The morality clause. Of course. I hadn't forgotten about that – how could I? Everything in my life is about public perception, after all. That's how things work when you're America's country music sweetheart. "So you're ambushing me?"
A man in a suit clears his throat before sliding a sheaf of paper across the table at me. He's obviously someone from the record label, but I don't recognize him, which doesn't make me feel any better about this meeting. He was clearly sent to do the dirty work of making sure I fall in line with what the label wants. "I'm afraid you're bound by the terms of your contract," he says. "And that includes your public behavior. We signed a wholesome country singer, a role model for young girls. One who represents family values. Not someone who twerks in a club at two in the morning."
"But I haven't been twerking – "
"Drinking and partying," he says. "Do those behaviors ring any bells?"
"Those are hardly illegal." I leave out the glaring fact that I wasn't actually drinking or doing drugs or anything scandalous at all. I was with people in a club who were doing those things and that's apparently all that matters. God forbid I have a little bit of fun at the ripe old age of twenty-two.
"Legal behavior is one thing, illegal drugs are another thing entirely," my mother says. "You should know better. Once any of your so-called friends is high, you're guilty by association."
"And then there's this." My stepfather slides a copy of the newspaper across the table, giving me a look that positively reeks of disapproval. My stepfather is the most buttoned-down person I've ever met, the kind of man who can convey more with a raised eyebrow than most parents can communicate in an entire lecture. He's a retired Army Colonel who runs a private security firm for celebrities, and I'm one of his clients. My mother met him seven years ago on one of my tours -- and the rest, as they say, was history.
I glance down at the page, expecting the headline to have something to do with my boyfriend – my ex-boyfriend, after last night's debacle – and his friends' antics in the club last night. But it doesn't. Instead, it reads Music Star Caught In Compromising Position With Older Married Man: Relationship with Boyfriend on the Rocks!
At least they got the relationship with the boyfriend part right. That's definitely on the rocks; hell, it's already shipwrecked. This headline concerns a completely different scandal. Of course, it doesn't tell you the rest of the story, which is that I had to shove the guy away from me at the party three nights ago. The article really should read Hollywood Mogul Photographed While Attempting to Grope Music Star. Cameras didn't capture that part of the evening.
I don't even try to explain, because my parents would never believe me. My mother thinks I'm a brat, spoiled by money and fame. I may be a bit of a brat, but I'm not spoiled by this life. It's exactly the opposite, actually. I'm exhausted by it. I should be on-top-of-the-world happy, with three platinum records and a Grammy award under my belt. But at twenty-two, I shouldn't feel this damn old -- this damn tired. I should have some fire in my belly.
So I guess fatigue is the reason I don't say anything. Instead, I sit there glaring at them, waiting for their verdict. I tick off the options in my head. Rehab? A trip somewhere? I'll issue a mea culpa for my terrible behavior and promise the record label they won't have to worry about their lily-white singer being tarnished by her no-good friends.
My stepfather finally breaks the silence. "The label has agreed to a solution we think will be amenable to everyone," he says. "With all that's happened, we believe you need someone to look out for your interests." He says it like we're talking about hiring someone to manage my stock portfolio. But what they're really suggesting – what they're really ordering – is someone to manage me.
"A new manager," I say flatly, looking at my existing manager – my mother.
"Don't be ridiculous," she sputters, shaking her head.
"What then?" I ask. "Designer treatment center? Press statement saying I've collapsed of exhaustion?" The words come out more bitter than I intend them to sound, but I'm frustrated by the ambush.
Of course, a break might be exactly what I need. In my head, I imagine standing up right now and walking out of the room, packing everything I own and just heading back to Savannah, me and my guitar. Hell, I could play on a sidewalk, no backup singers and dancers and costume changes and a different city every night until I'm so turned around I can't see straight.
The guy in the suit is right, though – the record label would play hardball. They would sue me for breach of contract and take everything I've worked for.
It's funny what happens when you come from nothing. Nothing is the last place you ever want to return.
I'm so preoccupied with my thoughts I don't even hear my stepfather's voice until he waves his hand directly in my field of vision. "Addison."
"Yes."
"The label agreed to this plan. Hendrix will be your new bodyguard," he says, his voice picking up momentum. "Your old one has been removed."