some strange man again like a whore. But that’s what your industry does to young, beautiful girls, isn’t it? Turns them into whores.
It’s a conundrum because your music is how I met and fell in love with you and yet your behavior disappoints me.
I don’t want to hurt you, I promise.
I just want to make you happy. And I will.
Soon.
All my love.
M
By the time I’m finished, fear has melted my brain into a puddle that can’t form any rational thoughts.
With my heart racing, and what-the-fuck alarm bells clanging like crazy in my head, I toss the letter and envelope on the counter. “Holy shit.”
“What is it?” Cindy reaches over and picks it up. A few seconds later, she gasps. “Shelby. Oh my God.”
She flings the door open and hollers, “Greg!”
“Cindy, don’t.” It’s a weak protest.
“Shelby, this isn’t a joke.” She rests her hand on my shoulder. “I’m scared for you.”
Greg stops in front of my open door. “What?”
“Who left this for her?” Cindy insists.
He shrugs.
Cindy grabs his arm and drags him into the room.
“It’s just some creep.” I shrug, but I’m shaking so hard it probably looks more like a zombie twitch. “I’ve gotten them before.”
“What do you mean you’ve gotten these before?” Cindy scolds.
Greg snaps the paper out of her hands and scans it. “Jesus. I knew those pictures were a bad idea,” he mutters. “You’ve got to be more careful.”
“So what?” I snap, anger burning a hole in my fear. “I’m never supposed to have a life because some creep thinks he’s in love with me? That’s ridiculous.”
“One of Dawson’s guys needs to watch her, Greg,” Cindy insists.
“Where’s Logan now?” Greg asks me.
“I told you we’re plannin’ to meet up in Virginia. He can’t just upend his life to play bodyguard for free. He has a life. A job.” I’m trying to keep my voice calm. I can’t afford to stress out my vocal cords before I go onstage, but it’s hard not to scream in frustration—and terror.
I have gotten letters like this before. Not these black and silver ones. But ones with similar creepy undertones. Some guy who probably needs medication, thinking he’s in love with me or that I “spoke” to him through the television. Or that my songs contain coded messages only he can decipher. I’ve always cringed, then tossed ’em in the trash. What else can I do? I don’t have the money to hire investigators every time I receive a twisted love note.
“I need to talk to the record company. They’ll have to hire someone,” Greg says.
“I’m never gonna see a penny in royalties if they keep sticking stuff on my tab,” I grumble, staring at the ceiling. Why’d I have to open that dang letter with Cindy here?
“Shelby, honey, we’ve talked about this. You’re never gonna see a dime from this album. Your downloads are through the roof after all the exposure you’ve been getting. I’ll be able to weasel more stuff from them.”
That’s exactly what I don’t want—to owe the record company another red penny, or I’ll never get my mother out of that damn tiny house. As much as she’s burning my biscuits these days, it’s the one thing I’ve wanted to do more than anything. I always promised myself that if I made any real money with my music, I’d set her up someplace nice before indulging in anything for myself.
“We need to find you some endorsements,” Greg says. This has been a frequent topic of conversation lately. “Maybe have you audition for films. I’ve had a few inquiries. Something to bring in money outside of music.”
“But music’s all I wanna do.”
“We need to capitalize off your fame some other way.” He glances at my boots. “Maybe a line of Shelby Morgan cowgirl boots.”
“Cheap shit made in China that’ll fall apart in two weeks? No way.”
“Jessica Simpson had a clothing empire.”
I grunt at him.
“Listen, you need to center yourself for the show tonight. I’ll talk to Dawson. Tomorrow, I’ll be speaking with the record company.”
“Great.” I reach out and grab his arm on his way to the door. “Thank you.”
His gruff manager face softens. “Of course.”
Cindy’s hands are shaking when she returns to work on my hair. “We need to take that letter seriously, Shelby. I’ve seen this get out of hand with celebrities before. It starts small with a letter or phone calls. Next, they’re showing up at your front door with a knife.”
Chills race down my spine and I scowl at Cindy. “I’m not a celebrity. Stop