“It’s just something I’ve been thinking about for a while,” she says when I don’t answer. “You’re still a minor, and a ward of the state. There are a lot of moving parts in this business and it just seems like it would un-complicate things if you had someone other than the State of California who was legally responsible for you.” She pulls me back to her side and says, her lips against my temple, “And if I could have picked a daughter, it would have been you.”
The ice in my heart melts a little and my suspicion melts with it. “Remember it’s me you’re dealing with. You may regret it.”
I feel her head shake slightly against mine. “Never. Now let’s go celebrate the start of an incredible career!”
#
Billie’s been in the bathroom throwing up all night. A bad scallop in the Coquilles Saint Jacques at the swanky French restaurant we went to after The Tonight Show taping, she thinks. But that’s not what’s keeping me awake. How are you supposed to sleep when the biggest thing that’s ever happened to you is about to happen?
Madison Square Garden. Sold out. I know they’re all coming to see Roadkill, but still.
At the thought of his band, a pair of wolfish eyes stalk into my mind.
Tro fucking Gunnison.
He’s like that bad scallop you can’t get rid of no matter how many times you puke. I haven’t been able to shake him out of my head.
I know Billie’s right. This is what he wants, to get under my skin. I hate myself for letting him. And the truth is, I never have to see him again. I open for him. There’s at least twenty minutes between my act and his while the roadies break down our equipment and set up Roadkill’s. Once we’re out of New York City, Billie’s contracted a tour bus for us, so after our set, I can escape to my own space. I’ll be long gone before Tro fucking Gunnison ever graces the audience with his presence.
But something about running and hiding rubs me the wrong way. It’s not in my DNA. I grew up on the streets of San Francisco, the castoff daughter of two junkies. Tro is nothing compared to what I had to deal with out there. But unless I want this tour to blow up in my face, it’s probably the best strategy.
The clock says three AM when I glance at it. I shove the sheets aside and grab my guitar on the way to the balcony.
Billie rolls to look at me. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. I should have gotten my own room. This just hit me out of the blue.”
“It’s not you,” I tell her. “I wouldn’t be sleeping anyway.”
She pulls herself up to sit against the headboard. “Nervous?”
“A huge stadium full of Roadkill fans?” I say, hugging the guitar to my chest. “What have I got to be nervous about?”
She bunches her pillow under her head. “You’re going to win them over, kiddo. I know it.”
“What if they boo and start throwing shit? You know Tro’s girls have done that to openers before.”
She swings to sit on the edge of the bed. “They’re going to love you,” she says, but her face looks anything but sure. A second later, she’s running for the bathroom again.
While she wretches over the toilet bowl, I slip out the glass door onto the balcony. New York isn’t like San Francisco. Even in early June, the night air is heavy and thick. I set my guitar on the small glass table and go to the rail.
We’re a few blocks away, and I’m pretty sure our room faces the wrong way, so I can’t see Madison Square Garden, but I know it’s out there. I remember thinking on the night of The Voice finals that nothing could ever top it—that everything depended on winning. Now I know that was only the beginning.
Everything depends on everything.
Everything I ever wanted is balancing on a tightrope and there is no safety net. Every interview has to be kickass. Every move I make, perfect. Every outfit, daring. Every hairstyle, classy. Everybody has to love me because the bottom line is that every record has to sell. One wrong turn, one false move, and show over. And the only thing waiting for me then is the streets where I started. After having everything, I don’t want to go back to nothing.
So I’ll toe the line; avoid Tro Gunnison and sing my ass off.
I’ll make them love me.
I lower myself into one of the two chairs and pull my guitar into my lap. I close my eyes and, in my mind, I go back to the BART stations of San Francisco. Music starts in my head, and I finger the melody of Lilah’s songs out on my guitar. I feel my only real friend at my side, hear her hum out the harmony to the music she wrote. Then I open my mouth and sing quietly to myself. I need to settle my nerves and this is the only thing that calms me down when I’m this wired. I let myself go home, where I was never really safe, but at least I knew what was what.
Because here, I’m totally lost.
Chapter 5
Tro
I’ve seen hot. Hot girls throw themselves at me on a daily basis. All the fucking time. Case in point: the blonde under my left arm and the redhead under my right.
Our road parties have gotten smaller over the last year, mostly because it got too expensive to reimburse the hotel for all the damage, so now it’s just the band, some of the backline guys, our closest friends, and a dozen or so handpicked girls.