Page 96 of For One Night Only

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31

Valerie

In the aftermath, Wade hands me over to security. Head pounding, I’m ushered into the back of a town car as flashbulbs spin my vision. My stomach lurches as the driver speeds away.

It’s all just a blur.

Finally alone in my hotel room an hour after the concert, I pull out my phone with shaking hands. My self-loathing kicks into high gear as I realize just how much I fucked up. When you’ve ruined your whole career in one night, you deserve to read the comments.

And I deserve everything they’re saying.

Loose cannon.

Desperate poser.

Lying whore.

The hits just keep on coming, and not in a chart-topping way. I absorb the impact of each jab, letting myself get more bruised and battered with every confused post, every scathing article, every vicious comment. Whenever the sting starts to lessen, I come back for another round.

Like social media is the bottle, and every angry word a swig. My mind whirls as I get drunk on it all.

A few fans are defending me, but I wish they wouldn’t. I’m not worthy of it. Their loyalty has been misplaced in me from the beginning, and I just keep letting them down as I fall apart under the pressure of the spotlight.

The person who calls me a “stupid, fame-hungry bitch,” though? I earned that. I could have prevented this if I hadn’t been too single-minded to consider anyone but myself. I just clutched at the first opportunity to stay in the spotlight, not pausing to think of how it would affect the people I care most about in this world. Jane, Riker, Keeley…Caleb. I’ve lost them all.

I ruined everything.

There’s nothing left to do but wallow in my misery. I don’t even bother changing out of my stage clothes, but I wrap myself in the fancy, oversized hotel robe and order room service. Soon I’m eating a giant ice cream sundae like Kevin McCallister at the Plaza.But instead of watching some violent noir flick, I’m watching this violence of my own making tear my career to shreds. A few times, I drop the spoon and smear chocolate syrup on the fluffy white fabric, and I don’t even care. I’ll just pay for the robe.

I’m just about to order a second ice cream—it’s not like I’m going to be singing anytime soon, so bring on the dairy—when I’m interrupted by a knock on my hotel room door.

My heart stops. Maybe it’s Caleb.

Sure, he could have knocked on the door between our rooms, but maybe that’s too intimate. Or maybe he checked out, and then thought better of it and came back to talk to me. I launch off the bed, leaving my bowl to rest precariously on the duvet, and run to the door.

But it’s the last person I want to see.

“What are you doing?” my mother demands, striding into myroom. Tonight, she’s wearing a too-loud floral-print designer blazer over leggings, and the stench of cigarette smoke and too much Chanel No. 9 is strong enough to make my stomach roil. She glances around the room with a wrinkled nose; all my possessions are strewn about. “God, you’re such a mess.” She gestures to the ice cream. “You know you need to watch your figure for the cameras, right? I taught you not to eat like this.”

“Right.” I flinch. She’s alwayswatched my figureso closely that I don’t have to. When you have a parent who comments on your appearance, who expects you to look Hollywood thin, it’s bad enough. It’s even worse when you actually work in media.

Or, rather,used towork in media. My stomach churns.

She sniffs. “You’d better go run on the treadmill. They’ll open the gym up for you, I’m sure.”

I clench my jaw. “Fine.” I have no desire to run on the fucking treadmill, but she doesn’t need to know that. I just need to get her out of here.

“And it looks like a teenager is staying in here. Are those designer jeans in a ball? You know there’s an entire dresser right in front of you. I taught you to fold your clothes properly, and I expect you to do so.”

“Sure.”

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