Chapter 27
Raine knew her comeback was complete when she received the actual tour offer from the label. They’d said her single was showing real momentum and it was time to support the album. They still had a month before release, but they were already pondering a second single.
Mal called her soon after and said, “Let’s talk about this tour. It might not be the best move for you.”
For a second, she paused, wondering why she wasn’t afraid to tour now. But she knew—she actually wanted to share this album with her fans. Her voice quiet, she said, “I’m doing the tour whether you want me to or not.”
He actually said “Okay.” And Raine felt a small sense of pride that she’d stood up for herself—not in anger or aggression or like a cornered animal, but as a fully realized woman ready to take what was hers.
He worked for her and that would be their relationship from here on out.
Mal would either take it or go elsewhere…
and she no longer cared. She felt now as if she could do a lot of advocating for herself.
And she felt proud of the work on the album…but it felt like a hollow victory. Quentin had done a great job shaping it…guiding her, drawing out some of the things she’d kept hidden, showing her potential.
That was all true, but that wasn’t all he’d done. He’d also broken her.
She’d allowed herself to fall in love with him, to show him parts of herself no one had ever seen…and he’d slowly backed away, as if from an animal with bared teeth until, at the end, he’d completely vanished.
So, even though she was satisfied with her work on the album, she could feel Quentin all through it, in every single song, every last line.
Still, she committed to showcasing this album for her fans—but then she was going to move on, and there would be no looking back.
It wouldn’t take long to record another album and put all this behind her.
It had to be done and she was eager to get there.
Several days after she received the tour offer, she checked her email and saw a message from Quentin. At first, she didn’t believe it.
Tempted to delete it outright, the subject line demanded she open it. It said Final track.
What the fuck was it?
His message in the email was simple: “This is the final track we’d been working on.”
That stream-of-consciousness “here’s my life story” track that had gone nowhere?
But her curiosity couldn’t be contained. Opening up the file, she pressed play—and then dropped to her bed, clutching her phone as her own voice sang a mournful song that made her question how Quentin managed to put it all together.
When I was a little girl, I had little girl dreams.
I’m going to be a princess. I want to be on the big screen.
But other kids are cruel and I stuffed those dreams inside,
Let my spark and shine fade but never let it die.
My mom loved me but she had her own shit
And my dream wasn’t to follow in her footsteps:
Didn’t help that my dad wasn’t around.
All I knew was he was six feet underground.
I had to grow up fast.
Raine’s thumb hovered over the track and she almost shut it off. This song was so raw…and she realized that Quentin, more than anyone else in her whole life, understood her better than anyone else.
So she let the song continue to play.
She picked up a guitar and wrote down all her fears
Through the rage, through the pain, and through all the tears.
She never really had a childhood, and the line was never clear.
But her whole life changed when they said, “Sign right here.”
But I didn’t grow up fast enough, and the world came at me hard.
Because when I started singing my songs, they told me I’d go far.
I hadn’t known that so many people would want a piece of me.
I can make her famous, make her rich beyond her dreams.
I was led by the hand into a foreign land, and when they lied, oh, I believed.
Nobody cared because they liked my songs and came to listen, to feel, to see.
Along came a wolf disguised as a dog and he took me as his own.
Surrounded by people, surrounded by things, but I was still all alone.
I’m afraid I’m going to fade.
She picked up a guitar and wrote down all her fears
Through the rage, through the pain, and through all the tears.
She never really had a childhood, and the line was never clear.
But her whole life changed when they said, “Sign right here.”
This is my one last chance to make it, and
This time, I will learn from my mistakes.
This time, I will fix everything I break.
Like a phoenix, I will rise from the ashes.
I will right all the wrongs so I can sing my songs.
And thank all the people who followed me all along
And believed in me.
I’m only human, and I’ll sing the truth,
No matter what comes.
The tears fell as she listened to it the first time, and she was full on sobbing when she played it again.
The way her voice sounded was haunting, especially against the minimal background track of a single guitar and piano, both soft and complementary.
He’d kept in her breathiness and the spots where her voice sounded weak—and even in the places where the emotion had made it crack and grow raspy.
It killed her in the best way…and, had another artist written this song, she would have cried as she listened, knowing that it was beautiful and perfectly imperfect.
Had she and Quentin finished it together, she would have put her stamp of approval on it, agreed to put it on her album, but why had he done this now?
Why, after completely taking the trust they’d built and breaking it into a thousand tiny pieces, had he decided to take what she’d created and shaped it into something worthy?
But as furious as she was with Quentin…it was hard to say no to this track.
It wasn’t long after that she got a call from someone at the label she hadn’t worked with before. “Ms. Dennison, Mr. Jackson asked that I contact you to see if you wanted the last track sent over by your producer added to the final version of the album.”
“Mr. Jackson?”
“Yes, Tristan Jackson, Vi—”
“Oh, got it. Thank you for calling.” She paused, making sure it was what she really wanted. “Yes, I think it would be best as the last track. I’d like to see it there.”
“Okay. Got it. Thanks.”
When she hung up, she considered for half a second sending an email to Quentin to let him know.
But no…she wasn’t about to contact him. She’d already closed that door, and it was time to move on.
Although she was grateful that he’d helped her save her career, he’d hurt her probably worse than anyone else ever had.
From here on out, there would be no looking back.
When tour rehearsals started, Raine was raring to go.
For probably the first time in her career, she arrived early instead of on time (or late), dressed in simple clothing that didn’t look like her day-to-day.
Instead, she had on a pair of beige slacks and a simple blouse with flat shoes.
With her, she brought her notes, including her notebook with lyrics and music.
In case there would be technical difficulties, she had the tracks on her phone as well.
Although she’d been practicing at home a little, doing it in the rehearsal space with her crew would help it sink in fully, making her ready to go on the road.
When she walked in, she immediately owned the space.
It was in a warehouse in Culver City that Crushed Velvet Records either used or owned—she wasn’t sure—but she felt comfortable in the space, because she’d been there before. It wasn’t pretty but it did the trick, and she felt like she belonged.
Even though she knew the words to the songs, she didn’t have them memorized—but four weeks of rehearsal would take care of that.
Thus far, the label had only put together one leg of a tour that would take six weeks, starting and ending in Los Angeles at mostly intimate venues.
And Mal had sent her a text two days earlier: The shows in NYC and Vegas are sold out.
She didn’t know that she even wanted more dates for the tour—and she was prepared to advocate for herself if the label pushed her.
The album already had a record number of pre-orders, and the tour would only help it sell more, but she didn’t know that she’d have to be on tour for months and months to support it.
It didn’t need that much.
Critics who’d received early versions were already raving about the work, saying that this was a “mature version of Raine Dennison we didn’t know we’d been longing for” and “these songs will hit hard,” along with other varying levels of acceptance.
One critic had even said that, if her scandal last August was what it had taken for her to write songs “with this sort of depth,” he hated to say he was glad it had happened.
Only one reviewer even mentioned Quentin’s involvement.
It wasn’t fair to Quentin because, even though she still felt the sting of his rejection, he’d been a big part of it.
Not only had he helped her find inspiration, but he’d pushed her to be better, to dig deeper.
He’d made her realize that just giving her fans superficial regurgitations of songs they’d already heard was cheating them and herself.
He deserved some credit—and she’d likely say in passing in future interviews that he had been quite helpful.
But she would not talk about the supposed break up. They could speculate all they wanted, but she wouldn’t indulge those conversations.
Her band was also in the warehouse, tuning instruments and sipping coffee.
She hadn’t seen them since the night in August when she collapsed on stage—but each one responded to her respectfully and her track operator, a woman just a few years older, gave her a hug and told her she was excited about the new music.
There was also a full crew, including a new tour manager—and a meeting like this wouldn’t be complete if it didn’t have good old Mal. But at least he was on the sidelines, looking at his phone.
They discussed the set list for the show, which included every single song from the new album and a few fan favorites from old ones. At one point, Mal said, “This is good…but maybe you should start with ‘Mean Girl.’ Your fans will expect it.”
Raine allowed a small smile to cross her face but kept her voice firm. “I know—and that’s why we’ll be playing it second. But we’re going with the first single because I want them to know this tour is all about the new album.”
Mal only raised his brown eyebrows and said, “Okay, you’re the boss.”
Hmm. Up until this point, she’d thought their relationship had only changed from her perspective, but it seemed as if Mal was finally getting onboard. If he continued behaving like this, maybe they could have a long working relationship.
“Before we play through the whole set list, is there any particular song anyone wants to go over? Any questions you want to ask?”
Her guitarist, a blond guy in his late twenties, said, “I’m assuming you’re gonna want to play the acoustic now and then on some of the new tracks—or did you want me to handle that?”
Raine felt something blooming in her chest as she realized the vibes here were today so different. This wasn’t like their last tour rehearsal a couple of years ago. It had been chaotic and angry and messy—and she and her crew had had frequent fights.
This was like night and day.
“Thanks for asking. I’m not sure yet. Let’s play it by ear and try it both ways. We’ll figure it out.”
A short nod told her he’d received the message.
After an hour, they were running through the last three songs of the setlist. One of the last songs was one from her second album, an upbeat fun tune called “Harmony.” But it had always been her intent for the music to be a little gloomier in juxtaposition to the lyrics.
She’d always imagined the discord would give the song some weight, because it was one of those songs that people had always assumed was about happiness.
Instead, she’d meant for the song to signify how a person maintains the peace just so she didn’t have to have another discussion.
So she said, “I want to play ‘Harmony’ a little different. Let’s try shifting from major to minor chords where we can, and let’s slow it down, play it softer.”
The band members looked a little curious, but they all nodded their assent and willingness to try. The music director said, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. People love this song because it’s so upbeat.”
“And it doesn’t quite fit that way with this setlist—so this is the best of both worlds. We’re going to play it this way.”
“Okay. It’s your show.”
And they started to play it, working through the kinks of doing it differently—but, after another hour, they were all happy with it.
Especially Raine.
When they took a fifteen-minute break, Raine’s smile slipped when she went to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, she remembered how she’d told herself she would stop looking back, and yet here she was thinking about Quentin again, wishing he could have been there.
And then she frowned, staring at her reflection. No. “I’m done.”
But she shook her head. Those words didn’t seem to be completely true. Not yet.