Protection: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance (2 page)

S
mile
, I tell myself
. This is your moment. No one’s going to ask about your attack.

The stage lights brighten on the set, and the audience cheers.
Showtime
.

“Elly Parsons, it is so
awesome
to have you here with us today! You are just crushing it right now, with
how many
number one songs this year?” Roxie Summers asks. Roxie is the gorgeous, famous blonde host of Early Morning America, and this is my moment in the spotlight.

We’re sitting on a matching pair of tall white leather stools, before a wall of glass windows. She leans close and I catch the scent of alcohol on her breath. Vodka, but so much that it’s almost unbearable to look her in the eye.

All these people, here to see me, here to judge me. Watching my every movement.
Yeah, I can understand why Roxie probably starts her day off with a martini or six. But damn, she really is just
hammered
.

How the hell is Roxie this drunk and still sitting upright, having this conversation with me?

I hesitate a moment longer before answering her question, turning to the big plate glass windows, the crowd stealing my attention for a moment.

Outside, a screaming mass of fans jumps up and down, waving signs with my name on them. It’s mostly teenaged girls, my core audience, but here and there I see an older face, or maybe a guy.

They’re nearly as excited to see me as I am to see them; last night I lay awake, worrying that no one would show up to cheer me on, no one would buy tickets to my tour, that my soaring pop career would be over in the blink of an eye.

It’s a recurrent worry in my life, even though my handlers keep telling me not to worry, to be clear and focused.

I resist the urge to stick a finger in my mouth and nibble at my nail bed, to soothe myself like I did as a nervous teenager. Ever so briefly, I go to my happy place, imagining myself utterly alone on a black sand beach, sipping a fruity drink from a coconut.

Focus
, I chide myself.
This is your moment to shine
.
Don’t let them think you’re some kind of victim.

“Gosh, I think… seven singles this year?” I say, bringing myself back to the present and splaying my fingers out in front of my blood red lips. I bite my lower lip, drawing attention to my lip color. My lips are one of my most-touted features, and I’m supposed to take every opportunity to subtly promote my lip gloss and perfume line. “It’s been a crazy year, Roxie!”

“I bet! I have to ask, what does it feel like to be the biggest name in pop music today?” The cheerful blonde host of this morning talk show is practically glowing with drunk exuberance. They’ve been trying to book me on Early Morning America for ages, and finally here I am. Impressing the studio heads and fans alike, selling tickets and albums, looking my personal best. That’s my job on press tours like this one, really… Just look pretty and say the lines they fed me just so.

“I feel busy!” I joke. That’s the understatement of the year; I feel like every second of my life for the next two years is planned for maximum sales engagement… because it
is
. Busy doesn’t begin to describe the schedule I’ve allowed my entourage to set for me.

“Well you look great,” Roxie says, patting me on the arm. Like we’re old friends having a chat instead of two strangers holding an interview in front of hundreds of people, plus the millions watching at home. I swallow and press my hands against my knees, not wanting anyone to see how badly they’re shaking.

“Oh, thanks! I’ve been hitting the gym a lot in preparation for the tour,” I say. That much is true, although that’s not really the reason why I look so great today. The real secret is a pinch of movie magic, makeup, lighting, and a handful of B12 vitamins with my coffee this morning.

“And I’m working with my stylist on a line of hair products, some great herbal remedies that have worked really well for me. Just between us.”

I wink, and Roxie laughs. We both know that it was hours of hair and makeup that produced this effect, not
herbal remedies
. My sable hair is cut into a fresh new style to hide the jagged edges after the attack. It’s blown out, sleek and straight, not a hint of the natural curl showing. My violet eyes are rimmed in gold eyeshadow and dark mascara, my aquamarine silk dress making them brighter than ever.

Every inch of me is perfectly coiffed and plucked and ready to blow people’s minds. From the way that the fans are cheering outside, I am pretty damned sure it’s working.

“I always think you look amazing,” Roxie says in a confidential tone.

“Oh… that’s so nice of you to say, Roxie,” I answer cautiously, flipping my hair before I remember how short it is. It’s important to my Public Relations team that I not come off as conceited, so they’ve prepared all my answers in advance. “I’m just focused on this big tour coming up, honestly. It’s a huge deal!”

“What is it called?” she asks, beaming at me.

“American Dreams,” I say with a big smile, turning to the camera. “I really hope you’ll all come out to see me fulfill
my
dreams, America. I am going to put on the most amazing show for you!”

“That’s so great. A triple platinum record, a huge world tour, and of course your reality show… Are you going to be doing another season of
The Elly Parsons Empire
?” the host asks, canting her head.

“Gosh, I’m really not sure!” I say, trying to muster as much excitement as my interviewer. “I’d love to, of course, but I don’t really decide that stuff. I just make the music for you guys!”

“And lip gloss, and perfume, and those awesome workout outfits you designed… With all your product lines, the new movie you did that’s coming out next spring, and this big tour, I don’t know how you have the time or the energy!” Roxie says.

“Ohhh… well, I just take really good care of myself and try not to stress, if I can,” I say. Lies, all of that. I have people who see to every tiny detail of my life, and I am nothing but a ball of stress almost every minute of the day. The key is not letting it show on the outside, a skill I’ve mastered utterly.

The other key is letting yourself be really, truly, genuinely excited. If it’s real, the fans can feel it. That’s something I learned from my mother, back when she was still my mom-ager.

Roxie gives me her famous, adoring smile. I wonder if she has any idea what I just said. I wonder if she even listens to any of her guests’ answers, or if she’s already onto the next topic in her mind. She seems like she’s more effervescent blonde cheer than present, mindful thought. Not that it matters to me, as long as my fans are swayed by her bullshit.

“Awesome!! Well, I think everyone knows this one already, but we have a clip of you rehearsing your hit song
You’ll Never Break My Heart Again
, getting the routine ready for your tour. Let’s check it out!” Roxie chirps.

“Thanks so much! See you guys out there for the American Dreams tour, everyone!” I cry and wave at the camera. It’s a little fake at this point, since I’m having trouble connecting with the show’s hostess, but it’s important to
smile smile smile
. That’s what pop stars
do
.

“Great. Let’s watch the clip, shall we?” Roxie says. A statement, not a question.

I know the drill. Roxie and I both turn to watch the green screen behind us and hold still for half a minute. When the director calls out
CUT
we both relax and sigh. I can’t believe I made it through without any questions about the attack, but Roxie is probably too hammered to think of anything off-script.

“Whew!” Roxie says, shaking her head. “Great energy. That clip is going to go viral, I can feel it.”

“Oh, good!” I say, pushing myself to stand, balancing in my five inch designer heels. “Thanks for having me on…”

Roxie isn’t paying a bit of attention. Her hair and makeup team descend to take advantage of the small break in airtime.

“Let’s get you moving, make room for the next guest,” a young blonde production assistant says, gently tapping my shoulder in an attempt to shoo me from the interview area.

“Oh! Right. Okay,” I say. Before I can start to feel truly awkward, though, my PR team surrounds me. Brad, Sarah, and the two Jennifers. My team of publicists from Raven Media.

I call them the Ravens, which is a little funny because each one of them is bright as sunshine. All of them various shades of blond, high energy, two of them always by my side in rotating shifts. Someone is with me damn near twenty four hours a day. I tend to get a little too truthful when left unattended, so the Ravens make sure that doesn’t happen.

You know, so I don’t get too
chatty
, as the Ravens call it. Say something I’m not supposed to say. Anything that’s off script, anything that’s outside the carefully crafted narrative that Raven Media has formulated for me. I’m supposed to be a Southern girl from a good family, cheery and bubbly and just the right amount of outrageous.

That’s the Elly Parsons who sells tickets and CDs, so that’s the Elly Parsons I want to be. The Elly Parsons I
choose
to be. For the most part, I let the Ravens mold me, hand hold me, encourage me. If I let myself get wrapped up in the game, it’s actually pretty damned fun.

Besides, I like the Ravens. They’re a lot better than the rest of my entourage…

“Giiiiiirllllll, good job!” Brad says, giving me a little high five. “Let’s get you out through the main entrance while you’re still looking so fierce. We don’t want you to smudge.”

“Okay.” That’s my answer for almost everything. I am famous in the business for being the anti-diva, for being delightful to work with. So if I’m a little bit of a pushover, who cares? I’m making bank, and so is everyone else around me.

I get to entertain the adoring masses with my silly songs, wear awesome clothes, and dance around on stage. That’s my literal, actual
job
. I’m one of the luckiest people on the
planet
, as I remind myself constantly.

Brad links arms with me and leads me out of the studio, past all the production offices and through a bunch of pristine white hallways. The Jennifers open a set of double doors and Sarah opens an umbrella to keep the sun out of my face, and then I am stepping out on the street in New York. After being in the controlled environment of the TV studio, being on the rain-slicked streets is a welcome change. I suck in a deep breath of humid summer air and smile.

I’m not alone on the street, far from it. Between the building and the street, there must be a hundred fans waiting with posters and CDs and t-shirts.

The second I turn toward them a few of them are already shrieking with excitement. Inside, I want to wince and shrink back, memories of my attack too fresh. The Jennifers propel me forward and Brad is whispering
smile
and I don’t really have a lot of choice in the matter.

This isn’t the part I like. I like performing. I like recording. I like acting, playing the part. I like getting made up and traveling the world. I like being Elly Parsons, from a distance.

This part… having to be perfect close up, this is the hard part. But it’s also what creates slavishly devoted fans. It’s not an optional part of the job. And I’m
not
allowed to act like anything is remotely out of the ordinary.

So I turn on my mega-watt grin, the one that wins Grammys and gets me minor movie roles and makes my agents and publicists love me. I push forward into the sea of sharpie-waving hands, saying hello and signing autographs and taking selfies. I ignore the way that people snatch at my hair and clothes, so insensitive to the trauma I’ve just endured only days ago. I ignore the fans that smell weird or get so excited that they can barely get a handful of words out when I ask them a question.

Click, click, click
. So many selfies. I’m the queen of fucking selfies, people actually say that about me online.

Brad taught me that if I take the photo myself, I can control the camera angle, get my best side. Less crappy photos of me online, plus it gives the fans a good experience. They think I want to be in their photos and I make sure I look my best. Win-win!

Click, click, click
.

“Alright, everyone!” Brad finally shouts after about ten minutes. “Elly has another event to attend! Thanks so much!”

Is that true
? I wonder. I really, really hope I don’t have another press event right now. I’ve been up since four this morning, doing early radio shows. Yesterday, before
everything
, I did a record six press junkets.

Six separate events where reporters streamed by me one after another, all asking the same questions, taking the same photos. Six events where I talk about my new album and tour, and they press me for info on my non-existent dating life. We all get what we want.

Elly, are you loving life right now? Do you just feel crazy lucky for all this success?

Elly, anyone special in the picture? Surely you can’t still be single, can you?

Elly, what’s next after this? What about after the tour?

Elly, Elly, Elly.

Until I think my smile is so forced that it might shatter my cheeks. Until I am just totally drained and exhausted and ready to take a couple of aspirin and crawl into my hotel bed and sleep forever. I swear, I don’t mind the press. I just wish someone would ask me something different.

How come no one ever asks what book I’m reading?
I think, making myself smile.
Or my position on the nuclear crisis in the Middle East?

It’s a silly thought, but it perks me right up. It’s fun to have a secret self that few people know about. Keeps me going on the longest of days, being able to distinguish between
Elly Parsons from small-town Mississippi
, and
Elly Parsons the international pop star
.

I actually read a ton, always have. I don’t really put it out there for other people to see, but I usually have some interesting biography or a challenging fiction novel tucked away in my oversized purse, to fill the gaps when I’m riding in cars or waiting for a press event to start.