by Max Monroe
Which basically means I’m fitting in recording sessions whenever and wherever I can. I don’t have the luxury of recording my album in my favorite Nashville studio. And I certainly don’t have the luxury of time. Ever since I started shooting for Grass Roots, every minute of my schedule has been filled, from the moment I wake up until the moment my head hits my pillow.
I’m either on set, in my rental practicing my lines with an acting coach by the name of Carrie, recording for my album or the Grass Roots soundtrack in a studio about ten miles from my rented house, or fulfilling some sort of press obligation for the movie or my album or both.
This has to be the busiest I’ve ever been in my whole life.
Which is why when I step out of the shower and find a text message from my manager, a deep, heavy sigh escapes my lungs.
Neil: I know you don’t want to hear this, but it’s good PR for you to go to that party. Everyone working on Grass Roots is going to be there, not to mention some very important, very influential Hollywood types that will only help make this movie a box office success.
This is the first Saturday, in what feels like months, that I have nothing planned. No professional obligations. No filming. No recording. No press interviews.
On the contrary, though, it was obviously wishful thinking on my part to believe I’d get away with a whole day of nothing.
Candy: Neil is right, Birdie. You need to make an appearance at that party. Which is why Maureen will be stopping by your place in a few hours to help you with your hair and makeup.
Once my publicist joins the group chat with my team, I know I’m shit out of luck.
I’m going to have to go to this stupid party.
But, to be honest, it’s a little shitty to call a shindig thrown by Howie King a stupid party. With only five days left of LA shoots and us nearing the halfway mark through the entirety of filming for Grass Roots, my director has decided to give everyone the day off and throw a little celebration for the cast and crew.
Of course, Howie being deep in the throes of Hollywood’s most famous, the cast and crew on Grass Roots aren’t the only people who will be there tonight. Lots of big names will be in attendance.
“Sam!” I call out from my cozy spot on the couch.
“Yeah?” she answers back from somewhere on the other side of the massive house.
I’m not sure where she is, but from the sound of her voice echoing, it seems like she’s in the guest bedroom she’s been sleeping in while helping me in LA.
Samantha might be my assistant, but she’s also become one of my best friends over the years, and I saw no point in her staying in a freaking hotel or something ridiculous like that when I took in the insanely huge rental house the studio allocated to me. There is more than enough room for the two of us inside this place. Hell, there’s room for us and a family of six.
Don’t get me wrong, the home is downright stunning. All picturesque, shiny glass views of the hills and LA and the kind of kitchen, living room, and backyard terrace and pool that Pinterest boards dream of.
“When were you going to let me know my date with The Golden Girls and vegging out on the couch wasn’t going to happen?”
“I was waiting for Neil to break the news to you.”
“So, you knew about Maureen coming to do my damn hair and makeup?”
“Yep!” she answers without hesitation. “And I also know about a driver coming to pick you up at eight and a security detail sticking with you to and from the party.”
Oh, it just keeps getting better and better…
“Thanks a lot!”
“Sorry, Birdie.” Her responding laugh echoes down the hall and fills my ears. “I just didn’t want to be the one to pop your bliss bubble.”
All day, she’s heard me go on and on about how happy I was that I had absolutely nothing to do, and the entire time she knew it was all a lie.
Traitor.
Fingers to the screen of my phone, I type out a message to my team.
Me: I’d like to put in a request for a day off. Like, a real day off. If y’all can make that work sometime between now and the day I die, that’d be great.
Candy: LOL. Noted.
Neil: Birdie, I promise once filming is done, you will have over six weeks with nothing on the books until you need to get back in the studio and finish your album. You could literally spend weeks in some tropical location without doing anything but sleeping in the sun and drinking margaritas.
Okay, now that is something I can get behind…
Me: I’m holding you to that, buddy.
Neil: Please do. I knew you’d need a breather, and that’s why I made sure you weren’t diving straight into finishing up your album right after filming ended.
This is exactly why Neil is my manager. Sometimes he might feel like a schedule tyrant, but he always manages to soften it up by doing things like this.
Candy: Just try to have some fun tonight, okay? That is what this party is meant for.
Me: Let’s all just hope I don’t end up falling asleep somewhere in the corner of Howie King’s house.
“Hey, Birdie, I think I’m going to run out and grab a few things at the store,” Samantha calls out to me. “How about I pick you up a Red Bull while I’m out?”
I roll my eyes. “Let me guess, Neil texted you.”
Her response is a giggle as she strides past me and steps into the kitchen to grab her purse and keys. “Sugar-free or regular, honey?”
I roll my eyes again. Sometimes, my team is a little too on top of things.
“How about you just grab us some In-N-Out burgers and fries, and I’ll try my best not to give you the stink eye for the rest of the afternoon?”
She grins. “Deal.”
Once Sam heads out the front door, I decide to use my time wisely—by getting as cozy as possible on the large sectional sofa and alternately napping and watching a rerun of Gilmore Girls on Netflix. Sure, I have two hours max to achieve my lazy goals, but I’m no quitter.
Lorelai is on a ramble about something her mother did to tick her off, and my eyes are getting heavier by the minute. One slow blink, two even slower blinks, I’m so close to letting blessed sleep consume me.
Ah yes. Come to Momma.
The world around me goes dark and my breaths slow and I’m so damn close to achieving my nap goal when the abrupt sound of my phone chiming from the cushion beside me startles my eyes open again.
Ugh. Go away!
I shut my eyes and groan into the sofa pillows.
But when another chime and another chime and another freaking chime fill my ears, I’m forced to open my eyes all the way and check my damn phone.
I mean, what if it’s something important like Samantha asking me if I want a chocolate milkshake?
A few taps to the screen and I find out it’s the exact opposite of important.
Andrew: Looks like I’ll be seeing you tonight at How’s, sweetheart.
Andrew: Should be a good time.
Andrew: ;)
Did he really need three freaking messages to convey those words?
I blow a hard breath past my lips, and it tousles the strands of hair near my eyes. It was almost like I forgot his existence.
Instantly, though, uninvited memories of the infamous Scene 33 shoot fill my head, and I have to force the fuckers right back out. No way in hell am I going to sit here and think about how for the briefest of moments, I thought it felt good to be that close to Andrew Watson.
Briefest of moments? Girl, that scene took several hours to film, and you were dry-humping him like his big bulge was going—
Nope. Not happening. I refuse to go down that rabbit hole.
Ever since we filmed Scene 33 together, I’ve been delightfully unaware of his presence. That’s mostly due to the fact that over the past week and a half, every scene I shot didn’t include him.
And, thankfully, he’s only been compelled to text me a handful of times about utter randomness like pictures of tr
ail mix that doesn’t have M&M’s and snarky commentary about Johnny Johnston’s beard.
And, truthfully, the beard Johnny has to sport for half of the movie is…not so great. Even slightly pube-esque, if I’m being honest. But Johnny has been nothing but sweet to me since I met him, so I refuse to play Gossip Girl with Andrew, even if it’s meant lighthearted.
But his text message is an annoying reminder that tonight and the next five days that we’ll be shooting in LA and the next four weeks that we’ll be shooting in Memphis will include me seeing him—a lot.
Nearly every day, in fact.
The mere idea of spending a few weeks in a tropical location has never looked as good as it does right now. Instantly, I make a mental note to get Samantha on the task of scouting out locations for where we can go. Surely, I’m going to need something good to look forward to, something positive to help get me through these next several weeks.
Howie King lives up to his namesake. Between his sprawling mansion in Beverly Hills, the insane spread of food that waits for guests in the dining room that is bigger than most people’s homes, and the fact that there’re valets and servers and security and a freaking famous DJ serenading people with music by the pool, he proves he literally lives life like a king.
Hell, when my driver dropped me off, Howie’s butler Louis opened my door.
His freaking butler, people.
The only butler I know was Mr. Belvedere, and that was a damn TV show.
Good Lord, I don’t even want to think about the price tag of his LA pad or how many staff Howie has on his payroll or how much this party costs. Pretty sure my head would explode if I saw the numbers.
Welcome to Hollywood, baby.
I snag a glass of champagne off a tray being held by a friendly server dressed in a tuxedo and take a sip to quell my discomfort.
I don’t know why I always feel a little out of place in situations like this, but I do.
You’d think the years I’ve spent in the music industry would help me adjust to the life of the rich and famous, but on the inside, I still feel like that fourteen-year-old West Virginia girl who grew up off a dirt country road in her granny’s small ranch with the rusted-out tin roof.
Billie and I don’t come from wealthy roots.
Hell, we don’t even come from middle-class roots.
We were what most people would call dirt poor.
I realize that now, but when I was a kid, I didn’t really know the difference. I knew we didn’t have a lot of money, but our granny always made the best of things. Obviously, I’ve adjusted to enjoying some of the more materialistic things in life, but I honestly don’t think I’ll ever get to the point where I’m living like this, with butlers and shit. Not that there’s anything wrong with it, but it’s just not me, and I highly doubt any amount of money or success or fame will change that.
I weave my way through the party, and the black stilettos Samantha all but forced me to wear—along with a fancy, formfitting black dress—are already making my damn feet hurt.
I don’t hesitate to pull out my phone and let her know.
Me: You may as well rent a wheelchair now because these stupid stilettos you made me wear are going to make sure my feet don’t work tomorrow.
Her response comes in seconds later.
Samantha: Those stilettos are hot. Just like the dress. Not to mention, the hair and makeup Maureen added to the look. You’re banging, honey. Own that shit.
Me: I’m not going to look so “banging” when I fall flat on my face because my feet go numb.
Samantha: Beauty is pain, honey. So, suck it up and just try to enjoy yourself. And, hey, if you want to bring home some hot Hollywood sex-on-a-stick, don’t worry about me. I’ll make sure I stay in my room all night.
Me: Hot Hollywood sex-on-a-stick? Do me a favor, unsubscribe from Cosmo and BuzzFeed.
Samantha: Get real, Birdie. You know they have the best quizzes.
Me: Oh yeah, because we all need to know what breed of dog is our spirit animal.
Samantha: My loyal Labrador spirit is what makes me such a good assistant. And, quick question. Why are you texting with me when you are at a party in Beverly Hills where handsome, sexy men are undoubtedly walking around the room? Not to throw anything in your face, but you and I both know it’s been a LONG while since you’ve gotten down and dirty…
Me: Not to throw anything in my face? Pretty sure you just did.
I hit send and look up from the screen of my phone, in search of the so-called handsome, sexy men. And, of course, one of the first people I spot is Andrew freaking Watson.
He stands in the middle of a group of five or so women, his signature heartthrob smirk plastered on his dumb face. Instantly, I’m aggravated.
Irritated with him. Exasperated with the women who are visibly enjoying his company.
Just…annoyed.
Yes, he’s handsome.
Yes, he’s sexy.
But he’s more than proven he’s an ass.
My phone buzzes in my hand, and I look down to find another long-ass message from Samantha.
Samantha: Meh. Whatever. Right now, I’m trying to decide if it’s good or bad thing that I’m not going to be with you in Memphis. Will my not being there ensure that you’ll have some late-night fun? Or will it make it easier for you to become a flipping hermit?
Since I have so many things happening back home and Memphis is only a few hours from Nashville, it was decided that Samantha won’t be on location with me and would head home instead.
Me: You act like I’m going to be in Memphis without shit to do. I’d like to remind you that I’ll be working. A lot.
Samantha: I have an idea…How about you stop texting me and go have some damn fun, Birdie? Be young and stupid for once. Have a few drinks. Flirt with hot guys. Hell, maybe find a hot piece of ass, bring him home, fuck his brains out, and send him on his way. The world is your oyster tonight, honey. ENJOY YOURSELF. You work too hard. Sometimes, you need to let loose and just live in the moment.
All of a sudden, my assistant is a life coach. Only, instead of telling me to start doing yoga or drink protein shakes, she’s encouraging alcohol and sex.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
One of the women in Andrew’s little group throws her head back in a laugh and puts a hand to his chest like whatever he just said is the funniest thing she’s ever heard in her whole damn life.
Jesus, he’s not that funny, lady. I can’t not roll my eyes at it.
If I’m going to enjoy myself at this party, I’m going to have to do it somewhere I don’t have to stand around and witness this kind of superficial crap.
Me: Pretty sure living in the moment doesn’t necessarily include the debauchery you’re currently encouraging, but I’ll do my best.
Samantha: Glory Hallelujah!
Truthfully, I wish I could Freaky Friday this shit and switch places with her. I’d be more than happy to sit around on the couch in my cozy pajamas rather than walk around this party in stilettos that will most likely leave battle scars on my poor feet.
For the love of God, stop being such a cranky biotch and make the best of this situation.
I know Samantha is right. I should try to enjoy myself and relish a night out that doesn’t completely revolve around work obligations.
I should let loose and have some fun.
I glance down at the champagne glass that’s still clutched in my hand and don’t hesitate to lift it to my lips and down the whole damn thing in three gulps.
And then, I purposefully leave the living room area that’s occupied by Andrew Watson and his giggly harem and head out onto the terrace where an infinity pool is framed by a lux view of downtown LA.
I spot Tawny Rose on the other side of the pool, a cigarette perched in her hand and a purse that costs more money than most people make in a year hanging from her wrist.
Yet again, another place I don’t want to be.
When I see Johnny Johnston stan
ding beside Serena Koontz in a small crowd of people I recognize from filming, I grab another glass of champagne from a server who’s passing by and head in that direction.
Johnny spots me instantly, a warm, friendly smile forming on his face. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
I grin. “I hear being fashionably late is all the rage these days.”
He laughs at that, and Serena reaches out to pull me into a tight hug.
“Birdie Harris!” she exclaims, her voice a little loose and tipsy. “I’m so glad you made it! And I should warn you, I’ve already had one too many cocktails.”
I giggle at that. “Looks like I have some catching up to do, then.”
“Girl, you need to finish that drink and grab another! Tonight, we are celebrating. We’ll worry about the hangovers tomorrow.”
Howie strides over and wraps a friendly arm around Serena’s shoulders. “I hope we’re all enjoying ourselves.”
“How, you’ve certainly outdone yourself,” Serena comments, and Howie grins down at her, nodding toward the cocktail in her hand.
“And it appears you’re also outdoing yourself.” He winks. “I’m digging it.”
“Well, since you’ve provided enough free booze for a small country, I figured I needed to do my part.”
“That’s very philanthropic of you.”
She lets out a loud, infectious laugh, and I can’t help but smile.
“I’m also glad to see you here, Birdie,” Howie says, turning his attention toward me. “I told Luca and Billie they needed to come, but you know how Luca is about parties and shit.”