Jett finally notices me, his scowl morphing into a wolfish grin. "There's my girl." He moves to stand closer. "Ready to charm some investors today?"
I force a smile, the muscles in my cheeks aching with the effort. "Sure thing."
He slings an arm around my shoulders. "Cool. Tag along to check us out doing more press, baby?"
Like I have a choice.
For the next couple of hours, I trail behind Jett and his bandmates through the media area. The girls, mostly models hired to advertise various booze and energy drinks, flock to him, all pouty lips and barely there outfits. He laps up the attention, his hand lingering a little too long on the small of a blonde's back, his eyes raking over a brunette's endless legs.
Meanwhile, I stand to the side and watch all this unfold in front of me. Finally, when there’s a small window between the interviews and the band’s scheduled time to sit in the merch booth and sign autographs, I pull Jett aside.
"Can I talk to you for a sec?" I hiss at him.
He rolls his eyes, annoyance evident on his face. "I'm kinda busy here."
"Busy? Is that what we're calling it now?" I scoff. "You're practically drooling over those bimbos."
"Relax, babe. It's just part of the game." He flashes me a smile. "You know you're the only one for me." His words ring hollow. A well-worn script he's recited a thousand times.
I want to scream, to shake him, to make him see how much his actions are tearing me apart. But I swallow the words, my throat tight with unspoken rage. "Whatever."
Pause.
He narrows his eyes. "Is that why you’re fucking interrupting me? To tell me I can’t be seen with other women because you—what?—got some sort of patent on me?"
"Are you even hearing me right now? People are watching this, watching you pawing other women’s bodies. It’s humiliating."
"I am working, Wendy. You need to get that into that empty head of yours. This is how things are done in this world. You gotta share me with others."
I’m speechless. I don’t really want to argue over this. It’s useless anyway. If he wants to grab other asses in front of the cameras, fine by me.
And Jett’s already turning back to his adoring fans.
I watch him saunter off. Five minutes later, his arm snakes around some redhead's waist.
I close my eyes for a second, trying to block out the sensory overload. The sun beats down on my skin, the heat oppressive and inescapable. The scent of sweat and cheap beer clogs my nostrils, making my stomach churn. I realize I haven’t had breakfast yet. I forgot.
I take a deep breath, the air thick with the weight of my disillusionment. This is my reality, a far cry from the fairy tale I once imagined. But I'll be damned if I let it break me.
I square my shoulders, my resolve hardening like armor. If this is the game, then I'll play it better than anyone. I'll smile and simper and charm my way through this fucking circus.
But in the darkest corners of my heart, I know the truth. This isn't living. It's barely even surviving. And sooner or later, something's gotta give.
The VIP areaon a Saturday night is a world unto itself. A glittering bubble of privilege and debauchery. The sun is still up, lingering above the horizon when Jett leads me through the crowd, his possessive hand on the small of my back.
I feel eyes on me, appraising, judging. I tug self-consciously at the hem of my too-short dress, wishing I'd chosen something less revealing. But he asked me to dress nicely, so I listened.
We approach a secluded booth, where Mick and Clem are already seated in the chairs. There’s a collection of bottles and some glasses are on the small table in the center.
"Jett, my man!" Clem gestures at the empty couch. "You killed it last night."
"Thanks. Was a sick set for sure."
The three of them exchange handshakes and back pats.
"Look at this lovely creature." Mick flashes me that nasty smile of his. His eyes rake over me, lingering in places they really shouldn't.
Jett grins and flops onto the couch, oblivious or uncaring that his business partner in the making is paying a little too much attention to his girlfriend.
