Can’t Say No (Ridgecrest #1)

Delaney

I’m so screwed.

An ear-piercing screech echoes through the massive speakers at the foot of the stage, cutting my backing track in the middle of the chorus.

The crowd, bless their hearts, keeps sing-shouting along to a lesser known track from my last record.

A fact that I’m definitely rubbing in my team’s face since they doubted anyone would know this song.

“It just doesn’t have the same staying power as some of your better songs.”

Staying power my ass.

The arena is electric, an acapella version of my lyrics filling the space, wafting from the floor seats all the way up to the rafters.

The crowd is a mix of teens and their moms who are undoubtedly here to see the headlining act, a social media starlet on a meteoric rise to fame, and a slightly older set of young women who are clearly tried and true Delaney James fans.

I shoot a death glare over to the sound tech, who’s cowering just off stage, and make a mental note to fire the person who cut this song from my set. I mouth fuck you, along with a mostly hidden middle finger for good measure.

With my perfectly practiced pop-star smile back in place, I turn to face my adoring fans, “Well, I guess that’s my cue!” I scream out to the crowd, projecting the hell out of my voice since they cut my mic, “Love you guys!”

Walking backward, I blow kisses and wave with an elegance that would make Miss America jealous. That is, until I trip on the stupid fucking heels my stylist insisted I wear.

Gasps, grimaces, and then, laughter, ripple back through the crowd.

All semblance of grace gone, I scramble to my feet, looking more like a baby giraffe than the nation’s sweetheart, and rush backstage.

I’m met with slow, disapproving head shakes from my whole team as I pass. My bold choice to play some of my old songs is starting to look a little less bold and a lot more stupid. The deep scowl on my manager's face screams you’re an idiot.

Yup, I’m totally screwed.

The sound of cameras clicking at one end of the hall pushes me towards my raging manager, Remi, at the other end.

Night five of a twelve-week arena tour, and I’m already pissing everyone off.

Booked as an opening act for Molly Jo, the rising star poised to dethrone me, I’m not sure why my manager is so shocked by my behavior.

Which, if I do say so myself, is not nearly as bad as everyone is acting like it is.

I just stayed on stage a little longer than I was meant to.

Simply poor time management skills on my end.

And sure, the stage manager was fussing in my earpiece and the crew was waving at me from the wings, but I was in the zone, lost in my craft, and I didn’t notice.

At least, that’s the story I’m going with.

“Get your ass over here now!” Remi squeaks out through gritted teeth.

One last glance over my shoulder at the pressing horde of paparazzi, and I’m clicking down the hall as fast as these ridiculous heels will carry me. Remi grabs me roughly by the upper arm and practically drags me out the side door of the arena and into the waiting town car.

I rub my arm, the sting from her freshly manicured nails grounding me in my depressing reality, even as the tequila swirling in my veins threatens to pull me under.

I’ll add that to my list of excuses. One too many ranch waters and I lost track of time. I’m sure the press will eat that shit up.

I can see the headlines now:

Pop Princess Drinks Too Much and Makes a Fool of Herself at Concert.

It has a good ring to it.

Remi says nothing as we drive away from the venue, she just yanks out her phone and starts ferociously tapping away.

Damage control. Again.

I let my head fall back against the seat, closing my eyes and preparing for the inevitable ass-chewing from my team.

Long gone are the phone calls showering me with praise for yet another incredible performance.

Nowadays, I get to sit in meetings and hear all about how I’m a washed-up has-been and how the younger generation has more talent in their little fingers than I’ve ever shown.

Remi’s voice cuts into my spiral, talking low and angry to someone speaking with equal vitriol on the other end of the phone.

“Yeah, I’ll put it on speaker.”

I keep my eyes closed tight, willing myself not to care, willing myself to be anywhere but here.

If I try hard enough, I swear I can feel the gentle breeze off Crescent Lake and can hear the water lapping at the shore.

I haven’t been back in nearly a decade, but I go there so often in my mind that the memory still feels fresh, like I’m sixteen again, before I had to leave that life behind.

A gruff voice cuts through the fantasy.

“Delaney James, you are an embarrassment.”

I reluctantly pop one eye open, slowly returning to this unpleasant reality.

“Love you too, dad,” I deadpan. “Glad you were able to stream the set. I thought it was my best one yet.”

His anger comes off the phone in waves, and even Remi treats it like it’s red-hot, holding the phone as far away from herself as she can.

“Don’t get cute with me. You’ve been on thin ice all year.

You’re constantly late, you’ve backed out of three major brand deals, and you’ve fired half of your management team.

And don’t even get me started on your performances lately.

You flubbed the National Anthem at Fenway, damn it!

The last thing you need is more bad press, and then you go and pull this shit! ”

This rant is nothing new.

My dad has micromanaged every aspect of my career since the beginning.

He loves to list out all my failures, forgetting that I won a damn Grammy a few months ago.

Sure, there was a whole outcry over it because no one thought I deserved it, and some trolls online even started a petition to get it revoked, but I won it nonetheless.

Also, it should be noted that the sound system was fucked at Fenway that day and I couldn’t hear myself. But I kept my mouth shut because some poor intern would’ve lost their job over it, and I was feeling benevolent.

Clearly, no good deed goes unpunished.

“Your ass is on the next plane out. I’m so done with this bullshit, Delaney. You’re coming back to Ridgecrest.”

That has me jerking up straight in my seat, both eyes wide open now.

“What the fuck. I’m in the middle of a tour. You can’t banish me to Ridgecrest.”

My dad’s dry, humorless laugh cracks through the phone.

“I can, and I am. If you’re going to behave like a selfish child who can’t play well with others then I’ll treat you that way.”

The phone goes dead, and with it, my hopes, my dreams, my sanity.

I was thinking he would demand a grand public apology, a big charitable donation, hell, maybe even a stint in rehab. But never in a million years did I think I’d end up on a plane back to Ridgecrest, Tennessee.

A plane back home.