Page 4 of Playing With My Heart Strings

“Maybe if we get some shots of you playing guitar, that’ll be more natural for you?” the blonde woman who’s been trying to tell me how to answer these ridiculous questions suggests.

“I think that’s a great idea! Someone get him a guitar!” the obnoxiously loud executive producer orders one of the film crew members. Her hair is bleached far too light, and she’s got on this cherry-red lipstick that makes her resting bitch face stand out even more.

Someone hands me my guitar as another person grabs a stool for me to sit on. I strap on the guitar and take a seat. “So, what? You just want me to play something?” I ask, only slightly annoyed by all of this.

“Yeah, play whatever is comfortable for you,” the younger blonde tells me.

“Alrighty then.” I sigh and start to play one of my newer, more popular songs.

Soon enough, a crowd gathers around behind the camera crew, including the brunette woman who I flashed a smile at when I walked in.

She has her phone held up, clearly recording me, which immediately makes me think she’s a fan. It’s odd that a fan would be on set, but then again, there were enough of them crowding the entrance to the studio when I got here that one easily could have snuck in. Not to mention, the droves of women and young girls pressed up against the studio windows trying to get a glimpse of what’s going on. Some of them even have signs like it’sGood Morning America.

Whatever, it’s not important.

She doesn’t stay for the whole song, only about twenty seconds of it, before she’s on the move again. Fans don’t usually leave partway through my performances, so I’ll admit this is new for me if she even is one. My eyes track her as she leaves, but then they snap back at the cameras I forgot were there.

I finish my song, and clapping fills the set.

“That was great, Dusty. Can you tell us a little about that song? What’s the meaning behind it?” a producer asks as the cameras continue to roll.

Meaning? Fuck if I know.That song is one of the popular ones. One I didn’t write. The label shoved it in my face saying listeners would love it, so I put it on the album. I have no idea what the meaning behind it is. There’s nothing particularly profound about the lyrics either.

“Uh…” I smack my forehead with my palm as the director once again yells, “Cut!”

Jesus. Why did I have to be the one to be subjected to this stupid TV show?

Another painful hour of interviews passes, and by the time we’re done, I’m officially over it. I’m about ready to march into Ace High Entertainment and give Rob Acerra the middle finger. Fuck my contract; I can deal with the consequences later.

“Hey”—the blonde grabs my forearm as I’m trying to leave—“this is obviously hard for you, but the more you cooperate and actually try to answer the questions, the sooner we can all move on.”

I stare at her, slightly in shock at her bite, a bit like a feral kitten, before looking down at my arm and back up at her.

“Sorry.” She takes her hand off me and extends it for a handshake. “I’m Daniella. I do public relations for Sparks Studio Productions. I don’t mean to be rude or harsh, I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Well, Daniella. I should probably apologize. You see, I don’t want to be here any more than I imagine you do.” I stumble a little on my apology. “I’ll try to do better. Interviews just aren’t my thing.”

“That’s all we can ask for.” She looks down at the ground and back up. “All right, you need to get headshots done.” She dismisses me just like that.

All business, I guess.

An assistant leads me over to the backdrop where the photoshoot is taking place.C’mon, Dusty. It’s just a couple photos and then you can go home.

It is in factnotjust a couple photos. The photographer has me do every stupid pose on the planet, and just when I think it’s over, they tell me to stay put because they have to make sure all of the shots look right. You would think I was going on the cover ofGQand not an ad for a reality show. They even made me put on makeup.Makeup!What kind of bullshit is this?

The knowledge that this show is crucial to me being able to keep my music career alive so I can support my family is the only thing keeping me from walking out. That and the small glimpses I get of the girl who was taking videos of me playing my guitar. She’s still here, snapping photos, but every time I try to make eye contact with her, she disappears. I’m starting to believe it’s possible she’s not actually real and my brain has made her up.

We finally wrap up, and the producers give me the okay to leave the set. I’m ready to go home and forget this day ever happened, but a hand grasps my shoulder before I can get to the door.

“Where’re you going, Dusty?” the staff member asks.

“Home?” I raise my eyebrows at him.

“No, we’ve got a hotel room set up for you tonight. The car is packed and ready for you to go.”

I cross my arms, already annoyed with this contract. “I need to get some things from my house.”

My hope of them understanding and letting me go home is demolished when he replies, “What do you need? We can have someone go get it for you.”

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