Chapter 1 #2
I gather my honey-blonde hair into a messy bun, then peel off my false eyelashes, considering the possibilities of what I might get up to during my time off.
Most people would catch up with friends, but my best friend lives an ocean away in London, and the ‘friends’ I have in Nashville all either want something from me, want what I have, or are silently hoping I’ll fail.
I’d like to believe Ant and I are friends after all the years he’s worked for me, but at the end of the day he’s still paid to be by my side.
I smear makeup remover over my face, then get to work using several cotton pads.
Maybe I’ll finally use the cross-stitch kit I bought months ago.
It would be fun to display the thread version of a scene from one of my favourite TV shows.
I run a gentle stream of warm water from the tap, then duck down, scooping water onto my face to wash off what remains of the oil-based makeup remover.
Looking at my bare face in the gilt-framed mirror over the sink, I hardly recognise myself.
My peachy skin is paler than it should be, and my haphazard bun is a far cry from the bouncy curls I began the evening with.
For a while, someone on my team tried to make people think the perfect barrel curls were natural.
I thought that was stupid and said as much in an interview, before sharing what my stylist usually does to get my hair to look like that.
My manager was pissed off at first, but when the article came out, it prompted a whole wave of people to post about ‘how to get curls like Melody Night’.
That’s when she let it go, saying it was just as well fans responded to more natural and authentic content nowadays.
I scoff, staring at my reflection. There’s nothing natural or authentic about me.
My name, hair, the contact lenses I’m forced to wear, and the accent I’ve been told to put on that’s way stronger than what’s developed naturally since I moved from England to Nashville eight years ago.
Anything to sell the image my manager and label agreed on.
If only the fans could see me now. The dark circles under my eyes and my hollow cheeks are a far cry from the country princess I’m supposed to be.
Shaking myself out of the low mood I’m slowly sinking further into, I turn on the rainfall shower and strip while I wait for the water to run warm.
Enough of the pity party. Tonight is a party party—me, Ant, one of my comfort shows, and whatever the hell we want to eat.
My lips twitch with something closer to a genuine smile than anything they’ve made in a while at the thought.
Neither of us has anywhere to be tomorrow until the party celebrating the end of the tour in the evening, so despite the late hour, we can enjoy our cosy night worry free.
I’m weaving my damp hair into a long plait when Ant knocks on the door to my room. “Dinner’s here.”
“I’ll be out in a sec.”
Dressed in my most comfortable pair of oversized pyjamas with a sweatshirt I’m only allowed in my curated wardrobe because it’s part of this tour’s merch line, I join him in the lounge area of our suite.
My mouth waters at the sight of the food laid out on the coffee table. “Do you think we ordered too much?”
Ant’s bark of laughter makes me jump. “Hell no. I’ve seen how much food you can pack away after a show.” His smile dims when he catches the look on my face. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean it like that. You work fucking hard—it’s important you refuel properly.”
“We both know this,” I gesture at the feast before us, “is more than refuelling.”
He gives me a droll look. “Despite what that witch says, you are allowed to enjoy food. It’s all about—”
“Balance. Yeah, yeah.” I wave off his familiar argument that my meal plan shouldn’t be so rigid.
I know he’s right. Eating a burger or a slice of pie on a semi-regular basis wouldn’t hurt, but it’s simply not worth the fight if anyone found out.
Tonight is different. The end of a tour and my birthday are the two occasions I can eat whatever I want with nobody around to judge or shame me for it.
I remove the top of my cheeseburger and pull out the lettuce and slice of tomato because warm salad is gross. “Where’s the—” Ant presents a bottle of ketchup to me with a flourish. “Thanks.”
He dips his head in acknowledgement before settling back into the sofa cushions, a bowl of pasta in one hand, the TV remote in the other. “So… time to return to our favourite small town?” he asks, looking at me hopefully, finger hovering over the ‘play’ button on the remote.
“Absolutely,” I agree with a decisive nod. It’s one of our favourite programmes to wind down with and, while we don’t usually begin our rewatch until the autumn, tonight feels like the perfect time to make an exception.
Objectively speaking, Ant’s a handsome guy.
If we were different people, maybe spending so much time together would have turned into something more than friendship, but our relationship has only ever been platonic.
When I first realised I needed to hire a live-in bodyguard for my security at twenty years old, I hated the idea of having a stranger in my space.
The interviews for the position were painful to say the least. Too many of the candidates acted as though I was an unruly diva in need of ‘managing’, looking to my actual manager for instructions instead of me.
Ant was the first candidate to take me seriously and treat me with respect.
Even after offering him the position, I never imagined we’d end up here.
Ant’s a decade older than me and on paper we have almost nothing in common.
When I hired him, I think we both assumed that our relationship would be one of polite distance.
Then we got to know each other better. He noticed how lonely and isolated I was.
Ant took it upon himself to fill a kind of big brother role in my life, and I sure enjoy winding him up like a little sister sometimes.
Four years on, and we’ve developed a genuine bond, although part of me wonders if he’d really stick around if I weren’t his boss.
No sense thinking like that—my level of fame has only increased since Ant started working for me.
I’ll need security for the foreseeable future.
We make it through our main course and an episode and a half of television before our peace is shattered.
The door to our suite swings open violently.
The only reason it doesn’t leave a dent in the beautiful wallpaper is because there’s one of those little spring thingies near the bottom of the wall to prevent such a thing from happening.
Panicked, I thrust the plate of cheesecake I just picked up into Ant’s hands, giving him a pleading look.
He promptly shoves a forkful into his mouth, chewing rapidly, cheeks bulging like a hamster storing food for later.
Under different circumstances, it would be funny.
My manager strides in, looking formidable as always in a sharp black suit and pointed heels that could double as a weapon.
Her keen eyes take in the scene before her, narrowing in disapproval.
“So this is what you’ve been doing instead of meeting your fans.
” Despite our best efforts, she looks between the strawberry cheesecake—a known favourite of mine—in Ant’s hands and the slice of chocolate cake on the table directly in front of him.
“Cheesecake, really, Melody?” Her English accent is clipped, only sharpened by her displeasure.
After years in the US, you’d think it would have softened—mine has even when I’m not putting on my ‘Melody voice’—but she’s purposefully held onto her accent.
If anything, she sounds posher now than she did back in England before my big break.
“It’s Cassie,” I correct her for the millionth time. She knows I don’t like going by my stage name in private.
“You really can’t afford to let yourself go.” She eyes my baggy sweatshirt as if she can see straight through it.
Caught, I take the plate of cheesecake back from Ant.
He pauses the show on TV, sensing this will take a while.
“I’m hardly letting myself go,” I reply, gathering a forkful of creamy, biscuity goodness and popping it into my mouth.
Damn, that’s delicious. “It’s the last night of my sold-out tour—I’m allowed to treat myself. ”
“Put that down.” She snatches the plate from my hands, slamming it onto the table with so much force that I’m surprised the porcelain doesn’t crack.
Jokes on her because I already scooped up another forkful. Holding her icy gaze, I slowly lift it to my lips, savouring the heavenly strawberry flavour before giving her a smug smile.
“You’ll regret that when you’re dealing with a breakout before your photoshoot on Monday.”
My smile falls. “What photoshoot? There’s nothing scheduled.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You have a cover shoot and interview with Teen Muse on Monday, a dinner on Tuesday, an interview with that chatty YouTube fellow for his podcast on Wednesday, and another podcast interview on Friday.”
“No, I’m supposed to have a month off, starting now.”
She waves a dismissive hand. “You have Thursday off.”
My hands clench into fists, my nails digging into the flesh of my palms. “You promised I could have a month off.”
“Melody—”
“It’s Cassie,” I grit out on the verge of losing grip on the last thread of my temper.
Sensing things are about to get unpleasant, Ant stands.
“I’ll be in my room if you need me.” He gives my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Miranda.” The brief acknowledgement and bob of his head are all he offers her as he walks past her to the room on the opposite side of the common area to mine.
If anyone else invaded my space with this kind of attitude there’s no way Ant would leave my side, but he knows the rules are different when it comes to her.