Page 219 of P.S. I'm Still Yours

I won’t protect his murderer.

I can’t.

“You can’t expect me to keep quiet. I couldn’t live with myself.”

“There’s also the fact that you’re legally required to complete four albums. It’s in your contract.”

I frown. I’ve only put out one so far, but what does that have to do with anything?

“If you were to go public with your story, the label would hold the right to request that you pay back the two-million-dollar advance they gave you for breaching the contract.”

My first album released six months ago. It’s done well enough to recoup half of what the label gave me, but I still have a million dollars to go.

I haven’t made enough to earn out the advance yet, which means I haven’t received a single penny from my songs or my shows so far. The only way for me to get paid for my work would be to pay back the label in full.

I used a big chunk of the money they gave me to pay off my mom’s debt and hospital bills from the time I broke my ribs trying to protect her from our pervert landlord.

Another big portion of it went into buying my mom a ranch and supporting her.

The amount I would owe the label if they were to drop me is around the same amount I have left in my bank account right now.

I could pay them back, but then I wouldn’t have a dollar left to my name. And I doubt any other label would want to sign me after such a scandal.

We’d be broke.

Again.

“Where would that leave us? My mom and I?”

“Right back where you started,” Josh answers.

He pauses.

“Look, your career is just beginning. You’re on your way to becoming one of the biggest male artists of our generation. You’d be throwing it all away for one mistake.”

I can’t speak, my throat coated in guilt.

“You don’t want your mom to be homeless again, do you?”

Tears are streaming down my face again, but this time, I don’t wipe them away.

“You’d be responsible for putting her back on the street. You’d have to take her away from the beautiful life she has now because of a crime you didn’t commit yourself. You’re her protector. That’s what she calls you, isn’t it?”

Very few people know about my mom’s nickname for me.

Mostly because saying it in front of people would lead to questions we didn’t want to answer.

My dad always hated us.

He hated that he got his one-night stand pregnant and was forced into marrying her by his controlling, old-fashioned family. He hated that he had to get hitched instead of enjoying his bachelor lifestyle.

He hated us, but mostly, he hated her.

He blamed her for getting pregnant and ruining his life—like that was her fault to begin with.

I was nine the first time he hit her in front of me.

It didn’t take long for me to figure out that this had been going on for a while, and just because it was the first time I’d witnessed it didn’t mean it was a rare occurrence.

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