32. Delaney
DELANEY
“What the hell was that?”
I can practically see the smoke rising from my dad as I shed my wireless mic in the wings of the stage.
“A new song. Obviously.” I deadpan, turning towards my dressing room. Performing for such a huge crowd again was a rush, and I have no interest in letting him ruin my high. My feet are aching, and I’m out of breath, but God that felt good.
“Delaney James, don’t get cute with me!” He lunges for me, his hand tightening around my upper arm. But the sting barely registers. Down at the end of the narrow hall, three men stand silently, cameras in hand, like hunters ready to pounce.
And I see their prey.
Molly Jo, one foot in her dressing room, smiles up at a man with sandy blond hair and a wicked gleam in his eye. The similarity is uncanny: a young starlet on the rise, a nameless older guy who wants a leg up in his career, and tabloids ready to buy whatever story they’re pushed together to sell.
I don’t think. I just move.
Shaking loose from my dad’s grip, I’m in between them in an instant.
“Delaney! Your set was so good!” Molly Jo blinks at me, dripping innocence and youth.
“Thanks, babe,” I say, pushing the nameless social climber out of the way. “Let’s chat, yeah?” Before she can protest, I walk us into her dressing room and pull the door closed behind us, silencing both my dad and the would-be suitor.
“Did you see the paparazzi?” I ask Molly Jo and, God bless her, she just blinks up at me again.
“What? Where?”
I ignore her questions, putting the pieces together in my mind as I pace her dressing room. “Did you know that guy?”
Molly Jo fiddles with the hem of her shirt. “Um, yeah, kinda. He’s an influencer. My publicist said we should meet.”
“Right. Of course she did.” I stop walking, clarity washing over me.
I was Molly Jo not too long ago, young, eager, and willing to do whatever was asked of me to make it in this industry.
And I did make it, but I paid a hefty price for it.
I lost myself in the pursuit of fame, and learned pretty damn quick just how fickle that fame could be.
“It’s a setup. He’s paid those idiots out there a big chunk of money to get some pictures of the two of you together.
And if you’re good with that, then, by all means, open that door and bat your lashes at him.
Play the fucking game. But you need to know what you’re getting yourself into.
It’s a never ending rollercoaster. I’m ten years in and still ask how high when they say to jump. And it’s fucking exhausting.”
Molly Jo nods slowly. “But if I don’t play the game,” she says, her voice hardly above a whisper, “then there’s no way I can win.”
With that, she squares her shoulders, opens the door, and walks happily into the lion’s den.
My penthouse is sterile and foreign. Each piece of art and furniture was deliberately picked to serve as nothing other than product placement. Every aspect of my life has been curated for the consumption of others.
I slip into the giant tub, my aching body desperate for some relief from the long day at The Valley.
This bathroom is the one thing in my penthouse I don’t absolutely hate.
Floor-to-ceiling windows, heated tiles, soft music always playing.
It’s a sanctuary amid all the sharp lines and hard surfaces.
Wine glass in hand, I start to scroll through my phone, then catch myself.
“Maladaptive coping skills,” my therapist’s voice rings in my head.
Grumbling, I set the phone and wine glass down and sink deeper into the water, forcing myself deeper into the present moment.
Turns out, the present moment really fucking sucks.
After my futile attempt to save Molly Jo from the same fucked-up fate as me, I got out of there as fast as I could. The five missed calls from my dad are a pretty solid indicator that I’m, once again, royally screwed.
My ego tells me that I’m a lonely, washed-up, miserable has-been who can’t even help someone else avoid making the same mistakes as I made. My ego tells me to wallow, drown my sorrows in this bottle of red, then go crawling back to my management and beg for forgiveness.
My ego is a bitch.
And, funnily enough, my ego was pretty damn quiet during those last few weeks in Ridgecrest.
Connor has a way of doing that, calming all the background noise and bringing my chaotic heart some clarity. I thought being back here in L.A. was the answer, but instead I’m questioning everything I’ve ever thought I wanted.
Am I really about to bend to my dad’s will again? Beg for forgiveness after finally, finally performing for myself? Shrink myself back down to a digestible size for the sake of my career?
Am I really going to walk away from the best thing that’s ever happened to me in pursuit of a dream that turned sour years ago?
Is this what I’m going to do forever? Pine after Connor like he’s, what did Remi say, my long-lost love?
Yeah, fuck that.
I push out of the tub and snatch my phone back. Dripping wet, I perch on the edge of the tub and pull up Connor’s contact, then pause. I nibble on my lip, trying to formulate a plan.
I dial Matty instead.
“Delaneyyyy!” He practically screams through the phone. “Are you coming out with us tonight?”
“Uh, no. I need your help.”
Loud music pulses in the background. “Work stuff? I’ve got some social posts cued up for the next few days. So come out and party! I’m sure everyone here will sign an NDA, right guys?”
I hear hooting and hollering in affirmation.
I pull my phone away from the shrieking. “Matty, no I need your help with Connor.”
“Connor? Didn’t his contract end?”
I rub my temples with my free hand. “Yeah, yeah it did, but that’s not what this is about Matty. I love him and I fucked it up. I need to make it right. Will you help me?”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the line, save for the raucous party noises in the background.
“Delaney, I don’t know what to tell you. If this isn’t a work thing, I really can’t help.” Matty hangs up and I’m left sitting naked, dripping wet, and somehow even more alone than I was five minutes ago.
For the first time in a decade, I’ve got nothing. No well-crafted PR move to fall back on, no social climbers willing to do anything for my attention. It’s just me and the consequences of my own actions.
I pull up one more contact and mutter a prayer that she’ll pick up.
“Hey, Remi,” I say, tears starting to fall. “Does that offer of friendship still stand?”