Page 66 of Counterpoint and Harmony

She scoffs. “Yes, yes, everyone’s important. That’s the kind of trite truism we peddle to your fan club to make them feel like they matter. This boy isn’t going to do anything for your career.” Her face changes again from scornful to what she thinks is persuasive. “I’ve been talking to Delilah. She just signed Sebastian Kendric to rehab his reputation as a womanizer. It’d be perfect for you.” Her mouth twists into that grimace-smile again. “Especially since you’re insisting on writing for your next album. He’s got that whole singer-songwriter thing going. It’ll help your credibility and give his image a makeover at the same time. You should give Delilah a call.”

“Oh my God, Mom.” I look up at the ceiling, torn between disbelief and the feeling that I should’ve known she’d go here. “No. No no no.”

“Why not? You make it sound like such a chore. You get to spend some time with a hot guy and divert some of the attention from this other misstep.”

I level her with a glare. “And get called a whore again? Because that’s what will happen. Every time I’ve been photographed with a variety of guys in a short period of time—and don’t think I don’t know that’s where this will end up. We’ve been down this road before. And every time—every time—I get slut-shamed all over the gossip sites and social media.”

She gives me a dismissive shrug. “Those people are just jealous. And we both know that’s—”

“The price of fame,” I say with her. She gives me an irritated look.

“And you know what else, Mom?” I grit my teeth, not wanting to bring this up, but I don’t have a choice at this point. Maybe if I tell her all the sordid details, she’ll understand why I won’t do this anymore. Even if Damian weren’t in the picture, there’s no way in hell I’d be willing to help anyone rehab a womanizer’s reputation.

With a deep breath, I continue. “The ones who called me a whore? They weren’t exactly wrong. Because all those guys, especially the ones who I was using to boost my career, they all come with expectations. Sexual expectations. Sometimes I could get away with just a hand job or a blow job, but most of them want sex. I’m supposed to be their girlfriend, even if only for the cameras, so they want the full girlfriend experience. Doesn’t matter that they’ll go party and hookup with someone else the next night. No, I’m on their arm that night, and they want payment for services rendered.”

I’m not sure what kind of reaction I expected, but it sure as hell isn’t the one I get.

She flips her hair over her shoulder and gives me a condescending look. “Of course they do. Men like that have needs.”

My mouth drops open in horror. My hands clutch at my stomach. I think I’m going to be sick.

“You knew?” The words are barely more than a whisper. “You knew what was going on the whole time?”

Her face now is sympathetic, but the kind that you offer to stupid people. Likeyou poor dear, how sad that you’re so dumb.“I assumed. I know how these things go. And to be fair, I didn’t allow you to be set up with anyone I thought would pressure you. I thought you liked all of them.”

“Oh my God.” I drop my gaze, my entire picture of my whole life rearranging itself in my head. “I can’t … oh my God.” Spearing her with my eyes again, I funnel my rage into this new heartbreaking clarity. “You whored me out. For years. And I allowed it. Thinking it was important, believing you when you said that I needed to be seen with these guys, that my detractors were jealous, that if I didn’t do these things, there was an army of wannabe starlets waiting to take my place. Believing you that I had to be tiny and hungry all. The. Time. That it was the price I had to pay to have what I want.

I straighten to my full height, letting my anger carry me forward. “I believed you. Because you were my mother. And the whole time you were really my pimp.”

She shakes her head, still with that look of condescending sympathy. “Now, Charlie—”

I hold up my hand, palm out. “No. I don’t care what you have to say right now. Because you’re wrong. So wrong. I haven’t been seen with anyone since the Grammy’s and my sales haven’t dropped. My pop-up shows are sold out. Every single one. My new songs—the ones that you mock and think are a waste of my time—everyone loves them. I haven’t had a single bad reaction to them. There are even reviewers starting to write about the pop-up shows when they can get into them. Have you read what they’ve been saying? Or have you been too busy trying to whore me out some more?”

“Charlie, please.” She takes a step back as I advance again.

“Let me tell you what they’ve said, in case you’ve only been worried about my weight and who I’m getting my pictures taken with. They’ve loved my shows. They love the stripped-down versions of my past hits, the intimate performances, the glimpses of new hits to come. They can’t wait to see what will be on this album, if I’ll have any surprises for them, what the tour to promote it will look like after this grass-roots introduction. I’m thriving. Without your meddling, without being your whore, without your control. I’m healthier and happier than I’ve ever been.

“I still don’t know why you came here, but it’s time for you to leave. I have things to do. And I’m done wasting my time worrying about what you think or what you want, because it bears no resemblance to what I want. Go, Mom. Now.”

“Charlie, you can’t be serious.” But her retreat belies her words. Her brain may be having trouble catching up to what’s happening right now, but her feet aren’t.

I nod. “I can and I am. Leave now, or I’ll call Tony to escort you out. Don’t come to my apartment again, Mom.”

She splutters as we reach the door. “You’re kicking me out?”

“Yes. I’m kicking you out. I’ve already kicked you out of my career. Now I’m kicking you out of my apartment and my life. Don’t call me. Don’t come here. I’ve given you the opportunity to be a mother. A normal mother of a twenty-one-year-old, who supports from the sidelines instead of trying to manage it. Instead, you’ve tried to claw your way back into control of my life. I won’t have it. At all.”

Reaching past her, I pull the door open. “Another thing you’re wrong about? My time off. I learned more than just some music theory. I learned how families are supposed to act, how parents are supposed to treat their adult children. And I learned that I don’t want people in my life who don’t support me. Goodbye, Mother.”

She stumbles back out the door, her mouth slack and her eyes wide with shock. Without giving her a chance to recover her wits, I slam it shut, turning the deadbolt in case she tries to get back in. Good thing, because I hear the knob jiggle a second later, and then she starts knocking.

Pulling out my phone, I shoot off a text to my security team to escort her from the premises and also to let the building know that her name is to be taken off the list of approved visitors.

Even though I was supposed to write more songs for the album, there’s no chance of that happening now. High on the adrenaline flowing through my veins and bolstered by the new clarity talking to my mom just gave me, I know what I have to do about Damian.

I hope he’s had enough time, because I’m done waiting. Either he wants to be with me or he doesn’t, and I need to know tonight.

A plan forming, I pull up Lauren’s name and hit call. She picks up after the third ring. “Hey, Charlie. What’s up?”

“I need your help.”

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