters—I now needed my label to hire a bodyguard for me.

And seeing as how the call with Niles ended rather poorly, I doubted they would spring for one.

My mom took one last deep breath, then walked to the door to look in the peephole. I knew whoever was on the other side was friendly, because my mom immediately unlocked the locks and opened the door.

Chelsea solemnly walked in with My$teriou$ Money on her heels. My usually chipper friend was looking at the ground, and My$teriou$ was wearing dark sunglasses inside, so I couldn’t tell where he was looking, but I had a feeling it was not at me.

“Good, you’re here. Let’s get Avery ready.” My mother’s cool tone left no room for conversation as she closed the door and the security lock.

“Well, um…” Chelsea lowered herself onto the floor next to me as My$teriou$ dropped into the wingback chair, his diamond-encrusted chains jingling like wind chimes.

I sat up and looked at my friend. She had been my best friend for the last four years, since we hired her to go on the road with me as my hair and makeup artist. She was my ride-or-die bitch, but right now her spunk was gone.

Her blond hair was twisted back into a claw clip, and she was rocking the “clean girl” clear glossy makeup, looking like she could rival one of the Hadid sisters. But her expression was bleak.

This wasn’t going to be good. I turned to My$teriou$.

“You’re cutting me out of the lineup.” It was not a question, because I knew there was only one reason he was here.

“Avery, baby, you know I love you. These threats have my team worried, and I have to look out for the safety of everyone I employ. I was told a naked man wearing war paint broke into the venue shouting that he is your warrior, and he was going to take you.”

“A man did what ?” I’ve had my fair share of adoring fans who had crossed boundaries, but nothing to this extreme.

My$teriou$ waved off my concern. “The police got him and I hope he gets some professional help. We just can’t have this around a show that’s supposed to be about celebrating creativity. No one can guarantee your safety while you’re onstage. What if they start throwing things at you?”

I hadn’t thought anyone would try to actually hurt me while I was performing. What if they hurt the band or dancers? I couldn’t have anyone come to harm because of me. “Yeah, I get it. My$teriou$, I appreciate you telling me in person.”

“It’s Sean in private.” He jumped up from his seat with a speed I didn’t think possible while wearing all that gold and diamonds. I stood from the floor to give him a hug.

“I’ll see you after the show, babe?” he asked Chelsea.

She still sat on the floor and nodded. My$teriou$ bent to give her a kiss and then was out the door.

“Unbelievable!” my mother shrieked as I sat back down next to Chelsea. The sound popped the tension in the room.

This was just another blow to my mother and all her plans.

“Enough, Mom! There is nothing you or I can do. Everyone hates me and my song. I’m not performing tonight or any night.” My voice cracked, and I had to take a deep breath to stop the tears from starting up again.

“Don’t say that! This could totally blow over as soon as the internet has something else to talk about,” Chelsea tried to reassure me.

“I’m reviewing the contract. They can’t just cut you and let you fall into obscurity.

Surely with a ten-album contract we could try something new with the next one.

” My mother was already at the desk and opening her laptop.

“I’m not letting the mob bully us. People are all talk, honey.

No one is going to try to harm you for a cover on a magazine.

” She put on her readers and focused on her screen.

I couldn’t stay in this hotel suite with my angry mother.

All I had ever wanted to do was sing and perform my songs and now that was off the table all because of a photo.

My career was over and the melodies that always danced around my brain were gone.

That hurt the most. My penance for being so stupid and always going along with everything.

“What am I going to do?” I whispered so that my mother wouldn’t hear me. Not that it really mattered—once she was in contract land reading all the legalese she wouldn’t notice if my hair caught fire.

“Maybe you can post an apology on YouTube?” Chelsea offered.

“What, like a disgraced YouTuber?” She opened her mouth to speak. “If you suggest I sing the apology, then I’m throwing you out.”

Chelsea immediately shut her mouth and crossed her arms. “It was just a suggestion,” she muttered.

I let out another sigh since that appeared to be all I could do at this point.

“I need to get out of here.” It felt like the walls of the suite were closing in. I needed fresh air.

“I don’t know, Avery. People really hate you right now. Maybe we should just get room service and watch a movie.”

“Aha! They can’t just drop you. I’m calling our lawyer!” my mother exclaimed, practically giddy, and picked up her cell phone.

“Nope, I’m not staying in here for that call. Let’s go.” I jumped up off the floor and tugged Chelsea up, dragging her to the bathroom. I shed the robe and kicked it aside. I was wearing leggings and a T-shirt.