Page 3 of Everything In Between
Within moments, my phone vibrates with his call.
I push myself off the couch, mumbling to no one in particular. “Here we go.”
Swiping my finger across the screen, I put it to my ear. I don’t get a chance to speak a word before Callum is screaming in my ear. Wincing, I pull the phone away from my eardrum and let him spout his nonsense. When the call has quieted down, I put the call back to my ear. “Are you done?”
“We had an agreement, Jersey,” he growls on the other line. “You stick to the set list that’s was crafted for you, no variations.”
“I was going with the vibes,” I tell him, aware of how flighty that makes me sound. “It felt right tonight, Cal.”
“I don’t give two flying fucks about what felt right,” he says, sarcasm dripping off his words. “We pay a lot of money for people to come up with the set list. We practice it, we sound check it. We do not pay you to make last-minute changes. It’s not your decision.”
“But it’s my show,” I argue. “People pay hundreds, if not more, to come see me. I should be able to make changes where I see fit and not have my head bitten off for it.”
He falls silent and my anxiety ramps up tenfold.
“We have had this conversation athousandtimes, Jersey, so I’m not sure what you’re not getting here. You are a Silver Shadows artist; youbelongto us. We pay you the big bucks, so you don’t have to worry your pretty little head with pointless things like set lists and choreography. All you have to worry about is staying fit and looking good on stage.”
My skin crawls with his words, and I bite my tongue. Bile wells up in my throat with an irritated burn.
“I don’t want to hear anything like this happening again. Are we clear?” His voice is firm, leaving no room for argument.
“Crystal,” I growl between clenched teeth.
“Good.” The change in his demeanor makes my head hurt. He continues with a lighter tone, as if he didn’t just rip me a new one. “I’ll see you soon. We have some more things to go over before we start recording the next album. Rest up, cupcake.”
He clicks off the call without another word.
The weight of Bethany’s worried eyes land on me, and I clear my throat, hoping my voice doesn’t waver when I say. “I’m gonna use the bathroom.”
I hurry away before they can stop me, closing the door and resting my hands on the sink counter. I bow my head and focus on my breathing—counting down from fifty this time—wondering how everything went so sideways. It happened without me even realizing it. I was too young, at twenty-one, to fully understand what some of the finer details in my contract meant—that by signing my name, I’d sign my autonomy away to the label as well. I’d perform songs they chose and put out albums they pieced together, with little to no say of my own.
At the time, I only had stars in my eyes, realizing this was my big break. I agreed easily and with little contest.
Now, the weight of the shackles that I so willingly allowed to be fastened around my wrists reminds me I’m a prisoner at their mercy.
Unfortunately, I can picture the keys to my freedom, but they’re still out of reach. As far as Silver Shadows is concerned, I’m nothing but their property, their cash cow. It’s not every day they stumble across a nobody who is soon selling out stadiums across the country.
All I can do is grin and bear it and wait until my contract ends in three years. They don’t know yet that I don’t plan to sign another three-year extension. I regret signing the current extension last year, but after coming off the high of a successful album, I had thoughthey, why not? But now, in some ways, I feel like I’m at the bottom of a mountain, staring up helplessly at the prize at the top.
When my pulse has leveled out, I step out of the bathroom and head back over to the couch. Bethany gives me a sympathetic smile, knowing exactly how that conversation went and that I needed a moment to stew in the aftermath by myself.
“Hayes Vogt said on his stream that he’ll be at the VMAs next week since J-Money is nominated,” Roman says, eyes glued to his phone as he scrolls through his social media feed, completely unaware of the verbal beating I just received.
“Oh, that’s cool,” I mutter noncommittally, head still reeling from my conversation with Cal to show any more enthusiasm.
“Maybe you’ll run into him. He seemed pretty bummed he didn’t get to meet you tonight.”
“Why?” I ask, though I’m sure my brother doesn’t have the answer either. “I’ve never even heard of him before you brought him up.”
Roman shrugs. “Well, he’s clearly heard of you. He must like your music if he’s coming to your concerts.”
It’s an interesting thought. That the quarterback making cameos in J-Money’s video would be a fan of my style of music, but crazier things have happened.
“If you do run into him at the show, see if you can get an autograph for me,” Roman continues.
I lean back on the cushions of the couch, pushing my wounded pride to the back of my mind. I have too much on my plate between the label, the tour, the album, and thinking about everything on my to-do list before that award show. There are far too many things that need to be addressed. I don’t have the time or the energy to care about some football player that I’ve never heard about—I don’t even like football. But seeing Roman so excited about the prospect of me seeing this specific athlete has me muffling a chuckle. My brother is famous in his own right, but that doesn’t stop him from appreciating others’ fame too. Especially when it comes to sports names.
So despite myself, I agree. “I’ll see what I can do.”
