now about your little stint at Betty Ford, imagine what kind of rabid dogs they’ll turn into if you go back. Obviously, this would all work in my favor because publicity is publicity, and it still sells records. But do you really want all those questions to start again? 'Why did you want to kill yourself, Layla?' 'How could you possibly leave your poor mother behind when she’s done so much for you?' 'You have it all, how could you hate your life so much?' Now, get your ass over to the convention center and stop trying to act like you’re in charge. I own you. I will always own you and you better get used to it, hummingbird.”
I block out the conversation with my mother that was entirely like all the rest of our conversations over the years as Finn finally shuts the car off and we leave the cool comfort of the air conditioning.
“I know we have a right to question Eve’s motives about everything. I’ll quit bugging you about the stalker thing, but in the meantime I’ll do some legwork on this Brady guy and see what his story is. I still have military connections, and they can tell me if he’s on the up and up or just another one of your mother’s puppets. In the meantime, don’t give him any ammunition to use against you. Don’t do anything stupid and tone down the diva ‘tude just a notch when you’re around him,” Finn says with a cocky smile.
“This 'diva ‘tude' is essential to my well-being, my little minion,” I throw back at him, trying to lighten the mood as we knock on a back door to the arena that says Performers Only and wait for it to be answered.
Finn and I both know that pretending to be a music diva is the only thing that keeps me sane most of the time. I can don the fancy clothes and the expensive jewelry and take on an air of sophistication and thinly veiled annoyance with those beneath me like it's a second skin. I have perfected that act over the years, and it’s turned into a perfectly constructed wall that keeps my heart and mind intact and barely bruised. I can pretend like I don’t care what people say about me, ignore the hate my mother surrounds me with, and act like my life is one big deliriously happy ball of parties, awards shows, and concerts. Finn is the only person in the world who knows the real me, who knows all of my hopes and dreams and the pain that eats away at my soul every time I get up on stage and fake a smile and happiness I never feel. Not even Sam, the man I thought I loved and wanted to spend the rest of my life with, had known the real me. The fact that I never even thought about showing him my father’s guitar should have been a warning sign that I didn’t really trust him. We were doomed from the start, and that’s the only thing that makes all of it easier to handle.
A big, burly man with a bald head and skull earring hanging off of one ear finally answers our knock and shares a head nod with Finn before opening the door wider and letting us in.
“Miss Carlysle, it’s good to see you again,” the man says, his voice pleasant and soft and the complete opposite of his appearance.
“Thank you, Bones. It’s good to see you too. Is the band already here?” I ask as we step through the door and follow him down a long, dark hallway.
“Yep, already setting up on stage. Some dude who said he was with security just got here a few minutes ago too. Name’s Brady. He’s on the list your mom gave me so I let him in already. He’s sitting in the back row.”
I thank Bones and Finn shares a handshake with him after he escorts us to the back stage area where I can already hear my bass player running through the scales and my drummer warming up with basic rudiments.
“Oh goody, Brady’s here!” I exclaim to Finn with fake enthusiasm.
“Don’t even try to pretend like the idea of him sitting there in the dark, in the very back row, with his face all broody and stubbly doesn’t get your panties all in a bunch.”
Finn gets a punch in the arm for that comment and my middle finger in his