Wicked Force (Wicked Horse Vegas #4.5)(3)

It’s funny how that fear never goes away.

Every time I step onto a stage, I’m terrified of being a complete failure. I have nightmares where my voice sounds like a frog croaking or I get paralyzed by the bright lights as people just stare at me. I have no clue if all people in show business feel that way, but it’s the total downside to my career.

I bring my free hand to my mouth, touch my lips to my fingertips, and blow the kiss out to the crowd. The cheers get louder and I take a low bow.

Another kiss to the crowd.

Another bow as I bask in their appreciation just a little bit longer.

Then I exit stage right, waving to the crowd and beaming my smile at them as I depart.

When I’m finally out of sight, the smile slides off my face and my legs turn to jelly. The adrenaline rush having been expended, I’m as limp as a noodle.

Michel is there to put an arm around my waist, not to hold me up, but to give me a squeeze of excitement. “Joslyn... another fantastic show.”

Yes, it was and that brings a smile back to my face because despite all the fears and insecurities, I freaking love singing to people. I wrap my arm around his waist and we walk together back to my dressing room.

Michel is my hair and makeup guru and has been for the past nine months since I signed a one-year contract to perform here in Vegas. He’s also my closest friend, and that’s not something I’ve had a lot of over the past few years.

His real name is Michael Brubank and he’s from New Jersey. At the tender age of twenty, he completed cosmetology school and moved out to L.A., where he changed his name to Michel.

Not Michel Brubank.

Just Michel.

Like Madonna or Cher.

After several years in L.A. working his way up the ladder of famous and semi-famous stars, he came to Vegas because he was in love with an interior designer he’d met online and dated long distance.

Sadly, he and the interior designer didn’t work out but Michel fell in love with Vegas and stayed. I’m only nineteen and Michel is now thirty-one, yet the vast age difference between us hasn’t interfered with our friendship. We’re both in show business, he loves to gossip and I love to listen, and he’s got a heart the size of Texas. He’d do anything for me and I for him, and thus we’re the best of friends.

“Be warned,” he leans over and murmurs as we approach my dressing room. “She’s not in a good mood.”

“What did I do now?” I mutter as my body tightens with defensiveness.

“Who knows,” he whispers back, afraid to let his voice carry any further than our little cocoon as we stop outside the door. The name Joslyn Meyers in gold letters with a gold star underneath usually makes me smile, but not right now.

Taking a deep breath—pushing past the tightness now in my chest—I release my arm from around Michel’s waist and give him a confident smile. “I’ll call you later after I get home, okay?”

There’s no hiding the worry in his eyes. “You sure you don’t want me to go in there with you? I’ll get your makeup off and brush your hair out.”

I go to my tiptoes because Michel is quite tall and give him a kiss to his cheek. “I’m fine. I’ll call you later.”

“Okay,” he says doubtfully and chucks me under the chin with his knuckles. “And no matter what happens in there, just remember you are fabulous.”

“You’re the fabulous one,” I say and he preens from the compliment.

Laughing, I watch as Michel heads off and then take another deep breath as I turn toward the door to my dressing room. Exhaling slowly, I open it and step across the threshold with my head held confidently high.

“You put me in a really bad position, Joslyn,” my stepmother says as she taps a manicured nail against her chin.

I take her in.

All of the glory of Madeline Meyers as she leans back against my dressing room table.

Maddie to her dear friends, which number zero, because like me, she doesn’t really have any. Also like me, her life has been overtaken by show business as she manages my career. She’s statuesque, with glossy brunette hair she wears in a long bob, a flawless complexion, and an incomparable sense of style. She wears the title of Manager to Joslyn Meyers like it’s a superhero cape and she takes her job almost too seriously.

Before I devote another thought to my stepmother, please let me make it clear. She’s not evil or wicked. On the contrary, she’s been so very good to me for much of my life and I love her.

But she is... trying.

Frustrating.

Overbearing.

Good intentioned but often tormenting because she’s a bulldog in her tenacity to make me famous.

I consider playing stupid with her, but that will only piss her off to the point we’ll get into a terrible argument and then I’ll feel wretched over it. So I go ahead and admit my perfidy.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her with true feeling. I am regretful to have done something she was firmly opposed to, because I know it causes her stress. But I have no qualms about what I did, because it was the right thing to do and because it brings me joy. “This was really important to me, Mom.”

Yes, I call her “Mom” because she’s always been that to me, except when we are in front of others for business dealings. She thinks it weakens her position to shine light onto our personal relationship.