Page 9 of Last Chorus

He saved me from myself.

I spit out toothpaste, making sure to rinse all the froth from the porcelain, then use a hand towel to wipe droplets of water from the surrounding countertop. Clay snorts and shakes his head. He thinks it’s a waste of time to clean up after myself when we have a housekeeper who comes daily. But he’s used to it now and doesn’t bother saying anything.

As I start my skincare routine, he dries his face and tosses the towel on the floor. Pausing behind me, he lifts a tendril of my wet hair and rubs the strands between his fingers.

“Did you use that new hair mask I got you?” he asks, smiling when I nod. “Thought so. Feels silky.”

With a pat on my ass, he leaves the bathroom.

I wait until I hear him exit the bedroom, then grab his towel off the floor and clean the mess he left in and around his sink.

CHAPTER FOUR

evangeline

I’ve spent a lot of time in Los Angeles over the years—it’s an inescapable leviathan of the music industry—but living here has made me lose appreciation for the climate everyone else loves.

Case in point, it’s New Year’s Eve and a balmy sixty-four degrees. I don’t even need a coat. Which, given the minuscule dress I’m wearing, is unfortunate. It’s also deeply unsettling, like my body knows something is wrong. I felt the same way waking up on Christmas morning and eating breakfast outside in the warm sunshine.

Clay says it will take time for me to adjust. Maybe he’s right. But while the barely changing weather disturbs me, I doubt I’ll ever get used to the migraine-inducing smog and constant traffic, or the fact there’smore dirty cement here than trees or actual dirt. Or the dreaded Celebrity Tax, a joking term that really isn’t funny.

While the price of celebrity certainly isn’t unique to L.A., in my experience, it’s more acute and constant here than in Seattle, Austin, or even New York. Anonymity is next to impossible thanks to the weather and further exacerbated by the city’s culture of exploitation. Not only does the public have the right to stalk, dissect, criticize, and confront me every time I leave the house, but I’m supposed to be immune to it or at the least, never complain.

Even among those who experience the same daily pressures I do, there’s no respite. Every conversation is inherently dangerous. Laden with hidden agendas and context.

Like the one I’m having right now.

Poppy Cole is a twenty-year-old pop star. Blonde hair. Piercing blue eyes. Unquestionably beautiful. Our fanbases have minimal overlap, so her barely veiled animosity makes no sense. I’ve literally never exchanged words with her before tonight.

“My stylist showed me that dress as an option for tonight,” she says, her heavily made-up eyes flickering down my body. Her smile is fixed and completely fake.

Maybe it’s the dry winds blowing across the crowdedoutdoor patio and irritating my eyes, or the uncomfortable heels Clay insisted I wear, but I can’t summon the polite pretense required for this game. The one where I pretend we’re hitting it off for the sake of appearances.

Another thing I’ve learned about L.A., or at least Hollywood: it’s high school all over again. Cliques and social climbing and nonstop cattiness.

Poppy’s eyes glitter with annoyance, probably because I’m not rising to her bait but merely staring back at her.

She makes a second attempt. “I’m glad I didn’t wear it.”

I take a small sip of champagne and say mildly, “It’s definitely not a style that suits everyone.”

When her smile freezes, I suffer immediate guilt. Fame in this city is a designer toxin for young, ambitious women. I was spared the worst of it living like a recluse in the Pacific Northwest, but apparently the smog is slowly sucking out my kindness.

I open my mouth to apologize in the usual way, by complimenting her dress, but she speaks first.

“We should do lunch sometime. I’ll introduce you to my esthetician. She’s amazing at…” She twirls a fingertip around her face, eyes radiating false sympathy.

Ah, age-shaming. Nice.

“Oh, look! It’s Olivia. I have to say hello. So greatchatting with you, Eva. Call me!” She gives me a little wave and sashays away.

I don’t bother saying goodbye.

Around me, forty or so people mingle or lounge on stark-white furniture in the cement backyard of an ultra-modern Hollywood Hills mansion. I hear Clay’s laughter and track the sound to a nearby group of men. The tableau could be the intro to a joke: a lawyer, a judge, and an actor walk into a bar…

Clay glances at me, the skin around his eyes pinching when he sees I’m alone. I instantly hear his voice in my head reminding me of the importance of networking.

I paste a pleasant smile on my face, then wish I hadn’t when the stretch of my facial muscles activates an urge to yawn. My scheduled nap today was a bust, and even the IV drip of vitamins, antioxidants, and electrolytes I had after lunch failed to dent my fatigue. Gritting my teeth, I overcome the reflex and look around for a friendly face. Or at least a familiar one.

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