“Can we just … can we turn the camera off?”
The cameraman, Grant Schafer, glares over the lens as if to say, “Bitch, are you crazy?” and he keeps the damn thing trained on my face. The red light continues to flash, taunting me.
It’s happening again. The tightness of my skin, the inability to breathe. My heart stutters, beating out a broken rhythm as if it were a butterfly inside my chest, captured, caged, and desperate to get out.
“Please?” I beg, sucking in air that never seems to reach my lungs. Grant looks to the woman beside him for clarification.
“Why don’t you take a break and we’ll pick this up in ten,” Lana Lambert, my manager of five years, says, and it really isn’t a question. She has this way about her that forces people to shut up and take notice. Me? I need a face full of makeup, a short skirt, and a pair of six-inch stilettos to achieve what she can with a single look.
Grant mutters, but it sounds like an inaudible grunt. God, why in the hell did I agree to this? Oh, right, I didn’t. Lana did it for me. If I didn’t think I’d lose my shit completely without her, I’d fire her ass.
“I need air . . .” I take a deep breath and unclip my mic from my gold sequin mini dress. Of course, the tape prevents it from being removed completely because the battery pack is strapped to my back. Feedback bounces all around the room. I wince at the noise, and reach for the battery, but I’m unable to remove it by myself. My hands tremble. I need to get it off me. I need the quiet of my tour bus as the noise of the stadium falls away. I need to get out of this ridiculous dress.
“Get it off. Get it off!” I scratch and claw at my back, desperate to remove it, to shut out the noise. Our boom operator sets his pole down, and the woman who wired me up rushes in so I don’t ruin their precious microphone.
Grant switches off the camera and sets it in his lap. “This is gold, Stella. Your fans want to know what you do before coming out to perform. They want the behind-the-scenes Stella Hart. Uncut, unedited . . . not the perfect package you and your label have presented for years.”
“They’ll have to search pretty far for her,” I whisper. Considering I have no idea who she is. “I . . . I need everybody out.”
I can’t breathe, all the noise, the cameraman in my face. I feel as if I’m sinking, and the whole world is watching. Despite being loved by millions, not a damn one of them is throwing me a lifeline. I pant, double over and rest my head between my knees.
“Stella, you’re alright.” Lana moves closer. I flinch, and rake one hand through my hair. Makeup is gonna be pissed that they’ll have to fix my face, but tears slide down my cheeks anyway.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Okay, honey. No one’s going to touch you.” Lana is no stranger to my panic attacks. I’ve been having them for as long as I’ve been performing, but they’re getting worse. They’re getting harder to control, with each one more emotionally draining than the last. I want to claw my way out. I want to shuck off my skin and slither free like a snake, along with all my regrets and mistakes.
I. Can’t. Breathe.
I have to get out. I stagger toward the door. I’m drunk on despair and emptiness. My heart is beating so fast I feel like it might escape, just bust free of my chest and fly away. I wish it could. I wish I could follow it.
“I need air.”
Lana knows, she knows, but she still warns me. “Stella, you’re due to go on in ten minutes.”
“So, stall them,” I whisper. “Tell Thomas it’s his lucky night. He gets to do another few songs.”
“That’s not on the set list.”
“Then tell him to improvise. I hear he’s good at that,” I snap. Grant stands as if he’s about to follow me. “No!”
“But . . .”
“Turn the camera off,” Lana says coolly.
Grant continues filming, but he stares at her over the lens as if she’s now the crazy one.
I push past them both. Out in the corridor, I ignore the women waiting backstage to meet my support act, Thomas Bentley. They scream when they see me, and plead with me to sign autographs, but I keep my head down. I’m focused solely on getting outside, feeling the crisp October Calgary air on my face. When I reach the exit, Rich opens the door automatically. This man has worked for me on every tour since I was seventeen years old. He, too, knows the routine. Though I usually never cut it this close.
“You’re late, Miss Stella.” He steps aside, allowing me room to exit through the tiny door.
“I know.” I launch myself outside. Gulp down air the way a fish does when it’s pulled from the water. I close my eyes and let the cool breeze wash over me, and for a minute I can breathe again, but the clamor of twenty thousand voices chanting my name from the arena presses down on me like a lead weight. It’s suffocating. I need a distraction. “How’s Clara doing?”
Rich’s eight-year-old granddaughter has come to every concert since she was three that we do in our home state of Tennessee. When you’re on the road, your staff becomes family. A huge, dysfunctional family. Of course, there are some members of my road crew that I know better than others, but at the very least, I remember the names of all one hundred and fifty people who work for me.
“She’s good. Aced her spelling bee,”
“Good for her.”
“She’s looking mighty forward to your Nashville concert.”
I smile, but it’s tight. I can’t focus on anything but my feet that are standing still when they should be running. I take another step, another deep breath.
“Miss Stella, they’re asking for you.” Rich says, tapping his earpiece. “Lana’s on her way.”
I close my eyes. The breath leaves my lungs in a rush, and I shake my head. “I can’t.”
“You can’t what, Miss Stella?” he asks. I start walking away at a clipped pace. “Ma’am?”
I ignore him. A second later the door slams and he says into the earpiece, “Shit, Miss Lambert, we got ourselves a runner.”
Rich is not a young man. He’s nearing seventy, with bad knees from an old football injury. For a split second, I feel bad for making him come after me, but I can’t do this. I can’t go back in there. I can’t stand on that stage a second longer with this emptiness inside, this desperate need to get out, to run and leave everything behind. So, I sprint across the asphalt as if I’m running for my life.
Heavy footsteps pound the pavement behind me. I hear the door open, and Lana’s shrill voice yells for him to grab me. If I wasn’t so desperate to get away, I’d probably be in stitches laughing at her trying to run in heels. Me? I’m used to it. I’ve spent my whole life dashing from one end of the stage to another in eight-inch heels for costume changes. I could run a marathon in these puppies.
Before I know it, I’m passing the fleet of trucks and busses parked behind the venue. A few roadies stop and stare as I fly past. There’s a driver in his SUV parked near our convoy, already waiting to take me to my hotel after the show. I put on a burst of speed, desperate to reach him before Lana can get to me, and since I have nothing to slow my trajectory but the side of the vehicle, it hurts like hell. I grab onto the side mirror with one hand to keep from falling. I slam the other against the window and the man inside stares at me with a wide-eyed gaze, his mouth slackened in shock and one hand pressed to his chest.
“Open up,” I shout, as I thump on the glass. I glance back at Rich and Lana. They’re gaining on me. I’m not sure what happens when they catch up, but behind them is the camera crew, recording all of this. Of course. The driver lowers the window. He has a round face, and he seems real sweet. That’s why I feel a pang of guilt over what I’m about to do to the poor man.
“Help me, please. You need to get out of the car.” He reaches for the handle and I move back, almost slipping on the ground as he opens the door and scrambles out. “Thank you, thank you.”
“You okay, Miss Hart?”
I don’t waste time answering. Instead, I dart behind, shoving him out of the way as I clamber into the driver’s seat. I start the engine. It’s been a long time since I drove myself anywhere. I’ve always had people to do it for me. I got my permit, of course, but in the ten years since my career took off, I’ve never gone anywhere alone. Even trips to the bathroom are usually accompanied by Lana standing on the other side of the door, telling me I have to attend this function, be at the studio by a certain time, or the airport for yet another flight.
I hit the gas. The tires screech. I bunny-hop forward and almost slam into a parked car in front. I back it up and clip one of our tour busses. Why the hell was this guy parked so damn close to everything? I finally shove the stick in gear and take off for the gates, in the right direction this time. They’re manned, of course, and the guy in the booth knows my face. He glances at the group of people behind my car, no doubt all clamoring to get to me, he shakes his head with a wide-eyed expression, but I slam my foot on the accelerator and drive right through the boom, leaving him and everyone else in a cloud of exhaust. As I pass the front of the arena, several fans that were unable to get tickets swivel their heads toward my screeching tires. I hit the switch and the window glides closed. I know there’ll be hell to pay for this. But I just can’t do it. I can’t stand on that stage for another night and pretend like I’m okay. I’m not okay.
I drive through traffic, and on the way out of town I pull into a liquor store and slide the keys from the ignition. For a beat, I just stare at my face in the rear-view, not knowing the woman I see glaring back at me. The fake lashes, the lip filler, the Botox I was forced to have to retain my youth at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. My face is as emotionless, as dead inside as I am. Though maybe I’m not as dead as I thought. I did run away from an arena filled with thousands of fans.
Oh my god. What am I doing? If I turn this car around, I can still go out on stage. I’ll be thirty minutes late, or more by the time they touch up my makeup, but I can fix this. I just need . . .
I stare at the flashing liquor sign above the store. A drink. That’s what I need.
I can’t remember the last time a drop of hard liquor passed my lips. With the exception of a glass of wine every other month, I don’t drink. I’ve never liked the thought of being out of control, and it’s not worth the hangover when you spend the next eighteen hours rocking back and forth with the motion of the tour bus as you puke up your guts.
Still, I think tonight calls for a strong, dark something-with-the-ability-to-screw-me-every-which-way-from-here-to-Sunrise.
I climb out of the vehicle and walk into the store. It’s a quick stop with liquor attached, and the lights are so bright they hurt my eyes. I grab the biggest bottle of whiskey I can find. The clerk stares at me a beat too long. I turn my gaze downward, past the gleaming gold sequins of my dress, and I inspect the label on the bottle so he can’t make a positive ID, but I still feel his eyes on me.
“You’re that singer, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say impatiently. That’s when I realize I don’t have any money. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Yes, you are. I remember seeing your picture all over town. Aren’t you supposed to be playing tonight?”
“Um, I just remembered I don’t have any money.”
“Well hell, baby. I can’t give it to you for free, but maybe we can work something out, eh?”
I glare at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
He shrugs. “You want the drink or not?”
Goddamn it. I do. I really, really want that drink. I know if I return to the stadium I won’t find one anywhere backstage—it doesn’t mesh well with the squeaky-clean image that my label likes to brandish around town as if it’s a badge of honor. Especially when the Maren Morris’s of the world pop up with their devil-may-care attitude and upset country’s sometimes delicate sensibilities. Not that I’m bitter or anything. The only way I’d get a drink in that stadium is if I raided Thomas Bentley’s tour bus for it, and that’s so not happening. The man has already expressed plenty of interest in the two of us bunking together, on my bus, on his, in my dressing room . . . He even told CMT he was planning on being my date for the CMA Awards. No thank you.
I stare longingly at the bottle. I need this drink. Finally, I glance up at the cashier and swallow hard.
“What kind of deal, exactly?” He leers. I grimace. “Oh my god, forget it.”
“I gotta get somethin’. That’s a fifty-dollar bottle of whiskey. Besides, it’s not every day you meet a country star.”
“You know what?” I step closer, putting a little more sway in my hips as I walk toward him. “Why don’t you shove your deal fair up your ass.” I clutch the bottle tightly. While I’m staring him down, I grab a couple of candy bars—I can’t remember the last time I ate one of those, either—and with a final look, I turn and run. Apparently, that’s what I’m good at.
I climb into the SUV and throw the car in reverse. He comes thundering out after me, but I take off out of the lot, hooting like a woman who’s lost her damn mind. Once I’m back on the highway, I unscrew the cap with one hand and take a long, hearty swig. It burns like the dickens going down, and I nearly run right off the road. Bracing the wheel with one hand and using my teeth to rip into the candy bar wrapper, I take a bite and moan as I chew the chocolatey goodness. Why does everything so bad for us taste so damn good? I’m sure there’s a country song in there somewhere.
Another sip of whiskey and two candy bars later, I begin to feel sick. The sugar, liquor and guilt swirl around my belly, and for a beat I think I’m going to puke, but I shove down that feeling and just drive. I follow that white line until it runs right out. I don’t care where I’m going. All I want is to be away from the city, from people who know my face and those who want to control every aspect of my life. I want to be anywhere but here. But no matter where I end up, it still won’t be far enough.