Total pages in book: 50
Estimated words: 48371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 48371 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 242(@200wpm)___ 193(@250wpm)___ 161(@300wpm)
That’s how Pepper looks at me now.
It awakens in me the desire to be someone. Someone else. Someone with secrets that wouldn’t make her run and hide.
“I’m looking forward to your show tonight,” I tell her, which is true. Especially now that I’ve met her.
And seen what she wears to rehearsal.
I hope for all of our sakes, her show blows the audience away.
Chapter 3
Pepper
Hugh shows up at my door, Anton standing behind him. “Where the hell did you disappear to?”
Jesus. The man has become my fucking keeper.
I stick up my chin. “I went to tell Tony Brando where he could shove his champagne.”
Hugh’s eyes bug out of his face. “You what?” He pushes his way into my room and Anton follows. So much for me resting before the show. “Seriously, Pepper, I don’t think you understand who these guys are.”
“Oh, I understand.” My voice warbles and Hugh fishes a throat lozenge out of his pocket and shoves it at me. “I understand we’re all going to get our fingernails pulled out with a pair of pliers if I don’t earn the Tacones back their money. No pressure at all, considering my voice is completely shot.” To make my point, my voice gives out on every other word, making me sound like a dying frog.
“All you have to do is keep your throat lubricated enough to speak between tracks. I’ll take care of the rest,” Hugh promises. He reaches out like he’s going to cup my face and I jerk away.
Ew. We’re long past him playing daddy to me.
I close my eyes in frustration. This is the lowest I could possibly sink as an artist—lip synching my own songs for an auditorium filled with people who paid one hundred bucks a pop for tickets and the promise of an intimate show.
“And if someone figures it out?” I demand.
“You make damn sure they don’t.” He gives me a hard stare. Hugh’s been my manager since I was sixteen. Since back when I used to believe every word he said—trust he knew best, because my dad believed in him.
Not so much anymore.
“They’ve already threatened to go after your parents. They’re not going to hurt you, because you’re the cash cow, but believe me, they know exactly how to apply pressure. These men are violent and dangerous. They won’t hesitate to poke you where it hurts. Do not, I repeat, do not piss them off. That includes getting mouthy with their enforcer. Tony Brando is gonna be the guy who gives the order to take possession of your parents’ house, or worse yet, rough them up. Is that what you want?”
Cold slithers up my spine. I turn and walk to the window, look down at the third floor rooftop pool deck.
“Pull it together, Pepper. I know you’re not feeling your best, but there’s a lot more riding on this gig than whether you get decent press or your fans are satisfied. And don’t ever go anywhere in this casino without Anton. Understood?”
“Go to hell,” I mutter, but I sound like a surly teen, rather than an adult who has the reins of her own career. That’s because with Hugh, I still am a surly teen.
And I’ve just about had it with him running my life.
Pepper
One thousand seats—all full. Under different circumstances, I might have enjoyed the hell out of performing at the Bellissimo. I like the intimate setting, the swanky, well-equipped theater, and the mix of old and young filling the seats. Under different circumstances, I would’ve given tonight’s performance one hundred and thirty percent. I would’ve joked and cajoled, told private stories, sang my little bird heart out.
But I’ll be lucky if my voice will make it through the end of the show, and that’s just for shouting to the audience between songs. I’m not lip synching to my last album--that would be way too obvious. Instead, Hugh pulled a recording he’d made for critique purposes from one of my early performances on tour. That way, it sounds more authentic. The hard part is remembering the little fumbles I made, trying to get the timing perfectly synched up. And my band members have to pretend to play, too. None of them are happy about that.
I do my best. The audience is warm, but we don’t really connect—probably because I’m all wound up about lip synching. Every time I do this, I literally puke before I go on. Still, I dance, I move my lips, I try to chat them up. I change costumes four times. I have a couple small glitches—dropping my head and the mic a moment too soon at the end of a song, forgetting that I’d dragged out a word, but I don’t think anyone would notice unless they’re really looking for it.
I head off-stage after the encore. Sweat drips in my eyes, and I can’t see because I’ve been staring into stage lights. As I fumble through the curtain, Izzy grabs my arm and yanks me into the shadows.