Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95107 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
“Yeah, hell no.”
“Look, I get it,” he says with some sympathy. “You know I get it, G.”
Landon knows all about my history with Phil Graham, although I didn’t disclose it right out of the gate. It got complicated dodging these sorts of requests after I signed my rookie contract, and eventually I had to let him in on the sordid family secrets. Needless to say, the conversation was riddled with awkwardness. It was so damn embarrassing, confessing to my agent that my dad used to beat me. Fucking brutal.
Hannah always says I shouldn’t be ashamed of it, that it wasn’t my fault, I couldn’t have stopped it, blah fucking blah. I love that woman to death, but chicks have a bad habit of turning everything into therapy speak. I know it wasn’t my fault, and I know I couldn’t have stopped it—at least not until I hit puberty and grew bigger than him. Make no mistake, I stopped the hell out of it after that. But it took years to work through all those feelings of shame, all of which come spiraling to the surface each time I have to tell a new person about my history.
I’m tired of reliving it.
My refusal to do this show shouldn’t come as a surprise to Landon, so I wish he’d just take it upon himself to keep this stuff off my plate.
“With that said,” he continues, “I do think you need to consider how it’s going to look if you say no.”
“I don’t care how it looks. That’s your job.” I clench my jaw. “Smiling for a few pictures is one thing. I’ll behave myself and play nice. But I’m not getting in front of some reporter and a TV camera and sitting next to that man for hours, pretending he isn’t a monster.”
“I hear you—”
“Swear to God, Landon. The first time he brings up my mother in the interview, I’d end up slugging him. And then you’d have that to deal with. So why don’t you do one of your little risk assessments and decide which fallout will be worse. Saying no, or beating the shit out of him on TV. Take your pick.”
“Okay. All right. I’ll let them know we have to pass. Tell them you’re not doing press right now. I’ll think of something.”
After I hang up, my temples are throbbing even harder. I reach up to rub them and utter a string of silent expletives. Somehow, I know this is all my dad’s doing. I bet he pitched this idea to the network himself. Or if he didn’t, then he fucking willed the offer into existence. He does it on purpose. To mess with me. To remind me he’s always there, lurking, and always will be.
And it’s working.
35
Hannah
I’ve got about a dozen people in my control room bickering about lyrics while a six-foot-seven dude named Gumby stands over my shoulder.
“You know what all those buttons do?” he asks, watching me do a rough mix of the verse Yves St. Germain just laid down.
“Nope,” I tell him as I punch up the sample track of the violins Nice really liked. “Not a clue.”
“Man, stop pestering the lady,” Patch tells him. He leans back in the rolling chair beside me, teetering on the edge of falling over. “She don’t be trying to tell you how to dress like your mama put your school clothes on layaway in the nineties.”
“Yo, for real, though,” Gumby says. He reaches for one of the faders, and I smack his hand away from my board. “That’s a lot of buttons. How you even learn to do all this?”
Narrowing my eyes, I whisper, “Don’t tell anybody, but I don’t even work here.”
He snorts at me, shaking his head with a smile.
“Y’all get away from her and let the woman do her thing.” Nice, as Yves insists I call him, comes back into the control room from a short break. His rapper name is YSG, but his nickname growing up was “Nice.” Because he was a nice kid. It’s disgustingly wholesome and I love it.
“All good,” I say. “Come give this a listen.”
We’ve been at it since about seven this morning. The kid’s only nineteen, but he’s got a serious work ethic. It’s a big part of the reason we get along so well. Both of us would rather be in the studio, tinkering and experimenting, than just about anywhere else.
I play back what we’ve put down so far on this latest track. His entourage goes silent while they listen, bobbing their heads to the beat. Then those violins come in and Nice whistles, a huge grin spreading across his face.
“Yeah, Hannah. That’s sick right there.”
“What if you lay down some ad libs under it?” I suggest. “Thicken it up a little.”
“I like that. Let’s try it.” Then he pulls out a box from the pocket of his bright yellow jacket. “Got you a little something, by the way. For all your hard work.”