I sign my name on the dotted line: Phoenix Wilson Rage Edwards aka Phoenix Savage, and slide the contract back across the table. James signs. Henry signs.

Honestly, I’m glad to leave those other names in the dust. I am the result of a one night stand between the biggest band whore in the history of Rock and Roll and Zeve Zevens. Yeah, the Zeve Zevens. Rock god extraordinaire. And no, I’ve never met him. I’m just the result of his orgasm. Lucky for me, he signed his rights over and gave my mom a nice lump sum of money to stay hush-hush about me, you know, since he was “happily” married to some Playboy bunny named Margo. Jesus with the clichés already…

James glances across his desk at my beloved step father Henry Edwards, former drummer of Sons of Rage and CEO of Deviant Fault Records. “She’s got talent,” James says. “Sounds like a female version of Zevens.” Huffing, I roll my eyes and sink down in my chair.

“We need to get her in a collaboration. Who’s the hottest act out right now? Those dickheads–” Henry snaps his fingers. –“Pandemic Sorrow, right?”

“Yeah.” James leans back in his seat, the hinges creaking as he folds his hands over his lap. “But, you don’t want to do that to her.”

“What, give her the best exposure possible?”

“Put her with those shitheads. Jesus, Henry, they’re…” he shakes his head. “There is no word for what those boys are.”

“Ah, she can handle herself.” He smiles and winks at me. He’s pretending he’s doing this out of the kindness of his heart, but I know better. If my album does well. He does well. Really, all it boils down to is business, not kindness. Henry’s a dick.

“I’d rather just,” I say, “you know. Do my own thing.”

“Phoenix, I know the industry, why go the long way around when you can just,” he holds one arm out steady and pulls the other back, pretending like he’s aiming a bow and arrow. He flicks his fingers. “Pew…shoot to the top?”

“It’s fucking cheap,” I say, “that’s why.”

Henry groans, tossing his head back and dragging his hands down his face. “You have talent, Josie, you do, but this industry is tooth and nail, if you weren’t who you are…” he looks at James like he needs some type of approval. “I mean, this has been handed to you on a silver platter, either take it all or don’t take any.”

My jaw clenches. I’ve loved singing since I was little, before I knew who my sperm donor was. Before my mom went from lead singer to lead singer to drummer to Henry. It’s in my DNA, but I don’t know that I want all the crap that comes along with fame. But I did at least want to try and make it on my own.

“I don’t want to do it, Henry.” I glance at James even though I know that spineless creep won’t be any help.

“Well…” he sighs, drumming his finger over his desk, “those boys won’t be too ecstatic about it, that’s for sure.”

“And you think I care? It’s my label. My company.” Henry pushes up from his seat. “Do it, James.” And with that, he walks behind my chair and opens the door.

“One song,” James says.

I glare at him. “Can’t wait…”

I open the door to my apartment, well, Henry’s apartment, if you want to get down to it. He gave me this 2 million-dollar apartment in Beverly Hills on my 16^th birthday just to get me out of his 14,000 square foot home. I mean, after all, a kid cramps a man’s style, I guess.

To people looking in, I’ve got it made. I’m surrounded by celebrities and rock stars, I have everything I could possible want, yet I’m hungry for the most basic things: love, affection, genuine people. And I’ve learned, much to my displeasure, most people are only out for themselves.

I toss my purse on the entrance way table and take a deep breath. I signed the contract, I should be excited, but there’s this sick feeling twisting deep in my gut. This nagging voice telling me I don’t deserve any of this because it’s been handed to me on a silver plate.

I didn’t ask Henry to give me a deal, to be honest, I didn’t even let him know I was sending demos out to other labels. God, I would have loved to sign with Sunshine Records or MTM, partly just to piss Henry off, but no one wanted to touch me. I’m tainted by his fucking name.

I cross the living room to grab some water from the kitchen when I hear a giggle followed by a bump. I freeze. Another giggle.

I slowly tiptoe toward the hallway that leads to the bedrooms. There are only two people that have the code to the building. My best friend Lauren and– “Oh god, Blaze. Fuck me harder.” –I cringe at her pathetic moans.

Pam, or mother dearest as I sometimes refer to her, must have helped herself to the privacy of my apartment since Henry’s in town. Now the question is, do I just ignore it, or do I kick them both out right now? There’s a bang against the wall and the picture hanging outside the room sways on the nail. Shaking my head, I walk down the hall, stop outside the room, and take a cleansing breath before I pound my fist over the door. “Oh, mother,” I shout. “Could you stop fucking random men in my house, please?”

There’s no response, so I bang my fist over the door again. “Get out, or I’ll call Henry.”

There’s an angry groan. Some mumbling from whoever the hell Blaze is. Rustling. I take a step back and lean against the wall watching the door.

The lock clicks, the door swings open, and there stands Pam trying to shimmy a tight leather skirt over her hips. Her bleach blonde hair is in disarray. Lipstick is smeared over her face, mascara on her cheek. “Baby,” she slurs, and I just roll my eyes. High and fucking. The two talents she’s known for.

“Please, get out,” I say.

She sighs before turning her attention to the shadow in the room. A perverted smirk plays over her collagen plumped lips. And then a guy– a guy who looks to be the same age as me– pops out of the room. His eyebrow is pierced; tats cover both his arm.

“And who the fuck are you?” I ask.

“Blaze Jeffries.” He smiles and I can see the arrogance radiating off him like a fresh pile of shit.

“Okay, get the fuck out, too.”

“You don’t know who I am?” he scoffs, his gaze drifting back to dear old Pam.

“Uh, no.”

He laughs.

“Baby,” Pam says, “he’s the new bassist for that band, Blood Stain.”

I sigh. “Don’t know them. And that’s a stupid fucking name.”

He groans. She groans. “I’m sorry,” she says, “she’s rude.”

I laugh. “Yes, because I’m the one getting random dicks shoved in my sagging vagina inside my daughter’s house!”

She shoots an angry glare at me before she leans over the dresser and does a line of coke.

“And fucking drugs? Jesus…”

“I wasn’t in your room.”

“Oh my god,” I groan. “Just go.”

Blaze grabs the baggie from the dresser and shoves it inside his pocket then they both file out of the room and down the hall. When I hear the front door slam shut, I lean my head back against the wall. My life is a train wreck. Always has been, and from the looks of it, it always will be.

Amazing!