Two weeks. I’ve survived two weeks with these– whatever the hell they are–children, maybe?

I glance around the recording studio as the track blares through the speakers. Rush has his phone aimed at his leather clad crotch, flashing pictures. Pax is behind the drum set staring off into space. Jag isn’t even here, and Stone is leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. The door bangs open and Jag struts in, thumbing under his nose, his pupils blown wide.

I feel sorry for him. I really, really do. He gets high just to function. No matter how confident he seems, no matter how much money he has, he must be miserable, because those drugs own him.

The track ends and the crackle from the intercom comes over the speaker. “That sounds good. Clean. You guys alright with it?”

The guys all mumble and nod.

“Okay, Jag and Phoenix, you’re turn.”

I glance through the window at James and the techs sitting behind the massive control board full of lights and knobs and buttons. My heart slowly picks up its pace, my nerves bunching in my stomach. Stone leans toward me. “You’ll do fine, don’t stress,” he whispers before one of those sexy grins of his crosses his face.

“Thanks,” I say as he follows the other two guys into the hall. Seconds later, the door to the sound room opens. I watch through the window as Stone, Pax, and Rush file in and lean against the back wall. And for some reason, it makes me feel a little better that Stone’s here.

The track starts. I grab the mic, placing a death grip on it. And… I miss my cue.

The music stops. Jag groans. “Jesus,” he mumbles.

Now my pulse is hammering in my temples. Sweat is forming above my lip. The track starts again, and this time I don’t miss the que, but my voice completely cracks. The music stops and Jag falls back on the chair. “Do I really have to deal with this shit?” he asks.

I glance through the window at Stone, but he’s staring down at his phone. The rhythm comes through again and this time, I nail it. At least the first line, anyway.

Three hours later and it’s over.

Jag doesn’t acknowledge me when he tosses his headphones on the chair and walks out of the room.

I grab my bottled water and walk to the side of the recording studio. The wall is lined with albums. Seven of them Pandemic Sorrow. I stop in front of their first album and look at Stone. Really look at him. Even though he has this stoic expression, I can still see a twinge of excitement, like he was hiding a smile. I walk past a few more albums and stop at their last one. That stoic look is no longer a façade.

Do I really want to do this to myself?

I head out the door and run right into Stone who is waiting outside. “That sounded amazing,” he says.

“Thanks.” I take a breath.

“Now just the tour and you can be done with us.” He smiles.

“Yeah, can’t wait to see what jack asses you guys are on tour.” The smile fades from his face. “Sorry,” I say, “I just…” But there is no just. “Sorry.”

He shoves his hands inside his pockets and walks to the stairwell, shoving open the door and disappearing inside.

I stare at the door for a minute. “Why am I being such a bitch?” I mumble to myself.

Thirty minutes later and I’m stuck in the rush hour traffic on the I-101. Some old man keeps creeping up next to me and staring. My phone buzzes in the console. I glance at it and sigh. Pam.

I grab the phone. “Hey.”

“Hey, baby,” she says. “Henry told me this record should go platinum.”

“Huh. Okay.”

“See what your mother does for you? Stays with a dirty old man so her baby can achieve her dreams.”

I roll my eyes so hard I’m surprised I don’t strain a muscle. “Gee, thanks, mom.”

“I was thinking, you know, maybe we should see about doing an interview with Rolling Stone.”

“For what?”

“Publicity, of course. I was thinking we could wear white fur, you know, kinda like I did when me and Jimmy did that article back in ninety-one.”

This is typical Pam behavior. How can she get in the spotlight? “Yeah,” I sigh, “just not really feeling an interview. Especially not one Henry has to pull strings for.”

“Oh, come on now, you know as soon as people figure out it’s Zeve Zevens daughter the media will be all over you.”

My face heats, my chest goes tight. I swerve into the exit lane and someone lays on their horn. “He paid you to keep your mouth shut about that.”

“Of course he did, but that was over twenty years ago and Marlow is dead, so I mean, what would he care? Henry thinks it would be a good publicity stunt.”

“I care, Pam. I care!” I don’t want any more shit piled on top of my name.

“Don’t call me Pam, it’s so impersonal.”

“Fitting,” I snort into the phone, because Mother Dearest was about as impersonal as she could be. I came into this world as a ploy, a way for her to climb her way to the top… and when that didn’t work out, I mean, what was she going to do? I was raised by nannies and stage hands. I don’t have memories of her kissing a scraped knee or baking cookies with me. No, all my memories of her include finding her laid out on the couch after a binge with blood dripping from her nose. Having rock star after wannabe rock star in our house. Going to concerts and sitting back stage while she went and fucked her way through half the band. Until Jimmy.

Jimmy was the closest thing to a parent I ever had, and that’s just tragic at best.

“Baby, please just– ”

“You want to do an interview to rave about raising a child on your own? About being Jimmy Rage’s ex-wife and the wife of Henry Edwards, fine. Set it up. I’ll sit there and shake my head for you, mom.” And I hang up the phone.

Fame.

Stone was right, it’s a disease. A sick fucking disease.

My cell rings again and I snatch it up, pressing it to my ear. “What?” I snap into the phone.

“Well, lovely to hear your voice, too, sis.”

The tension in my muscles automatically eases at the sound of Harvey’s voice. “Sorry.”

“Ah, that’s the ‘Pam’s being a cunt’ tone, isn’t it?” he says.

“Of course. What’s up?”

“Wanna come over and chill? I’m bored. Plus, I have this wicked picture of a naked woman I ordered from some artist and I don’t know where to hang it.”

“You ordered art?”

“I was high.” He laughs. “But it’s bad ass, she’s got blood running down her sides and a serpent head.”

“Wow.”

“Come on, I’ll fix you my magic ice cream.”

I grin and put my blinker on. “Fine, but I’m only coming for the ice cream.”

“See you in a few,” he says and hangs up.