Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125213 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
He wasn’t my friend.
Then again, no one was.
No one other than a brown-haired, blue-eyed pop star living across the country.
I dialed her number as soon as I pushed through the conference room door.
Ready to Play
Mia
“I swear, nothing would make me happier than to flatten this guy’s micro penis with a hot iron.”
I huffed the insult, face burning as I skimmed the rest of the article written by one of the most prestigious and well-respected writers of Pop Industry Magazine — Garrett Orange. He’d received an early listening access pass for my upcoming album, a common practice in the industry.
And, yet again, the shit canoe was trashing me.
I seemed to be his favorite subject, ever since I was the ripe ol’ age of nineteen. While he loved to write glowing pieces on the boy bands and rock stars closest in competition to me, all he ever seemed to want to talk about in my case was how I was a lover scorned with trite songwriting.
Add in the fact that he was best buddies with my darling actor of an ex-boyfriend, and it shouldn’t have been a surprise to find the scathing, three-page review of my upcoming album as his latest viral post.
And it wasn’t a surprise.
But it did piss me off more than usual.
“‘Save your money for what I suspect will be yet another female rage fest of a tour, complete with glitter bombs and obnoxious lyrics only twelve-year-old girls could love,’” I read out loud, and that did it. With a frustrated growl, I turned my phone screen black with one click before slamming it down on the teak table in front of me.
What is wrong with this guy?
I couldn’t figure out what I’d done to affront him so, to make it where I had this target on my back that he loved to chase. The only reprieve I’d had from his critique had been when I was dating Austin, and even that was short lived. I had a feeling Austin had made him promise to hold his tongue only long enough for him to get what he wanted from me.
As soon as we broke up, Garrett was back to being a prick.
And Austin never did anything to stop him.
My publicist and I were sitting in my private oasis of a backyard, the fountain from the pool and the soft waves from the Pacific Ocean beyond providing a serene symphony — but nothing could calm me in this moment.
I buried my face in my hands, trying to force a slow breath.
I popped back up just as quickly.
“Are they ever going to get tired of this shit?” I asked Isabella. She was my publicist and one of my closest friends. I’d learned early on in life — especially in this career — that most people couldn’t be trusted. But Isabella had earned my trust almost immediately, and more importantly, she’d kept it.
Because she truly was looking out for me. She cared about me. She wanted me to succeed, to be happy — and I’d seen her willing to sacrifice what would have been the bigger money-making moves in order to insure my health and well-being.
That alone gave her a permanent spot in my inner circle.
Isabella offered me a sad, sympathetic smile, the California wind blowing softly through her hot pink hair. She had light brown skin, honey gold eyes, and more piercings and tattoos than an entire motorcycle club combined. She was the kind of beautiful that could stun you speechless and also scare you just a little bit, just enough so you didn’t dare fuck with her.
I envied that.
I, on the other hand, was very much the American girl next door. Long, silky chestnut hair, tan skin that mostly came from genetics rather than my time in the sun, bright blue eyes and, blessedly, naturally long lashes. My lips were just plump enough that my team never harassed me to get fillers, and I had a single dimple on my left cheek that I’d always loved — along with a beauty mark right above it.
Ever since I was fifteen, I’d been called cute. Not hot, not sexy, not rich in feminine power and talent.
Just cute.
Not that I minded being cute. Being cute was fun.
But sometimes, I wondered how long I’d have to age before another adjective would be used to describe me.
“You’ve been at this for seven years, mi amor,” Isabella said. “What do you think?”
I heaved another sigh, shoulders deflating. I knew the answer to the question I’d asked her. I just hated it. When I’d first rose to stardom as a teenager, I didn’t understand much. I kind of laughed off the criticism while licking my wounds in private, trying to pretend like none of it mattered. That was what a good little pop star did, right? I was to smile and be amiable, never confrontational. I was to stick to my music and never have an opinion on anything else.