Page 3 of Song Bird Hearts (Green River Hearts #4)
Valerie
I ’m back in the dressing room, sitting on the floor with Kevin on my lap. I don’t care that the pants I’m wearing cost five hundred dollars. I don’t care that someone clearly didn’t sweep the floor before I set up in here. I just need a good hug from my pig. It helps. A little.
The trophy for best new artist sits on the dressing room table, glittering in the shitty lighting. It feels like it’s mocking me. Shouldn’t it feel better?
The door bursts open and my manager walks in.
Kelly is the kind of person you’d expect to work for a record label.
She’s thin and pretty, perfectly manicured.
She always wears five-inch heels no matter if we play in a field or a stadium.
Her voice is high and nasally, a habit she tried to kick to be a singer herself.
When she didn’t make it, I guess she decided being a manager was the next best thing.
That resentment coats most of our interactions despite me having nothing to do with her failure.
We’re not friends. I don’t think we ever could be.
Our working relationship depends only on my ability to ignore her snide remarks and sniffs of annoyance at Kevin.
“Congratulations,” she says when she sweeps inside. “Our investment in you paid off.”
My face tightens. “Gee Golly, Kelly. That almost felt genuine. Did you practice that in the mirror before coming in here?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. I did actually.” She pulls out her phone.
“It’s good for business. The label wants you to go on tour.
The new album is gonna focus on the theme of heartbreak.
They really like the soul you added in there.
Also, we need to find a man with his own following willing to pretend you guys are dating for PR.
The public break ups always do well for heartbreak albums.”
I scowl. “I’m not pretending to date someone for PR.”
“Then actually date someone. I don’t care. At this point, even a regular Joe Schmoe will be good for marketing. Any guys back home you’d like to call up?”
I grimace. No. I’m not calling any of my old boyfriends. Especially because most of them would jump at the chance. These days, no one seems genuine. I can count the people I trust on one hand.
“No,” is my only answer.
Kelly sighs. “Whatever. I’ll workshop that with the big boss. In the meantime, there’s an afterparty happening outside of Nashville. Swanky place. You’re gonna love it.”
“I’m tired?—”
“Sorry. That wasn’t negotiable, Val. The label wants you at the party. They say appear, you appear.”
I scowl. “I’m a grown ass woman. If I don’t want to party, then I shouldn’t have to.”
“You’re a grown ass woman who depends on the label for your paycheck,” Kelly fires back. “Get your shit together, Val. This is the big leagues. You do what you’re told.”
I think about pushing back, about refusing and making a big deal.
But. . . Kelly is right. At least for now.
One day, I’ll be big enough that I don’t have to make appearances, big enough I can do whatever I want, but right now, at the beginning of my fame, I have to do the groundwork just like everyone else.
“One hour,” I grumble. “That’s all I’m willing to give.”
“Deal,” Kelly says, no smile wasted on the likes of me. “Maybe do some of your livestreaming. Your fans eat that shit up. God knows why. You’re boring a.f.”
Yes. She literally says “a.f.” instead of “as fuck.” This is what I deal with every day.
I sigh. Giving up more of my privacy shouldn’t be the answer, but I do really enjoy interacting with my fans despite the insanity of fame.
It’s the one thing that keeps me going. They’re the reason I’m here.
Many of them have followed me since the beginning, when I was still touring around Wyoming and playing in small dive bars.
Plenty of them ask for songs I wrote instead of the label’s bullshit.
I’m hoping the label starts to listen soon.
I’m brutally honest with my fans, telling them I’m not allowed to play my own songs yet.
The label didn’t like it at first, but it seems to be good PR for me, so they allow it.
Funny what a company will allow when they think it’ll make them money.
“Can I at least change?” I ask Kelly, gesturing to the brown outfit I’m wearing.
She nods. “I already picked out an outfit for you. It’s hanging on the hooks.”
I look over at the black outfit with a turquoise belt. Plain. Simple. Conservative. Pretty but not what I’d choose myself.
“Great,” I grumble, grabbing the clothing. My loneliness crashes down on me so heavy, I have to swallow it back down. This is what it takes to be famous. This is what it takes. I can do this.
I have to.