“Mickey Rice is one of the best producers in the whole wide world, Jasmine. This could be life-changing if we get him to work with you. He has connections with the best of the best, and he’s pairing us up with T.K. Reid, the mixing engineer. You really couldn’t be luckier,” Trevor exclaimed as we took a taxi to the studio in London.

Mama was staring out the window taking pictures of all the buildings as we drove by. We’d been in England for a few weeks now, and it’s been nonstop work for me. When I wasn’t in a studio or meeting with potential producers, I was with Mama being homeschooled.

Whenever I got a free minute, I’d email Elliott. It was the only way we had to communicate, and with the time difference, there were so many times I’d wake up to a new message from him and go to sleep wishing I had more words from him.

“When we get up to the meeting, let me lead it, okay?” Trevor told me, fixing his tie. His attire told me it must’ve been a very important meeting.

Trevor was the complete opposite of Ray. He looked and acted like a snake. There was no softness to him at all.

“Can I come into the meeting?” Mama asked.

Trevor cringed a bit. “I don’t know, Heather. I think it might just be best to, ya know, keep it to the professionals.” He winked her way.

“I want her in there,” I said, staring out the window as we drove past Elizabeth Tower.

“But—” Trevor started, and I glared his way.

“If Mama doesn’t come with me, I’m not going in there.”

“No, it’s fine, Jasmine. I’d probably just get in the way and step on people’s toes,” Mama joked, smiling at me. “Trevor will be there with you. It will be fine.’’

I argued with her, but I could tell she wasn’t going to go against Trevor. Unlike Ray, Trevor didn’t put up with Mama’s sharp tongue. When she bit him, he bit her back—harder.

I reloaded my email, hoping a new letter from Elliott had arrived since I’d checked five seconds before, but still nothing. Even though it was only three in the morning back in New Orleans, I really wished he were awake to talk to me.

* * *

“How long has she been performing?” Mickey Rice asked Trevor as he leaned against his desk. He spun a pencil between his fingers, eyeing me up and down.

“Six years,” Trevor answered for me. “She’s been performing professionally for six years.”

“And how old is she?” he asked, his stare locked with mine though he spoke to Trevor.

“Sixteen.”

Mickey cocked an eyebrow. “She could pass as nineteen.”

“It’s the makeup. We can always tame it if need be,” Trevor told him.

Mickey’s eyes traveled up and down my body once again. I crossed my legs and arms as discomfort washed over me. I hated how they spoke about me as if I wasn’t in the room. I hated how I wasn’t allowed to speak for myself. I hated how Trevor—a complete stranger—was my voice.

“No, no. We want her to pass as older. More attention.” Mickey gave a sly grin. “How much does she weigh?”

“Why don’t you just ask me?” I snapped. Trevor pinched my arm and gave me a stern look.

“She’s one hundred and thirty pounds.”

“Get her to drop fifteen.”

“But I’m five eight,” I argued.

“You’re right—get her to drop twenty.”

“What does any of this have to do with my career?” I asked, annoyed.

“This is the music industry, sweetheart—it has everything to do with your career.” Mickey pulled out a pack of cigarettes and placed one between his lips. He offered Trevor one, and he took it. God, I hated cigarette smoke.

“So, describe her genre for me,” Mickey continued.

This went on and on. The two talked about my flaws and my talent, the direction they each believed I could take, etc. I grew tired of it all, and every now and then I’d steal a glance at my cell phone to see if I had a new email from Elliott.

Of course not.

He’s still sleeping.

“And she dances?” Mickey questioned.

“Don’t you want to hear me sing?” I cut in, growing tired of their talk. Mickey gave me a hard look.

“Excuse me, missy. Two grown men are having a conversation here.”

“About me,” I argued.

Trevor gave me a shut-up-right-now look, but I didn’t care.

“You’re talking about me and my career and my this and that, but you haven’t even asked me to sing for you.”

“What does your voice have to do with anything?”

“That’s the whole reason I’m here—for my singing.”

Mickey laughed. “This is the music industry—that has nothing to do with your career.”

Trevor leaned toward me and slightly shook his head. “Just let me handle this, kid. I got your back.”

I didn’t believe him.

They went back to their conversation, and I went back to refreshing my email. My heart jumped when I saw EAdams pop up in my inbox.