Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Rolling my lips between my teeth, I take another deep breath.
I have a few minutes until someone will come knock on the dressing room door, and I’ll have to be the version of me they all expect before I even open it.
I don’t know what it is about tonight that’s making my skin crawl, but I don’t want to be here.
I want to be home, or anywhere I can be alone for more than five minutes.
I wasn’t even aware of this performance until a month ago, even though Rick signed the contract for it over six months ago.
Rick Wilson is a controlling, manipulative asshole that I hate with every fiber of my being.
Ever since I won that national television talent show when I was seven years old, he has managed every aspect of my life and career.
I thought when I turned eighteen, I would be able to be free from his control, but he was prepared for me to run and he managed to shove me into a corner without any options—figuratively and literally.
It doesn’t matter that he is my stepfather; he doesn’t care about anyone other than himself and his bank account.
Dwelling on him is not going to help my anxiety calm down.
I don’t think I’m anxious about the actual performance; it’s just something about today.
But with anxiety, it’s not always logical.
Sometimes it pops up and ruins your day just because it can.
I sweep my hand over my forehead to push back one of my curls that fell a bit too far down.
If Rick shows up tonight, he will be livid that I wore my hair curly again, but he can go fuck himself.
“You have an image to project, Tinsley. When you wear your hair like that, it doesn’t work, and you look like a homely piece of trash that can’t afford a fucking hairbrush.
No one wants to be friends with a loser without any class.
They want to watch someone beautiful, not wild and out of control.
I’ll be talking to your style team again about this.
” He furiously taps away on his cell phone.
“Fucking incompetent imbeciles. Do I have to do everything myself?”
I shake off the memory. That tirade was mild because it was in front of a few of my team and band members, but the confrontation that happened later that night at my home was anything but.
Rick never lays a hand on me in front of anyone else, but if he corners me alone, the monster comes out.
Recovering from his reminder that night took weeks for the bruises on my back to properly heal.
He’s almost always careful not to leave any marks that would show when I’m performing.
The asshole had grabbed a curling iron to use to remind me of my place—thankfully, it was off this time.
That hasn’t always been the case.
“Knock, knock.” The noise jolts me from my thoughts, but relief quickly blankets over me when my cousin walks in.
Allie has been my personal assistant since I turned eighteen.
She’s four months older than me, and even though my interaction with her when we were young was limited after my dad died, when we reconnected at the same private high school, we immediately became best friends.
She is one of the very few people I trust, but even Allie doesn’t know how bad things can get with Rick, and I have to protect her from that reality.
“You have two minutes until we walk. Are you ready?” She looks me over from head to toe, but I know she isn’t asking if I’m physically ready.
I flash a smile. “Of course, it’s going to be a blast.” My false bravado almost sounds convincing and Allie’s eyes narrow, about to call me out on my bullshit, when the door swings open without a knock.
Fucking Rick.
“You better be ready. It’s time to move and they will not wait on you, Tinsley.”
“Hello to you too, Rick. So nice to see you again,” Allie deadpans and rolls her eyes. She doesn’t hide the fact that she hates him, and she doesn’t even know how awful he really is.
Rick walks into my dressing room followed by his sister—and assistant—scurrying behind him. He hands his coffee back to Debbie Jo before he begrudgingly gives Allie a slight nod. “Allie. Hope you’re being useful for a change today.”
“She was helping me get ready, of course she’s useful—Allie is essential.
” Unlike my stepfather, I explicitly trust my cousin without reservation.
His sister Debbie Jo also technically works for me and is supposed to be on my alleged team, but her allegiance lies with Rick and Rick alone—which makes her no teammate of mine.
When I was younger, Rick’s sister would only show up for two reasons: if she needed money or she just got divorced—and often, those two reasons would coincide.
Debbie Jo Wilson is six years younger than my mother’s husband and always seemed to be in some sort of relationship drama.
I may not have proof, but I’m pretty sure my own money has bailed one or two of her now-ex-husbands out of trouble and quite literally jail more than once.
Debbie Jo seemed to change her hairstyle and appearance with each relationship.
It was like every time she showed up, she was a different version of herself.
When I was sixteen, she showed up on our doorstep and I didn’t even recognize her—six months earlier, I saw her briefly at one of my concerts with her then-husband and she had long dark ash-blonde hair, but the woman standing on our doorstep a few days after her third marriage imploded had a dark brunette pixie haircut.
Later that night, she had too much wine, and quiet and timid Debbie Jo had transformed into a Chatty Cathy that thought we were long-lost best friends.
I was fascinated by this very different side of the usually meek and mild woman.
She continued her soliloquy of what had gone wrong with her life and all the ways other people had hurt her, while I sat at the kitchen counter, sipping on my iced tea, witnessing the emotional dumpster fire burn away.
After her first husband died from an accidental overdose, Debbie Jo continued to go through relationships faster than most women change purses.
Most of the marriages fell apart due to cheating on one or both sides, although the most scandalous implosion was when Debbie Jo cheated on her fifth husband, Jerry Alderman, with his older brother, George Alderman, who happened to also be Debbie Jo’s third ex-husband.
I can still remember Rick telling my mother about it and both of them laughing at how dumb Debbie Jo was until my mother was crying from laughing so hard.
Rick sent her money before she could ask because he thought it was so funny, which also meant Debbie Jo didn’t come visit during that divorce.
After the sixth divorce we were aware of, Debbie Jo—back to her ashy blonde hair—showed up with a moving truck instead of a suitcase and asked Rick for a job for the first time, instead of just money.
Rick put her on my staff and my payroll, and she handles administrative duties for Rick, which works for him as he doesn’t trust anyone else when it comes to his money.
And if you ask Rick, it’s never my money or my business—it’s his money and his business.
At first, Debbie Jo tried to act like we would be friends.
It was as though she forgot all the times she showed up on our doorstep throughout my teenage years.
She even once told me it was better to not antagonize her brother as she handed me an ice pack after one of his tirades.
She wouldn’t be the first person that liked the idea of being perceived as friends with a country pop star, but I had no interest in playing that game with her.
She’s timid and polite—almost too polite at times—but the strangest thing is how well she’s able to calm Rick down.
No one else has the ability, not even my mother and his wife of over twenty-five years.
Her dark brown eyes are observing, attentive, and while most people assume she’s just Rick’s shadow, I don’t think anything gets past her. There was even a brief time when I felt like Debbie Jo understood what it was like to be under Rick’s thumb, but my sympathy for her was short-lived.
One night after a concert, Debbie Jo had been working for Rick for close to a year and was getting comfortable in her role with everything, including not only spending my money like it was her own, but she was also more than comfortable in watching her brother manhandle me like a punching bag.
The set had gone off without a hitch, and after two and a half hours of performing, I was starving.
The green room had been stocked based on my preference sheet—which only had a few things I actually liked on it—but I didn’t really care; I just needed fuel after such an intense performance.
There were individual meals ready to grab and go, and I selected the last chicken teriyaki stir-fry over a Mexican enchilada with cilantro and green chile sauce.
I hate cilantro, so it wasn’t a hard decision.
Allie was packing up my stuff, and I had barely taken three bites of my meal when Debbie Jo and Rick came into the green room.
Rick sat opposite of me in a side chair and started eating while scrolling through his phone.
Neither of them made any comment on my performance, but I didn’t care.
I just wanted to eat food and get to my hotel room so I could sleep.
Debbie Jo sat next to me on the couch and started picking at her food, clearly unhappy.
“When I saw the menu for tonight, I was looking forward to having the stir-fry. Rick, you know I don’t really love Mexican food,” Debbie Jo comments while pushing rice around her dish.