world knows the stage name the record label gave me. “I could give a shit about that. You know all I care about is the music. Speaking of . . . did you tell the label I plan on writing the songs for the next record?”
She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I did, Ace, but you know how the bigwigs are. They want to make sure the songs appeal to the mass market, so they want to bring in the same producers you worked with on the last album. Johnny Moses has some terrific songs picked out that really fit your voice.”
I pull back, halting her in place. “Hold up. You’ve heard the writers’ demos already and didn’t send them to me?”
“You’ve just been so busy making appearances that I figured you wouldn’t have time and would be happy with what I chose. Don’t you trust my judgment anymore?” She raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Remember, it was me helping you change your style that took you to this new platform. This is the level we’ve been dying to get to.”
I shake my head, my dark hair falling into my eyes. “My music would’ve eventually gotten me there.”
She pats my chest as a look of pity crosses her face. “Keep telling yourself that if it makes you feel better, but we both know it was me and the choices I made for you that pushed you to this level, not those sad little acoustic songs you sang to bar crowds of twenty people. This is the big leagues, kid. You’d do best not to throw a fit over something as simple as a song choice. You need to give the fans what they’ve grown to expect from you. They’re what bring in the money. Trust me.”
This should shock me, her treating me like a puppet on the string that she controls, but it doesn’t. It’s true that over the last two years since she discovered me, Jane Ann has morphed me into a million-dollar singer. Fronting a band that Mopar Records created should’ve been a dream job, but it’s not. I don’t get to sing any of the music that I enjoy singing—and writing? Forget it. The label won’t trust me with creative liberties one bit.
That’s what pisses me off the most.
I’m an artist. I don’t want to keep re-creating someone else’s vision for my entire career. I want to be free to express myself and control my own success or failure by allowing the fans to hear my original songs, not ones I’m forced to sing.
But it’s been made very clear to me by Jane Ann time and time again that if I want to continue to have label backing, I have to play what they give me until the record label says otherwise.
I know she’s patronizing me, but if I don’t want to lose everything I’ve worked for, I have to go along.
For now.
“All right, but can I at least listen to the new songs I’ll be recording?” I ask, completely deflated.
A satisfied smile pours over her face. She’s clearly delighted I’m giving in. “Of course, darling. After tonight’s show I’ll play them for you.”
Once upon a time I believed this woman was actually my friend. But that was before the piles of cash were rolling in and I became her primary source of income. She told me our friendship didn’t have anything to do with money.
Having friends has never been one of my strong suits in my last twenty-six years, so I desperately wanted to believe that Jane Ann was someone I could actually trust. She seemed genuinely to have my best interests at heart regarding my music career when I first met her, but now I’m not so sure that she does.
It was lonely growing up as a foster child, bouncing from place to place—never really having a steady home. I never had time to make friends, not real ones anyway. That’s what led me to music. It was the one constant in my life. The one thing no one could ever take away from me. I spent most of my youth alone in my room, learning to play every instrument known to man. Focusing on something other than the fact that my real mother didn’t want me anymore seemed to keep me out of trouble.
I walk next to Jane Ann as we wind our way through the maze of roadies and stagehands working to get everything ready for Wicked White’s set. “Are the rest of