“Listen. I know you’re feeling a little . . . touchy about this.” Merry had been right; his voice was unbearably squeaky. My fingers twitched as an urge to claw his face came over me. “But he and I talked about this, and he told me that he was trying to help you out of the limo, you refused, and fell over. I get that you’re embarrassed about how all of this went down, but you’re overreacting, don’t you think? You don’t have to make stuff up just to get out of it.”
“That’s what he told you? He grabbed me. And when he saw that my arm was broken, he had his driver deliver me to the hospital. He threatened me.”
“Listen, Cassidy. I’m your manager. I’m supposed to do what is best for you. And what you’re telling me right now makes me think that the best thing for you is to spend time with Stephen, heal the breach. You’re going to be on tour with him for the foreseeable future. Big Disc is thinking of extending the tour too, and Stephen has generously offered to be the opener, so that he can visit more sites around the U.S. and Europe. Make nice with him.”
I walked away from the conversation feeling dazed—and it wasn’t just because I was eating fewer calories than ever. After what had happened on the phone regarding Alex, I should have known that Peter would react in a similar fashion when it came to Stephen—protecting the bottom line, growing his business.
I don’t know why I didn’t just fake illness on the day of the show. Perhaps I bought into the hype that Gloss was a shoo-in for Best Pop Video, and after standing onstage looking at the winners—from Sing It to all the other awards shows since—I just wanted to know what it felt like to win something.
Maybe I already knew it was the end.
ANG HAD CREATED a set of patterned sequined leotards for us to wear, a medley of colors all mottled together, in different cuts for us. Gone were the days when we squeezed into lacquered pleather. Our tailor understood our bodies and seemed to have chosen an eye-catching design that disguised Merry’s thickening tummy. Strategic cutouts showed off our best assets, from Rose’s shoulders in a halter to my legs in boy-cut shorts. Our backup dancers would do the more strenuous moves and wore strappy little bondage uniforms like out of The Fifth Element.
We arrived in designer outfits—the last red-carpet appearance we would ever make together. I wore a black Chanel gown that looked like a mourning outfit with a white collar and cuffs, the meaning of which was discussed ad nauseam for months afterward. When I was paired with Stephen St. James to present Best Breakthrough Video, I had to turn on the charm and pretend that everything was fine, even though my stomach churned and my hands shook at the podium.
“Speaking of breakthrough,” Stephen said, turning his face toward me but well aware of the audience, “do you remember the last time we were on this stage, Sassy?” The audience whooped and cheered.
I gave a smile that felt like a grimace. I recited, “I sure do.”
“Should we give them another reason to cheer?”
I’d told Peter I didn’t want to do this. But it didn’t matter—he steamrolled every objection, citing the need to “heal the breach,” and refused to discuss it any further. The crowd was on its feet, stamping and hollering, an audience of people who knew nothing of the truth and would probably not care if they’d heard it.
Stephen smiled at me winningly and scooped me into his arms. I stiffened only slightly before I let myself think of Stephen as my friend, my lover, just to endure this. His lips were pursed hard, nothing like the sensual brushes he’d begun with in the limo, and it was like kissing someone else, which helped. I imagined Rose for a moment, and when he pulled back from me, I felt my throat constricting. I swallowed hard. The audience cheered.
Without even taking a breath after violating me so thoroughly, Stephen unwrapped the envelope. “And the winner is . . .”
Even after we’d disappeared offstage, I was fighting back tears. Our performance was soon, so I wasn’t planning to return to my seat, and I tried to find a quiet corner amid all the draperies and pulleys to compose myself.
A voice hissed out of the darkness. “There you are.” It was Rose, in her outfit already. “You’re not dressed. Come on.”
I felt my resolve crumble. I pulled her to me—backstage, there with everyone around us and yet enveloped in privacy in between velvet curtains—and placed my mouth on hers. I needed the last pair of lips on mine to not be his.
Plush, sticky with gloss, that peep of tongue that I loved. I almost lost myself in her.
She pushed me off and hissed, “Are you completely forgetting where we are?” She pointed in the direction of the dressing area. “Go change,” she said perfunctorily. “We have less than five minutes before we go on.”
Fog. Lots of fog. The recognizable four beats. Then red lights swirling around as the backup dancers writhed and jittered. Beats again. Now yellow lights, then spotlights on Tasty and Rosy, visible on twin metal staircase structures on the stage. Then Cherry and Sassy, emerging from cages on hovering platforms, sang the next lines and struck poses as the platforms transported them to the metal staircases. The harmony. The chorus. They danced down the staircases, tossing hair, shaking asses. The choreography with the backup dancers was so tight, they looked like they were in the military. Aerialists strapped into harnesses were lowered on trapezes over the stage and performed. Then, the much-talked about finale: amid the spectacle of fireworks and a light show, trained dancers strapped the girls into harnesses, from which giant, iridescent wings made with feathers tipped in fine glitter unfurled and flourished. A still from the performance that was shown the next day on all the entertainment news sites was a wide shot of the stage, the girls at various heights as they were hauled toward the rafters, bookended by trapeze artists, backlit and glowing.
It was a great performance. One for the ages. And in a sweep that surprised no one, “Prime” won Best Cinematography, Best Direction, Best Pop Video, and Best Music Video. We juggled our trophy statuettes during the acceptance speeches, smiling widely. Rose was the spokesperson for us on the first win, but every subsequent announcement, someone else took the microphone.
Merry thanked everyone but the director when it was her turn at the mike, something that Yumi corrected when she was next at the podium.
WE QUICKLY SEPARATED after the show, as Yumi opted to go to a flashy after-party and Merry claimed she was too tired to stay out any later. Rose, however, climbed into the SUV with me. “What a high, right?” she said, adjusting her dress as we began to move. I was surprised that she would join me but I didn’t open my mouth for fear that she would leap out again.
The tension in the back seat was so taut, I felt my breaths come in shallowly. The driver accepted her directions without comment, completing the short distance from the theater to Rose’s house in Sunset Strip, a shorter drive than finding our way to the Hills. “Do you know how scared I was in that harness? That I would fall and break my back again?”
My heart was zinging in my chest after everything that had happened, and everything that could happen. We weren’t touching, but our hands were close enough on the back seat that I felt her energy radiating out toward me, my pinky twitching with the urge to caress hers. But no. We had to be careful.
“Grab a nightcap with me,” Rose said when we reached her house. It was an all-glass monstrosity with most of the living space on the second floor. Giant windows could open up the house to 360-degree views from one corner to the other, a corridor of air and light bisecting the rooms unless doors were closed. Giant blinds could come down at the touch of a button to seal off the occupants from the outside world, which is what Rose did as we entered the house, slipping off our shoes.
It was the first time I had been invited in, and the occasion was not lost on me as I took a quick visual tour of the house, just from standing in one place, before she was on me, hands slithering under my clothes, mouth on mine. I responded immediately, allowing her to take off my dress, which pooled around my feet in a chiffon puddle.
“This is what I love about you,” she purred into my ear, kissing the lobe. “Your perfect ears, your delicious neck.”
Love. I knew it was love. But did she mean love the way that I did?
“Wait.” I disentangled myself from her hands and took a step away. “Does this mean we can be together on tour? Because . . .” I swallowed. “I was dreading the tour, but if you say we’re good, that . . . that changes so much.”
She swept back in with her fingers in my hair, murmuring against my mouth. “We can talk about that later.”
I wouldn’t let her drag me along again. “No, we’re going to talk about this now.”
She groaned, throwing her hands up in annoyance and backing away. She fell back on her sleek modern couch and dug into a box on the glass coffee table. “Fuck, Cass! You’re always asking me to do things I can’t do.”
“Why can’t you? Why can’t we—”
“Because!” she exploded.
I squinted at her and glanced down at the table. “Wait, what are you doing? Is that coke?”
“Just bringing back the good mood since you’re making me sag.” She leaned over and quickly inhaled one of the three lines she had made on the table.