Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91146 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
She stops there, but I know the words she can’t express for fear of reprimand.
She believes I am only here because of my connection to Rise Up.
The sucky part is she’s right.
Nikki J isn’t scribbled on the whiteboard outside my dressing room.
Nicole Reed is.
Knox said it was an accidental slip-up on the tour organizer’s behalf.
I don’t believe him.
When we entered the performance hall without the fanfare of the private airstrip, his ego slipped off a steep cliff. He wants the hype more than I do, and he gets it when two backup dancers spot my name on the door before it’s fixed.
“Oh em gee!” the tinier of the duo screams, almost shattering my eardrums. “It’s you, isn’t it? You’re Nicole Reed…” The part I always loathe arrives quicker since she only needs to read the malicious gossip made up about me instead of manufacturing it. “You’re the woman who almost ended Nick and Jenni’s relationship.”
“That isn’t true,” I bite back before cursing my stupidity to hell.
I'm meant to deny any connections to Nicole Reed by reminding fans that everyone has a twin, even someone as famous as Jenni Holt, who is often mistaken for Slater's deceased sister, Serena.
“I can’t believe this,” squeals the pack leader. “I can’t believe I’m dancing for someone who intimately knows the band members of Rise Up.”
After snapping my picture like permission is no longer needed, she hooks her arm around her friend’s elbow, then skips down the hall, telling everyone and anyone who will listen that they’re about to meet Rise Up.
With my frustration extending further than my shirt collar, I yank off my wig before scrubbing a hand over my dry eyes.
My eyes aren’t burning because I flew across the country in the equivalent of a sardine tin. They’re dry from how often I dragged them to Laken’s half of the plane during the five-hour trip.
I wanted to ask him why he took my songbook and what his plans are for the song he stole, but since I also wanted to kiss away the crease his forehead hasn’t been without for a second today, I kept my stalk to a distance.
The fact I care about his crinkle frustrates me more than having my stage name thwarted so early into our West Coast tour.
The dubbed “Hannah Montana Ruse” was doomed from the start, but I thought I’d at least get a handful of lesser-known gigs under my belt before being forced out of the cloak of anonymity a stage name offers. Then people might have attributed my presence at social events to my talent instead of my association with Rise Up.
There’s no chance now.
I still want to forge my own way in this industry. It’ll just be a ton harder since my name is rarely mentioned when it isn’t attached to megastars of the music world.
Could this day get any worse?
My commentary becomes factual when a familiar voice asks, “Ready?”
Since I’m still giving Knox the silent treatment, Bonnie answers his question on my behalf. “In two seconds.” She coats my lashes for the third time before mopping up the mess I created when I buried my head into my hands as I wish I could have the sand. “Beyond gorgeous.”
“Thank you,” I praise, my mood not as chipper as hers.
I’m grateful for the honesty in her tone, but I'm still feeling wretched. It’s been one argument after another to keep my real name out of any lineups we secured, so to discover Knox was slipping it in with the feelers he sent out was like a direct punch to my stomach.
I feel winded, and I haven’t belted out a single lyric yet.
Knox said the music we produced was creating the buzz for my upcoming release. Now I’m skeptical if anyone has even listened to our sample.
Do you have any idea how panicked that makes me? People can’t tell you your baby is ugly even when it is. It isn’t acceptable, but they have no issues telling you precisely what they think about the babies developed outside your womb. Songwriters, authors, and poets are forever scrutinized, and only the super-determined make it through the carnage unscathed.
I’m not exactly sure where I stand. Some days, I feel like I’m in the middle of the ferocious flames, being charred on all sides, and others, I only experience the slightest burn of imposter syndrome.
Today’s scalds are more personal than professional, though.
Desperate to get dress rehearsal over with so I can hide my still-blurry head under a mountain of pillows, I swivel my chair to face the door before slipping out of it.
My butt scarcely lifts from the leather padding when Bonnie forces me back on it.
When my surprised eyes dart to hers, she asks, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Upon spotting my confusion, she nudges her head to the wig that cost more than my first car. If I was going to wear a disguise, I wanted it to look authentic. That hairpiece is as genuine as you can get. It is just several shades lighter than the brunette look I was aiming for.