Page 2 of Burn the Wild

“What time is it?” I ask, pushing away from him. My gaze shifts, sailing over the plush hotel room suite. An empty minibar. A trashed living area.

“Seven. The show’s at nine.”

“Shit.” I scrape my greasy hair away from my face and look at the bedside clock. “That means—”

The hotel door flies open.

Right on time.

Stylists with racks of clothing and hairdressers with bottles of hairspray burst into the room with wild eyes. Behind them, my publicist, Diana, and my manager, Gavin Cross.

Instantly, Gavin’s eyes land on me. I expect him to remark on my appearance, but he gives a nod to me and Kyler. His brow furrows when he spots the vomit. Into the earpiece he wears, he barks, “Clean this up.” His beady eyes move to a housekeeper who’s materialized with a mop. “And get her a whiskey. A big one.”

Darkness rises and I shake my head. “No. I don’t want—”

My words are cut off as someone pushes a drink in my hand.

Fuck it.

I swallow it. The alcohol slips down my throat. Warms my insides. Fogs my head.

Someone pulls me to standing and pushes me into a makeup chair. My face is scrubbed and plastered with cover up, while another stylist parts my long blonde locks to make room for more extensions. I sit there half-naked, still drunk, sipping champagne through a straw as a hairstylist flat irons my waves into stick-straight strands.

They see all of me, but they don’t really see me.

My eyes drift to the wall. The hole that hovers there. Ever-changing. It gets worse on show nights. Shrinks when I’m alone, healthy, sober.

I don’t know how I sing night after night when I’m half-drunk or stoned. But I do. Since I was seven, it’s all I’ve ever known. Over and over, my voice has saved me. And yet, no matter how big the stage, the audience, the money, I still feel alone. I’m singing songs I don’t like because it’s all I know how to do.

When I’m finished with hair and makeup, I blink at my reflection. I always blink. Fake lashes. Bleached blonde hair teased to high heaven. The girl in the mirror is never me. Even with eight records under my belt, three Grammy awards and a sold-out stadium tour, I feel like an imposter.

The hairstylist, a woman with a cheek tattoo, purses her lips. “Smile, hon. It’s your night. You should be happy.”

Happy.

Be happy.

I’m horrified when sharp tears spring to my eyes.Fuck.

It all blurs together. The sheet music with all the sad, shitty songs I didn’t write. This life that has never once felt like mine.

I’d never tell Gavin that, though.

He made me.

In the mirror, I watch as my manager storms toward me. In his tailored gray suit, with his sallow face and stout physique, he reminds me of a shark out for a kill.

“Who did her makeup?” he barks. The makeup artist flinches. “She looks like a fucking clown. Get this shit off her face and fix it.”

I sigh as I’m attacked with makeup brushes once again.

Gavin can never attempt decency. Known as the Magic Man in LA and Nashville for creating successful singers, he’s brash, arrogant and gets what he wants. Always.

When my makeup is retouched, I stand.

“Better?” I ask, turning to Gavin.

He scrutinizes me, then pinches my waist. “Have you gained weight?”

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