Page 1 of Brutal Secrets

Chapter One

Billionaires are cheapskates. No one ever tells you this when you’re sitting in a trailer, dreaming of fountains of champagne and walls of diamonds and glitter, not a grimy room with a sticky carpet.

The paint is yellowed with nicotine, the air is dusty and stale, and unidentifiable marks and smeared fingerprints smudge the walls. It looks like someone was clawing to get out of here. I shake away images of the many famous singers who’ve flown to Moscow to play for a million dollars an hour only to find themselves desperate to get back home.

Topped the Billboard 100 last year? Get backstage and don’t bother the important people at the party. Can’t walk down the street in Nashville without getting mobbed for selfies? Go and wait in the broom cupboard until we need you.

At least Jimmy leaves me alone here and I don’t have to cringe away from his disgusting touch.

Jimmy thinks I should watch my figure, but if I could choose, I’d ask for a basket of fried chicken and a few bags of Skittles at every stop. I run my hands down my waist, smoothing the spandex and letting my nails catch against the gold sequins. As I roll my shoulders in a circle, they make a clicking noise.

Every muscle in my body is bunched into tight knots after the flight from Nashville. Jimmy drank bourbon after bourbon at the start of the flight, knocking them back and talking about the careers he’d made and the singers he’d dropped when they didn’t do what he said. As his words started to slur, the threats became less thinly veiled. Thankfully he fell asleep and drooled onto his Ralph Lauren jacket before getting too close. Only then had my muscles relaxed, but the damage was done.

I’d love a massage, but Jimmy would just see that as another reason to put his hands all over me, and I’m already shrinking away from him—quite literally, as I think I’ve never weighed less.

All I wanted was freedom, but I’ve never been less free in my life since hitting the charts.

I flop onto the worn sofa and rest my boots against the wall. Add some footprints to the grime and make the next pop star wonder if someone was actually attempting an escape. I pull the crumpled blue envelope out of my old leather backpack and run my fingertips over the faded pictures as if they’re talismans.

Tracing the image of me on my dad’s shoulders at a Rolling Stones concert, I feel a sharp stab at how much I miss him. He looks so alive and vibrant as he effortlessly holds me up, his dark-skinned hands wrapped around my little legs as I reach toward the sky.

The second image is from a few years later. My father and I sit at a table with my grandma, her wild blond curls haloed round her head. She and I are pressing pie crust into a pan, and my father is laughing at us.

The last image is of my mother on the beach in Okinawa. Her black hair hangs in a straight curtain as she shades her eyes from the sun and smiles at my father, but I can see myself in her narrow frame and wide, high cheekbones, even if I don’t look Japanese.

I don’t look like I come from anywhere, but I grip the photos tightly in my hands to remind myself that I do. I come from these people who are no longer here, and I’ll protect myself now that they’re not around to do it for me.

The sound of heavy footsteps thumps down the corridor outside, and I slide the photos back into the blue paper and shove them away before pulling down on my sequined dress. It’s gold, my favorite color, but it barely covers anything. When I’m moving, all you can see is shimmer and glistening activity, but when I’m sitting like this, I feel exposed. My panties are so small that when the strings of beads slip down around my waist, there’s not much left to the imagination.

The door cracks open, my spine stiffens, and my shoulders climb toward my ears.

“You ready, honey?” Jimmy rasps.

Not that you expect monsters to have fangs and claws, but Jimmy Jimboi Ullrich is ordinary to look at. He’s almost unassuming, with his soft blue eyes, a jaw dusted with a bit of gray stubble to hide his softening chin, and a warm smile. He looks like someone’s handsome uncle or older brother. He looks like a nice guy.

The Jimmy I know is anything but.

Jimboi Ullrich might be famous as a producer and manager, but the man who manages me is nothing but a vampire who sucks the life force from teenage girls and uses their youth and talent to fuel his desire for money and fame. I want to wrestle control of my life and music out of his hands, but I have no idea how.

“It’s showtime. They’re waiting for you.”

I stand and pull the strings of gold beads and sequins lower to cover my underwear before walking past him to reach the door. As I do, Jimmy steps behind me, kicking the insides of my ankles and making me stumble against the door frame. He crowds me from behind and uses his knees to widen my stance as he pushes me against the door.

The glass beads attached to my dress press against my thighs, and his erection strains against his jeans as he crushes it between us. I squeeze my eyes tight and tip my forehead against the door. Four breaths in, four breaths out.

You’re a star. You’re not really here. One day you’ll be free.

It’s my mantra. I repeat it to myself again and again as he grips my hips, rocking his hardness against me. As he nuzzles my neck, his fetid breath wafts toward my nose, drowning me in a cloud of stale coffee and sour milk.

“You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you, honey? You’re going to go on and be a good girl.”

I go completely still. I don’t speak. I don’t move. I don’t dignify his creepy request with a response. Freeze. Escape in your head. Take yourself away. No one can touch the part of you that burns on the inside.

“Go on then, darling. Get out there and show them how it’s done.” Jimmy eases away, and I step into the darkness.

I walk down the corridor and wait for the stage to embrace me. Under the lights, I become someone else—someone I should have always been, someone who I will one day fully become. On stage, I am free and I am a star. It’s just me, my voice, and the lights. I can’t even see the audience when I’m beneath the spotlight, floating in a space beyond time.

Nearing the dark stage, I lower my head and run my eyes along the pointed outline of my boot tips as I send my energy into the earth and pull everyone who ever loved me into my core. I can feel my mother. I can see my father picking me up and whirling me around. I can hear my grandmother laughing. Everyone is gone, but everyone is here inside me as I pull their love into my lungs with the next breath and pour it into the audience.

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