Chapter 4
There’s no hum from the crowd to lift me up and keep me buzzing as I return to the dressing room, and I have nowhere else to go. I don’t speak Russian, so I can’t just head off into the night. Wearing barely anything, I’ll soon be trapped in this room with a man who wants to suck my talent dry before he starts on the rest of me.
I sit down at the mirror and begin removing my makeup, pulling away the heavy greasepaint to reveal the dark circles under my eyes. I was hoping to hang out with the other artists tonight. I’d heard Amy Vinelli is playing too, and I thought maybe the two of us could knock back a few drinks and talk about a duet. My music is just fast-paced party tracks to get the crowd dancing, but I like her blues style and would love to explore that. Combine a bit of her 60s vibe with a bit of my country roots. We’ve both got the vocal range to do it.
If I can ever get out from under the men managing me. I wonder if she’s also controlled by someone who can’t wait to sell her to the highest bidder. Jimmy got a clear million for tonight. He’s thrilled with himself, so I hope he’ll be in a softer mood and let me go to bed without pushing for more.
I steel myself as the doorknob turns and he walks in.
He smirks, strolls to the wine fridge, and produces a bottle of chilled vodka. I’ve heard the billionaire who hired me tonight has a vodka distillery. The wall behind the fridge is stacked with bottles reflecting the harsh strip lighting.
“Great gig tonight. The crowd loved you,” he says.
“Did they?” I skeptically raise my brows at him as I pause with the makeup sponge in mid-air. He walks over and puts his clammy hands on my shoulders. I remain as still as possible and try not to flinch away from him.
“Well, I met a booker who has a round of similar gigs lined up for the summer. Most of the Russian oligarchs summer in Italy or Cyprus. In six months, we could be on yachts with the wealthiest men in the world, playing as you perform at their birthday parties. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He catches my eye in the mirror and grins before he tosses back the shot and pours himself another.
“You would,” I say grimly, staring back at his reflection looming behind my shoulder. “I’ll probably see as much of Rome and Cyprus as I’ve seen of Moscow.”
“Don’t be churlish.Moscow is a shithole, but that’s not the point. There’s so much money to be made at these gigs. These guys will pay top dollar for whoever is at the top of the charts, so we’ve got to strike hard while you’re still hot.” He bends down and puts his head on my shoulder, then looks at himself in the mirror before his eyes dart down the front of my dress.
My nose screws up as the sour smell of his breath reaches it, and I flinch as he moves closer, but that doesn’t put him off. He’s not reading my signals. Or worse, he’s getting a kick out of ignoring them.
His fingers dig into my shoulders. I try to shake him off, but he meets my eyes in the mirror and grins at me. It’s not a nice smile. His hand tightens and slides down my arm, gripping hard enough to bruise. My mouth twists in disgust, which only seems to please him more.
“You are still hot, baby,” he says, sticking his tongue into my ear. It feels like a slug, and I lean away, which only moves me closer to his other hand.
He reaches to grab my breast, squeezing hard enough to send a shock of pain through the sensitive skin before turning his attention to my nipple and pinching it like he’s tuning a radio.I flinch and gasp. If this is his idea of foreplay, then it’s no wonder he has to resort to harassing teenage girls under his employ.
He takes the gasp as enthusiasm and reaches for my other breast so he can knead them both. I’m caged in his grip as he stands behind me, my waist pushed hard against the vanity with no room to move. I go very still, hoping he’ll realize I’m not into this, but apparently he likes his girls young, wooden, and unresponsive.
As he grips my breasts, his breathing speeds up, washing me in the sour fug of coffee, milk, and two shots of vodka. It turns my stomach and I retch, bending lower over the vanity and curling in on myself and away from him.
“Come on, baby, don’t be like that. Let’s have a little fun,” Jimmy growls, gripping me tighter.
I slide to the side and knock over the chair in my frantic attempt to get away from him. I lift the chair as I stand. There are no legs to fend him off, but it places a barrier between us. I brandish it at his face and hiss, “I don’t want this. There are lots of other girls here. Why don’t you find one of them?”
“Because I want you. I own you. You do what I say, and I say that tonight is the night.” Jimmy advances toward me.
I throw the chair at him and it lands on the floor with a crash, but he remains between me and the door. I jump the other way and end up tripping against the sofa, and then he’s on me. Wrestling me down. Tearing away the thin crotch of the dress as he settles between my legs.
“Come on, you little slut. Give it up. You’re nothing special. There are a million more girls like you in Nashville. I made you. You’re only famous because of me, and now you belong to me.” Jimmy’s not smiling anymore. He looks furious as he holds me down with both hands.
He’s too far away to headbutt, so I spit in his face. That only makes him more furious, and he pulls back his arm and slaps me hard across the cheek.
That will bruise.
“You’re not looking after the merchandise!” I shout, but he’s not looking at me anymore. He’s scrabbling at his zipper, a nasty smile on his face.
“I’m going to teach you a lesson, you jumped-up little piece of trailer trash,” he says.
“Get off me!” I scream as loud as I can. I’m writhing against him, bucking against his iron grip, when the door opens.
“Is this a party anyone can join?” a deep baritone voice says.
I look up at the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life. The scar on his left cheek only serves to highlight the perfection as his blue eyes blaze down at me.