I’ve totally lost my edge. I used to love getting totally fucked up, going out on stage and not giving a shit what the hell happened. Now all I can think is, What if Lucky’s watching?
I know she’s not. She doesn’t give a flying fuck about me or what I do. She expects me to fuck my way across Europe. Said so herself.
I’m feeling all kinds of shit for someone who doesn’t give a shit about me. She wanted a quick fuck before I left. But she’s worth so much more than that. I shut her down and pissed her off, all because I wanted more.
And now I have nothing.
I fish my phone out of my bag and pull up the last messages I sent. Producers and songs. All fucking business. Maybe it’s time I came clean.
Thinking about you, I type. Too much. Fucked up before I left. Wondering if you’re still pissed.
My finger hovers over send for a long time, wondering if I should add more. But since she doesn’t seem to be speaking to me, better to start small, see the reaction before I go all confessional.
I send it and wait. But there’s no reaction.
The driver takes me up and down random streets for another half hour. Still nothing. I do the math and figure it’s five in the afternoon in California. She should be awake.
Maybe she’s doing an interview. Or recording.
Or can’t stand the fucking thought of me.
Fuck.
Finally, I have the cabbie take me back to the hotel. When I get to the front desk, I ask if they’ve got a vacancy and check myself into a room on the third floor, away from Grim. I lay on the bed and chain smoke until dawn, staring at the ceiling and working out the lyrics to the final verse of the song that I’m just now realizing is me.
I watch the sun come up. And still nothing from Lucky.
Chapter 24
Shiloh
The paperwork got filed with the court and our hearing is tomorrow.
I’m starting to get worried about…everything. I’m not a worrier by nature, but everything is just so fucking out of my control right now. Billie has say over guardianship and my recording contract. Tro has control over everything else.
I can’t stop thinking about him, torturing myself wondering what he’s doing every minute of every day. I follow their schedule and imagine him onstage at show time. I picture the parties after. But when I get to the part around what would be two or three in the morning where he is, when he takes some groupie, or actress, or princess to bed, that’s when my insides turn to stone. Unfortunately for me, that’s right around dinner time, and I can’t eat. I’ve lost seven pounds.
But the thing that’s worrying me the most is my contract. Whenever Billie takes calls from Universal, she’s started leaving the room. When I ask, she assures me they’re working everything out and we’ll have a contract soon. I can’t help but feel like she’s hiding something from me. I just don’t know what.
So, when she goes out for dinner with a potential new client, I take the opportunity to reassure myself everything’s okay.
At least, that’s how I justify going through her things.
Her briefcase is locked, but one thing I learned on the streets is how to pick locks. This one’s relatively simple and me and two paperclips have it open in just a few minutes. I thumb through the folders inside until I find the blue one she always has out when she’s talking to Phillip. On the top is what I first think is my original Universal contract…until I start reading. It’s a new contract, dated the week before last. I have no idea what most of it means, but behind it are two more copies, and they’re all already signed by my producer.
Under those is a markup of the same contract, with some things crossed out and others jotted in the margins. This one is over a month old, from not long after we got back from tour.
Billie’s had my final contract in writing for two weeks. Why haven’t we signed it?
Behind the Universal paperwork, there are several yellow legal sheets with scribbles about royalty percentages and endorsement terms, but as I flip to the last one, it only has three lines of numbers. I’m not sure what I’m looking at until, at the bottom, I notice the ends of a staple poking through from behind. I flip the page, and there’s a bank deposit slip stapled on the back. The deposit was last week for two hundred and eighty three thousand dollars.
I flip the page back over and look at the numbers again. Account numbers?
If I need cash, I go to the ATM. If I need to buy something, I do it online with my card. I never use my checkbook, so it takes me a minute to find it in the bottom of a box of my stuff. I pull it out and compare the numbers to what’s on the paper. And my stomach sinks.
Why does Billie have my account numbers? And what does it have to do with the deposit slip?
There’s a customer service number on the checkbook. I call it. After a hundred automated prompts, I finally get to an actual person.
“This is Christina. How can I be of service today?” she asks.
So formal.
“I had a question about my account?” I say, not even sure of what I want to ask.