Page 9 of The Oscar Escape
“You need to leave,” Dom warned. “Press isn’t allowed back here.”
“They’re hardly press. And I don’t comment on my boyfriend,” she added, raising her voice as the paparazzi got closer. She prepared to shut down another Justin question when the tittering men came to a roaring halt.
“What happened to your face?” bald guy number one spat.
Baldy paparazzi guy number two snapped a picture with his cell. “Are you hiding plastic surgery scars under that thick layer of makeup? Is that why you were so low energy on stage tonight? Are you recuperating from cheek implants?”
Cheek implants?
What fresh hell was this? And when would she have time to go in for plastic surgery? These jokers knew better than anyone that when she wasn’t on stage, she was online or meeting with fans and influencers to promote her album. And what’s this low-energy bullshit? She busted her ass on stage every time she performed.
Dom rested his hand on her shoulder. “You should go into your dressing room. I’ll take care of this.”
“Not a chance. I fight my own battles,” she replied, then directed her fiery and somewhat blurry attention toward the unwelcome visitors. “I’m not hiding anything. And whether I decide to have plastic surgery or not is my own business. Is that all you got? You don’t like my makeup?” she lobbed back.
“How about this?” baldy number three called with a saccharine twist to his lips. “When are you going to come out with a sound of your own?”
What was he playing at?
“I don’t need anewsound. My music mixes pop and rock. That ismy sound.”
Baldy number three checked his cell phone. His sugary smile slithered into a smirk. “In a review of your latest album, a critic said, and I quote, ‘Aria Paige-Grant is desperate to win the world’s approval but doesn’t have the chops to do anything more than sound like a cardboard version of her musical family.’”
Holy shit.
“Who said that?” she eked out.Dammit!If she could hear the shake to her voice, the paparazzi piranhas could, too.
She parted her lips, not sure how to respond, when a tank of a security guard with Malik by his side rushed down the corridor.
“You three! The Hawaiian Paparazzi Punch goons. You’re not authorized to be here,” Malik barked.
The paparazzi scrambled. Pocketing their phones, they skittered down the hall. She wanted to hurl a pithy response at the trio—something that would let them know they hadn’t pierced her armor. But she couldn’t. She could only ask herself one question. Was the reviewer correct? Was she simply a musical cardboard copy of her family?
“We’ll take care of this,” Dom said, opening her dressing room door.
She clutched her notebook and cell phone to her chest and stepped inside the room. But before she closed the door, she touched her manager’s arm. “Did you know about the article—about the brutal review of my album?”
Dom didn’t have to answer. The pained look in his eyes said everything.
“Who wrote the review?” she pressed.
“I don’t know. It cited the source as an industry insider.”
It could be anyone.
She sighed and surveyed the space littered with glitter-decked costumes and mirrors. Did she hate that she had to hide in her dressing room?
Absolutely.
She put on her tough girl mask and nodded. She couldn’t let on that the blistering critique had her on the edge of losing control.
“Eat,” Dom said and handed her the bonbon. “And try to get a little rest. You need to take care of yourself.”
With her world turning more topsy-turvy by the second, she accepted the chocolate and entered the room. Dom pulled the door shut, and the clap of it slamming had her nearly jumping out of her skin.
Get it together.
Needing to figure out her next move, she went to the vanity and set the chocolate next to an array of makeup brushes. She sank into the chair and assessed the scene. Cluttered with beauty products, energy drinks, and varying bottles and boxes of medication, she set her phone and notebook next to the bonbon, then popped the tab of the most ridiculous-looking turbo-charged beverage on the cluttered table. Listening to the muffled voices and shouts in the hallway, she gulped the sugary liquid, then grabbed a bottle of extra-strength pain reliever. She shook a few capsules into her hands and frowned.What the hell?She peered at an array of pink and green tablets.Dammit!She’d mixed her muscle relaxers with the extra-strength ibuprofen. Which was which? It didn’t matter. With the harsh review ringing in her ears, she took one of each and chugged the rest of the high-octane drink.
