Page 39 of Legendary Rock Star
My ears buzzed. The higher-ups wanted part of the Christmas album sales. I had lawyers and an agent, but this could destroy Maggie. I understood immediately, but Maggie asked, “About what?”
The pop star tapped her pencil on the table and said, “Your Christmas songs that you happened to sing together without revealing you were making an album.”
“Maggie is not being paid for it, so she’s broken no rules,” I said quickly. Maggie’s leg began to shake and I placed my hand on it under the table. She pulled away as I said, “Your producers can speak to my agent, Mark Powers. Maggie had nothing to do with the song being released.”
The British guy nodded and said, “They are. So we’re clear, you’re using your girlfriend.”
“We’re not together,” Maggie said quickly.
No, we weren’t.
Mark always took care of details and read every loophole. I knew I was fine legally, but I wasn’t sure inviting their anger was a good idea. It was better if I took the brunt of the heat. So I said, “Then the producers will see everything was done according to the contract. We’re not filming any music video, and all recordings were done before we were sequestered on the show.”
“Going through our finalists to find the next girl you could use is horrible.” The pop star rolled her eyes beneath her fake eyelashes and added, “Why did you think it was okay?”
Maggie’s face was white and her feet tapped against the floor as she said, “It was supposed to be a demo, and only that, to use for showing off our vocals.”
The British guy read the papers in front of him and said, “This should be against policy.”
And if it turned out to be, I should probably quit the show. I lifted my chin and said, “It’s not though. No rules were broken … sir.”
The British judge shook his head and met my stare. I instantly understood I’d lost his support as he said again, “It should be. And next time we’ll have better contract language.”
Playing concerts and living on TV was the only life I’d ever known, and contracts were the rules I lived by. But I held my tongue and asked, “Are we free to go?”
“Yes. Be ready,” the middle-aged pop star clinging to her past said. “We need to hear the best from you.”
I blocked their view of Maggie who stood and walked out first.
I’d not steal Maggie’s star to make my own glimmer again.
At the door, the host handed us our new songs. We went into the next studio that was empty and I inhaled her sweet floral scent and said quickly, “They’re gunning for us.”
Us? No, me. She pressed her hand on my chest and I asked, “What are you even doing here? You should hate me right now.”
“I still want to believe you,” she said.
I took her hands in mine and I hoped she understood the stakes now as I said, “Any profits from the album, you and I will work out equally, after I win.”
“The optimist inside me is rooting for that to be true, and to hope you and I have a future, together. That’s probably crazy, though.”
“You’re sweet, Maggie.”
It was the truth.
But she sucked in her lips and then said, “I’m sick of being sweet, if I’m being honest.”
I said, “But your strength for winning is your powerhouse of a voice and how everyday Americans in the heartland can relate to you.”
She pressed her palms on my sides like we were a team as she said, “I meant with you. I don’t want to be just some sweet and innocent girl you met. And I’m not someone you can lie to either. I don’t want to believe what they said.”
Reality TV wasn’t scripted, but everyone played a part. My mind rushed back to every childhood birthday party in my life being captured on film. I understood TV—the lens always focused where I didn’t want it.
“They’ll say worse,” I said. “They want us to turn on each other. But I promise once we’re both free of this studio, the truth will come out.”
“That’s true.”
She nodded and relaxed as she added, “It was good you gave your mom your phone number today. I hope you make peace.”
