Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“And here’s wardrobe. Your call will typically be early on most filming days, which is basically every day, since we’re trying to squeeze this in on such a tight schedule.”
I half expected to see gowns and sequins spilling out of the tightly compact closet, but it held just a few dresses, some denim, and a few swimsuits. Overall, pretty bare-boned.
Brady closed the door and moved on to the rest of the house, a giant beachfront mansion nestled on the ocean in the south of Florida. Apparently, it belonged to some hotshot producer, who only used it a handful of days out of the year. This whole place was weirdly sterile.
When I’d signed up, Brady assured me repeatedly that I wouldn’t regret it. I wasn’t nearly as confident about that as he was.
“This is great. Isn’t this great, Trace?
Not like that other show where you were completely on your own for clothes,” my mom said.
She and Brady were both in front of me, followed by one of Brady’s eager-looking PAs.
I’d tried asking his name, but Brady had just rolled his eyes and said not to bother.
“Oh, it’ll be much better than last time. This time, she’s the star. All of the focus will be on her.” Brady winked at me and queasiness roiled in my gut.
“What’s the filming format going to be like?” I asked, trying to stay upbeat.
Brady had already given me a basic rundown during contract discussions.
It was a run-of-the-mill dating show, but with C-list celebrities as the prize (his words, not mine).
The first season of the show would be called Finding Love with Trace Davis, and the name would change as the seasons (hopefully) went on.
Twelve eligible men would arrive at the mansion. There would be challenges to compete for my attention, and the rest of the show would just be me getting to know the guys. It seemed almost too simple to be true.
Brady sighed. “Each day will look a little different, since we’re running on such a small budget. There will be challenges and eliminations every so often.” He waved his hand. “You know what? Don’t even worry about it. You’ll always be briefed the day before or morning of.”
“What about a host?” I asked.
“Not in the budget. This house pretty much took up all of our funds. But don’t worry, we’ll make sure everything flows naturally. We can even add voiceovers later on if necessary.”
Great.
“This is just fabulous,” my mother said, circling the tiled living room, a gleam in her eyes.
When we both had sat down on a phone call with the label, their tune had completely changed. They’d even offered to draw up a contract for my next album before I left to film, but I’d insisted on not rushing it. The way they’d been treating me still didn’t sit right.
Filming would take place over the next three weeks, and the first episode would release six months from now, the ideal timeline in which to finish and release my next album. The perfect opportunity after such a lackluster tour (again, not my words).
“The production trailers will be over on the side of the house. Nothing interesting. We’ll do most of the filming onsite, but of course we’ll have to leave for dates and whatnot.”
I gazed out of the expansive living room windows overlooking the backyard.
It was incredible. The yard itself was stunning, albeit a bit cold.
A mix of concrete and turf stretched out to a back fence.
It held a large pool, entertaining space, and even an outdoor kitchen.
But it was what lay beyond the modern yard that took my breath away—the beach, and the ocean stretching into the horizon, white sand leading to the crashing blue waves.
“That’s where you’ll be staying.” Brady pointed to the small, square building at the back corner of the complex. A guesthouse. “Can’t have you too close to the men.” He chuckled and clasped my shoulder.
So far, I had been successful in my attempts to avoid thinking about the men who would soon descend on this place.
But now that we were here, I was forced to face it.
At one point in my life, nothing would have excited me more than a group of twelve men fighting to earn a shot with me.
Not for the attention of it all, but for the idea that I might actually meet someone.
Now, the thought seemed more unlikely than the idea of me transitioning to a rap career.
“The men have all arrived and are staying in a hotel nearby. Tomorrow, we’ll be filming introductions. It’s going to be a long day. Hours of shooting.”
“Alright,” I said, still staring out at the ocean, watching as the waves lapped against the shore.
“We’ll get you in hair and makeup after you put your stuff in the guesthouse. We want to get a few interview clips just to reintroduce the audience to you and catch up with where you are.”
“Interviews. There’s a throwback,” I joked. Brady had conducted what felt like hundreds of interviews with me on the set of Tough Love.
He laughed. “Well, I might be conducting some of them this time around, but certainly not all. I have a lot of guys to wrangle. You’ll love Emma, though—our associate producer. She’s great.”
I smiled in response. I knew from the last time that no matter how friendly production seemed, they couldn’t be trusted. They’d always choose an opportunity for drama over your feelings.
“You better be on your best behavior for this,” my mom hissed as Brady led us through a polished hallway to show us another room.
“I know, Mom.”
“I’m serious. Your heartbreak-revenge storyline was the last show. Find a guy, and make it stick this time. The label said if you end up as a couple, you’ll have more brand deals then you know what to do with.”
Leave it to my mother to reduce the idea of finding love to a paycheck and opportunities. Rebecca had always been like this. In it for the show.
She’d had me in pageants from the time I could walk, parading me around in teased hair and poofy dresses.
When it came time for me to pick a talent, singing had come as naturally as breathing.
I fell in love with it as I got older, spending hours locked in my room, eventually teaching myself guitar so that I could write my own songs.
But the more I came to love singing, the more I resented the pageants.
Ironically, considering my mother’s commitment to the “momager” bit now, she’d never wanted me to pursue a singing career.
She’d insisted I didn’t have it and that succeeding was next to impossible.
She desperately wanted me to become Ms. Tennessee and then Ms. America and took it as the ultimate act of rebellion when, starting at sixteen, I had refused to be her show pony.
She’d screamed and grounded me and tried to bribe me to compete.
It was the biggest disappointment I could have dealt her.
Never mind that I had great grades, was involved in school choir, and had been writing music.
To her, I might as well have been in juvie.
We’d only spoken here and there when I’d gone off to college (paid for courtesy of my father, who hardly visited or called but always sent a check).
She’d never seen me play once in Nashville.
It wasn’t until I got my first record deal, after Tough Love, that she’d reentered the picture in a big way.
Once she’d realized she could still parade me around, dangling like a puppet on a string.
I wasn’t sure why I let her.
Brady opened the sliding glass door that led to the massive, manicured lawn.
“Is there a gym?” Mom asked.
“No gym, but this place is so large it’ll feel like a hike any time you have to go somewhere,” he said to me.
“That will still be more exercise than Tracy has done in months. She’s let herself go since the tour,” she said with a laugh.
Trace, I mentally corrected. “Always good to get my steps in,” I said, forcing a soft smile.
Comments on my appearance weren’t anything new, and I’d learned it was best to let it go.
If I said something, she’d play the victim, claiming I was always giving her a hard time when she meant no harm.
Then she would go even sharper for the next dig.
The guesthouse was marginally more charming than the monstrosity behind us—very marginally.
It was still just a modern rectangle, but there were at least shutters and flower boxes and a winding stone path that led to a navy-blue front door.
All of this steel and glass wasn’t quite what I’d expected to find in a Florida beachside home.
“Home sweet home for the next few weeks. I already had someone bring in your luggage.” Brady held open the door for us.
It was one open room with an iron staircase.
The floors were gray, as were the walls and the kitchen.
When I walked to the other side of the house, I could see that the iron staircase led to a lofted bedroom.
The only view out the back window was a small patch of concrete meeting the large fence.
If I stood on my tiptoes, I could see the water.
This is great,” I said, meaning it. It was like a little sanctuary, being tucked away back here.
My mom walked around like a bloodhound, inspecting everything. When she went upstairs, she quickly stepped back, leaning over the railing.
“This is a king bed. There would have been plenty of room for me to stay here, too. Tracy and I have shared hundreds of hotel rooms.”
Brady and I exchanged a look. “Like I told you on the phone, Rebecca, Trace is the only one cleared to stay here. We can’t have anyone who isn’t crew or contestants staying on the property.”
It had been a relief when I heard that rule. Granted, she’d still insisted on staying at a nearby hotel, but not having her directly in my space gave me a chance to finally get some breathing room.
“I just don’t see what the big deal is,” she grumbled.