“It’s beautiful,” she says. “But I have to mention, I’m surprised to see you without your trademark footwear.” Huh. I have a trademark? “Where are those cowboy boots we never see you without?”
I look down at my high, high heels and think how much more comfortable my apparent trademark would be, but I smile and answer in the way I think my publicist would want me to: “Well, Jason Samuels was voted Sexiest Man Alive, not Most Likely to Host a Hoedown.” The reporter chortles, surprised by my answer, and I laugh with her, feeling like I nailed it; but then I make the mistake of glancing over at Anita to gauge how I’m doing and she’s wearing the expression of someone who’s been pinched. I gulp and try to read her. Too frank? I thank the reporter and step away as people around her clamor for an interview.
“Bird! Bird, one question!”
“Phew,” I whisper to my dad, my smile unwavering. “This is crazy, right?”
But before I can talk to another reporter, Anita cuts me off. “What was that?” she snaps.
“I thought it was funny.”
“It wasn’t. You’re a country music singer, so try not to insult the entire cowboy boot industry, okay?”
I feel my cheeks flame. “But you said the Louboutins were sexier.”
“They are, but I didn’t put it in a press release.”
I sigh heavily.
Anita softens, placing both of her hands on my arms. “Bird, calm down. Don’t overthink the questions or try so hard to impress. You look gorgeous and everyone loves you. Just be yourself.” She turns and leads me back toward the press line.
I plaster on a smile and try to follow her advice, but it’s hard to “be yourself” when that doesn’t seem to be what anyone wants at all.
“That movie was so good!” The screening is over, and our limo is now joining the line of cars dropping people at the after party. “My voice—my song!—while Devyn Delaney pines over Jason-freaking-Samuels? I can’t. I can’t! Stella is going to die.”
“Well, the critics aren’t so enthusiastic,” Anita says, holding up her phone. “Rotten tomatoes across the board.”
“Seriously?” I say. I’m about to defend the wartime biopic, but am distracted when I look out the window. “Wow,” I murmur as we stop in front of Lure, a big LA club where the after party is. “Look at the line.”
“We’ll be on the list,” Anita says airily.
It’s all so exciting, even more so now that Anita and Dan are my chaperones instead of my dad. After the movie, he got a call about the merchandise situation and had to go ahead to San Diego to fix it. We’ll meet him there tomorrow with the tour. I loved taking him as my date tonight, but nobody wants to go clubbing with her father.
We step out of the car and are gracious with more smiles to the paparazzi, but move quickly inside. The place is packed, but it’s like the parting of the Red Sea as the hostess leads us through the crowd to the VIP section.
“Poor Jason,” I say, scanning the scathing comments about the movie on my Twitter feed. “All that hard work and then everyone just turns their backs on him.”
“That’s show biz,” Anita says simply, her eyes scanning the room. “But your song is safe. The Hollywood Reporter said ‘Beautiful to You’ was the best part of the movie.”
I let her words sink in. If that’s show biz, it could be me with my next album. It could be me with my next single. I think about everything my family has sacrificed and even the relationship I could’ve had with Adam. If fans can be so fickle, can turn on us so quickly, then everything I’ve worked for could disappear in a flash. A shiver runs down my spine. I have to keep making good music. I cannot let up.
“Bird!” Jason yells when we cross the VIP rope.
“General!” I call back teasingly, referencing his character.
He stands up from the booth, leaving behind four clearly disappointed model types, and walks over for a hug. His thick brown hair is pulled back into a low ponytail and his face is covered in stubble, scratching my cheek the tiniest bit when we embrace. My pulse quickens. People magazine doesn’t have anything to explain to me—Sexiest Man Alive? Abso-freaking-lutely.
Anita and Dan congratulate him on his performance and quickly move on to other movers and shakers in the room, directors and publicists their age, but I stay with Jason, determined to give him the kind of reception I would want after I played a big show. I think about my songs, how hard I work on them and how personal they are, how nerve-racking it is every time one is finally released and how terrified I was when my album first dropped. The littlest criticisms stung, so I can’t imagine how he must be feeling if he’s been online at all.
“I loved the movie,” I say over the music, nodding effusively and flashing my most encouraging smile. “Seriously. I cried.”
He smiles, putting his hands together and bowing a little like people do in yoga. “Thank you, Bird.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Come,” he says, suddenly linking his fingers through my own. He leads me through the party like I’m an old friend, and I try to stay cool, as if I hold hands with A-list actors all the time. At the food table, he lets go and passes me an appetizer plate. He speaks loudly into my ear. “You look ravishing, by the way,” he says with a half grin.
I blush. “Thank you.”
I can feel people watching us as we load our plates with fruit, cheese, and crackers. I am the center of attention, sharing his spotlight. A photographer approaches us and we pose, Jason wrapping his arm around my waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Congratulations on Wildflower,” he says before dipping a piece of kiwi in the chocolate fountain. “It’s a terrific album.”
“Wow,” I say. “Thanks a lot.”
“We have much to celebrate. Jason Samuels with a new movie and Bird Barrett with a chart-topping album,” he says. I grin when he refers to us both in third person. A waiter passes with a tray of champagne, and he reaches for two glasses. “Cheers,” he says, holding one out to me.
“Oh,” I say, surprised. Instinctively, I glance around the room, looking for my chaperones, but they are busy schmoozing the movie’s producers. I’ve never had a drink before, even though—and maybe because—I’ve played honky-tonks and dive bars for years, but I don’t want to be a buzzkill. And I doubt Jason Samuels often hears the word no.
We clink glasses and I bring the bubbly to my lips, so excited to be at this after party that it feels like my heart is thumping in time to the beat the DJ is spinning. The champagne is sweet, but it burns a little going down. And I doubt it’s the alcohol already, but I feel light-headed. Jason Samuels is smiling at me devilishly, almost the way he does at the girls in his movies, and people I recognize from US Weekly are all over the place. This is unreal.
“How long are you in town?” he asks over the music.
“We leave tomorrow,” I answer. “San Diego.”
“Ah.” He nods. “ ‘America’s Finest City.’ You’ll love it.”
I shrug. “I won’t get to see much of it. We’re only there for one show and then moving on.”
“Breakneck,” he says.
“What?”
He leans in closer to be heard over the music and again, my heart skips. I’m not the one with the celebrity crush—it’s Stella who calls herself Mrs. Jason Samuels—but he really is good-looking. And so close that his shirt collar brushes the bottom of my chin. It’s like, intimate. “Breakneck,” he repeats. “The tour. The pace. Breakneck, right?”
“Oh, yes,” I say. I nod, hoping the dim lighting will disguise the intense blush I can feel on my face. “Yes, totally. Crazy.”
He smiles, then clinks my glass again, downing the rest of his champagne. “It’s really good to see you again, Bird Barrett. LA could use a little more of you.”
I giggle, tossing my hair back and settling into this conversation. I can’t believe Jason Samuels is flirting with me, but I might as well return the volley, just for the fun of it.
“Oh no,” he interrupts, his smile gone as he looks past my head. “Um, I need to go talk to my manager about… something. I’ll catch you later, Bird.”
He squeezes my arm and cuts through the crowd, leaving me alone in the middle of the room. I look over my shoulder to see what could’ve shaken him up and spot an intimidating posse of gorgeous, bejeweled girls entering the VIP section. Devyn Delaney, Jason’s costar and supposed ex, leads the pack, the definition of queen bee. She is stunning, her dark skin flawless and her smile radiant. She locks her almond eyes on mine and from the look on her face, it’s as if she’s hit the bull’s-eye. Now whether that’s a good thing—
“Bird Barrett,” she declares, her entire group of friends encircling me with matching smiles and model poses. “I’m Devyn. I’ve been dying to meet you, ever since you did that PR thing with Jason.”
“Oh, right,” I say, figuring she must mean our coffee “date” in Nashville. “Hi.”
“Wasn’t that the worst, how it got blown up?” she asks, her intensely made-up eyes narrowed.
“Oh my God, yes!” I say, nodding vigorously. I know I’m overdoing it; I just can’t make myself stop. “The worst! I was mortified. I mean, not that Jason’s not nice, but the tabloids calling me his ‘Song Bird’? It was so fake.”
“Yeah,” she says, cracking a smile. “Especially since he and I were totally hooking up then.”
My jaw drops. “Oh,” I manage. “Right. Especially.”
“The press,” she says, shaking her head dramatically. “God.”
I nod, not really knowing what else to say. Anita told me that Devyn and Jason broke up weeks ago but have to pretend otherwise for their publicity tour. I can’t imagine how badly that would suck, and yet, I don’t think it’s the best topic of conversation.
“Um, I loved the movie,” I say instead. “I cried. You two were perfect together.”
“Tell him that,” she responds bitterly. Then, as if catching herself, she quickly recovers and laughs out loud as if it were a big joke. “Just kidding. I’m so glad we’re over.” Devyn grabs my wrist and pulls me a little closer. She smells like one of the heavy perfume pages from Vogue. “It’s hard though, you know? Working together and doing all this press when he’s obviously still not over me.” She shakes her head. “It’s sad.”
“Really? Oh, wow.”
“Hollywood is such a small world, though.”
“Right,” I agree, just trying to keep up.
I know nothing about her life, about her relationship, or about dating in the Hollywood world, but it’s pretty evident that Devyn Delaney is a big part of the in crowd out here. A waiter passes by with a tray of champagne and her friends all grab a glass. They start talking about Miley Cyrus’s most recent train wreck, and although I have nothing to add to the Hollywood gossip circle, I laugh along with them. Devyn totally tunes out the conversation and texts on her phone, which is pretty impressive since she’s also holding a glass of bubbly and her clutch.
None of the other girls introduce themselves to me, so I bob my head to the music and scan the crowd. It’s kind of bizarre; all the faces here are familiar, but I don’t know anybody. I catch Anita’s eye across the room and can tell that she’s pleased to see me “networking,” so I take a breath and try again with Devyn. She has a song on the soundtrack, too, so I start there. “I loved your song, by the way. You have a really beautiful voice.”
“OMG, thank you, BB,” she says, placing one hand over her heart. “You are so sweet to say that. I love yours, too.”
“Thanks,” I say. I take another small sip of champagne, feel the burn, and try to disguise it. It’s decided: I’m already over this stuff, but I don’t know what to do with my glass and everybody else has a drink in hand.
“I downloaded your whole album and really like ‘Sing Anyway,’ ” she goes on. “That is so the story of my life.”
“Aw.”
“You know, like everybody’s watching. Always. And we have to sing anyway,” she says, pulling a long strand of black hair out of her heavily glossed lips and smoothing it back. “Oh, ussie while we’re standing here!”
“Ussie?”
“A selfie with both of us,” she explains. “Duck lips!”
She holds her iPhone out and stands on tiptoes. I lean down and smile but realize too late that she’s making a pouty kiss face. I try to change expressions, but she snaps the pic too quickly. “Gorg!” she squeals. “I can’t wait to tweet this out!” which she does right away, before I can suggest a do-over. “Anyway, we should hang out sometime. How long are you going to be in LA?”
“I leave tomorrow.”
She puts on an exaggerated pout. “Of course. Right when we become friends. So here, give me your number. We’ll get lunch or go shopping or something the next time you’re in town.”
“Oh, that’d be great,” I say. I give her my number and surprise myself with the nervousness I feel. It’s so amazing to be making friends with these people. I mean, I’ve paid real money to see Jason and Devyn in the theater before. Now we’re hanging out. What the what?
“I just texted you,” she says. “The three-one-oh number is me.”
I give my still-full glass of champagne to a cocktail waiter walking past and get my phone out of my clutch. “Got it,” I say, firing back a smiley face. “The six-one-five is me.”
“Perf,” she says, saving it in her phone. Then she looks up and says, “Oh, there’s Selena.” She gives me an air kiss on both cheeks, says, “Ciao,” and walks across the room, her posse of cocktail dresses in her wake.
If California seemed like a different country before, it feels like an entirely different planet now. But it was good to see Jason again and surprisingly pleasant to meet Devyn. I kind of suspected that she’d be a high-maintenance girl, but I wasn’t expecting her to be so friendly. It would be nice to know another girl my age who’s dealing with the spotlight, so I save her number and retweet the pic of us, even if it’s not my best, and even though I cringe at her hashtag: #HollywoodHotties.
I think about my conversation with Dan and Anita in the nosebleeds yesterday, when Dan called this “the big leagues.” As I look around at the glamorous young stars and swanky VIP room—of which I am now somehow a part—the one thing I do know is that I’m certainly not in Nashville anymore.
10
“JUST US GIRLS now, right?” Sissy asks when I stomp down the bus stairs. She’s smoking a real cigarette outside before our two-hour drive down the coast. Since it’s a big deal that somebody like Jolene is letting her opener sell anything at her shows, I get why my dad had to go ahead and smooth over whatever is messed up with merchandising, but it’s a little weird to be on my own. My mom and brothers are back in Tennessee, as are Dan and Anita as of this morning.
“Yep, just the two of us,” I say. I pull on my sunglasses and stretch. People are milling around the parking lot, ready to roll.
“I’ve been wanting to tell you about my European tour with Kiss anyway,” she says.
“Oh, wow.” I walk over to the side of the bus and get my guitar and fiddle from underneath. Now that the place is cleared out and I’ll have some time on my hands, I want to work on that song about my pseudo-breakup with Adam. “I’d love to hear about that, but actually—”
My cell phone pings with a text alert. I pull it from my back pocket, surprised but thrilled to see a message from Kai:
Did you get to everything on the list?
I smile, writing back:
No, but I did my best.
“But actually, what?” Sissy asks.
“Huh?”
“But actually… what? You got a boy you going to try to sneak on here?” she asks with a half grin. “Don’t worry. I’m not a suit and I’m not your mom. You do what you want and I’ll just keep her between the lines,” she says, patting Dolly on the side as she walks toward the door.
“That’s not what I
was going to…” I call after her, but my words trail off.
Distracted, I put my instruments back under the bus, my pulse quickening as I text Kai:
I saw your hometown. Want to see the way I grew up? Bird Barrett’s unofficial official tour of RV living. For VIPs only.
I stare at the message, my jittery thumbs hovering over the screen as I wait for his reply:
Sure. When?
I lean against the side of the bus and type my invitation before I have the chance to chicken out:
Now?
He writes back instantly:
On my way.
I do a little jump before I realize that I don’t know which bus he’s on right now and therefore he may be able to see me. Playing it cool, I slip my phone back into my pocket and stroll toward the door of the bus, then race up the stairs and head to my bathroom. I don’t have time to put on full makeup, but I do swipe on a little mascara, take down my ponytail, and fluff my hair. Then I smear on pink lip gloss and kiss a piece of toilet paper so it doesn’t look too fresh. Finally, I grab a peppermint from the tub up front before I hear a knock.
“Permission to come aboard?” Kai asks when I swing open the door. He is a vision, his skin smooth and tan with the sunlight pouring in around his frame.
“Permission granted,” I say, stepping back up the stairs ahead of him. I take a deep breath and try to keep control of myself.
He climbs up into the RV and looks around, clearly impressed. “Nice digs.”
“Yeah,” I say nodding. “Our Winnebago wasn’t as nice as this, but my family and I lived in a rolling home since I was nine, so I’m used to cramped quarters.”
He grins. “This doesn’t feel cramped.”
The Road to You Page 6