The Perfect Melody (Pine Grove #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Cassie

“Melody! Melody! Melody!” The crowd is chanting for someone who doesn’t exist. Melody Night is the name that was thrust upon me as a teenager—the first of many ways this industry has told me being plain Cassie St. James isn’t good enough.

Changing my hair, my clothes, my speaking voice wasn’t enough—I had to change my name too.

Beads of sweat drip down my back, cooling on my overheated skin, making me feel clammy and disgusting, but I keep my smile fixed firmly in place.

I may not be under the heat of the stage lights now that the sold-out show is over, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t still a different kind of spotlight on me.

Someone is always watching. Smile. Be grateful. This is what you wanted.

As a woman more jaded than any twenty-four-year-old should be I would have fought to keep at least part of my name, but as an overeager sixteen-year-old girl desperate to make everyone happy I’d accepted every single change with a smile on my face until that smile became just another lie to hide behind.

Melody Night might be a figment of someone else’s imagination, but I’m not so sure Cassie St. James is any more real after so many years of playing pretend.

With a shaking hand, I pass my mic pack to the sound tech before me and utter my thanks.

A hive of activity surrounds me as dancers hurry off stage to get to their shared dressing rooms and workers hustle to break down everything used to transform the arena into my tour set for the last three nights.

I escape to my private dressing room as quickly as possible, closing the door behind me with a firm click.

There’s a bottle of water waiting for me, and I crack open the plastic seal, downing half the liquid in a few desperate gulps before taking a breath, leaning against the door like it’s the only thing holding me up.

Not wanting to linger, I dig deep, past the place that feels like there’s nothing left to give and into the very core of my being, forcing my body to keep going just a little longer.

It’s the same trick I use to find it within myself to get through a full show when I’m sick, tired, or broken-hearted—though that last point hasn’t been an issue since I stopped dating for real a few years ago.

People pay a lot of money to come and see my shows, and no matter how tired I’ve grown of pretending to be someone I’m not, I never want to disappoint them. It’s not their fault I’m unhappy.

My unsteady legs carry me across the room towards the rack of glittering costumes, where I strip out of my custom-made dress—one of many outfits made specifically for this tour.

The heap of pink material hits the floor, thousands of crystals twinkling as if to remind me they’re the only thing that makes me shine on stage.

I hate pink. I never used to have much of an opinion on it either way, but after being forced to wear it near constantly for the past eight years, I’ve grown to loathe every nauseating shade of it.

After towelling off the worst of my sweat, I use a few baby wipes to clear away enough of the grime that I’m able to stomach throwing on a pair of joggers and a hoodie.

They’re black, not pink, and definitely not something my team would approve of.

I’ll shower as soon as I get back to my hotel room, but right now I need out of this arena.

Unlike other nights of the European leg of my tour, there’s no meet and greet scheduled for after tonight’s show, but that doesn’t mean my overzealous manager won’t force me into something if I don’t clear out of here fast enough.

I don’t have many real friends, but the one I do have is always telling me I should fire her and be done with it. If only it were that simple.

Taking a steadying breath, I gather the twinkling pink garment from the floor and slip it onto a hanger, leaving it on the rack with my other costumes.

I might have lost most of myself to this career, but from the very beginning I promised I would always treat the people around me with respect and kindness, and that includes picking up after myself like an adult.

If my younger self could see me, she would be so disappointed in what I’ve become, but I like to think keeping this promise makes up for some of it.

Taking one last look around the dressing room, I make sure I’ve not left any of my personal belongings behind. Satisfied that I have everything and that the space is neat, almost as if I was never here aside from the bottle of water missing from the neat row of drinks on the table, I leave.

Something nobody tells you about being famous is that you’re never alone.

Ant, my bodyguard, falls into step with me the moment I leave my dressing room. “Great show tonight.”

“Thanks.” A tight smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Anything I need to know about?”

“No, everything went smoothly.”

We stride down the corridor, Ant’s long, denim-clad legs having no difficulty keeping pace with me. One of the many things I like about him is that he’s not one for unnecessary chatter while we’re on the move.

The maze of grey corridors backstage is a stark contrast to the bright stage lights and colourful set I left behind not twenty minutes ago.

I tried to negotiate for fewer pastels in the design of this tour set, but, unsurprisingly, my wishes went ignored.

How will people know they’re at country music’s princess Melody Night’s concert if we don’t bombard them with every colour included in a packet of Love Hearts throughout the course of the show?

“Ready?”

My attention snaps to Ant, and I realise we’ve made it to the exit, no sign of my manager in sight.

Perfect. Donning my oversized sunglasses, I steel my spine and plaster the closest thing to a smile that I can manage onto my face.

Two members of the arena’s security team bookend the doorway, awaiting my answer. “Ready.”

The moment I set foot out the door, camera flashes light up the night.

People shout their questions in a frenzy while Ant and the arena’s security steer me towards the car already waiting for me.

Ant bundles me inside, following quickly and shutting the door firmly behind him before taking the seat opposite me.

“Take us back to the hotel, please,” he tells the driver, whose only response is to start the engine with a nod.

Safe behind the tinted windows, I take off my sunglasses, shoving them into the front pouch of my hoodie.

“The end of another tour. How do you feel?”

“Relieved it’s over. I need a break.” Ant is one of two people I trust enough to speak freely around, but I’m still careful to keep my voice low enough to be sure our driver can’t hear.

“We’ve got the party with everyone tomorrow, and then we’ll fly home and get some rest. I don’t plan on leaving the house for at least a week, so I promise you’ll get some downtime too—you more than deserve it.”

Ant smiles, folding his thick arms across his broad chest. The light catches on the gold earring in his right earlobe, the small stud the perfect complement to the golden undertones of his deep brown skin.

“You got it, boss lady.” I roll my eyes.

I might technically be his boss, but we both know that outside the walls of my home, he’s the one in charge.

After a few too many close calls with overzealous fans, I’m not about to assume I know better than the expert I pay to protect me.

People figured out where we’ve been staying on my first day here, so I make sure my sunglasses are firmly back in place before Ant opens the car door so we can make the quick dash into the hotel.

I used to think celebrities who always wear sunglasses, especially at night, were stuck up, but after the first couple of times I went out and struggled to see anything other than the bright flash of cameras, I joined their ranks without an ounce of guilt.

My manager protested at first, saying it didn’t fit with my ‘nice girl’ image, but after seeing the unflattering photos that were a direct result of my flinching and squinting, she quickly changed her tune.

When the door to our suite closes behind me, Ant does a quick but thorough sweep of the rooms to make sure nothing’s amiss before encouraging me further inside. I immediately grab a room service menu, handing the other to Ant for him to peruse.

The leather folder displaying the fancy cardstock of the menu is heavy in my hands as I scan the now familiar options.

Unlike every other night of this months-long tour, I allow myself to consider menu items that are most definitely not on my meal plan.

My manager wouldn’t approve, but what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Besides, I’m celebrating. If I can’t eat whatever I want on the closing night of a successful tour when the hell can I?

My choices made, I jot down what I want on the hotel stationery so that Ant can place our order while I’m in the shower. From the outside, it might seem presumptuous, but this is just another part of our established routine.

Pausing only to drop my bag on the plush armchair in my bedroom, I head straight for the ensuite bathroom where my toiletries are laid out on the marble counter around the sink.

There’s comfort in the familiar routine of removing my makeup—not much, but enough to act as an anchor when I’m otherwise feeling adrift.

This tour has been part of my life for so long that, even though I’m more than ready for a break, I feel lost when I think about how I’ll fill my days for the next month.