You'd Be Mine(10)

“Photo shoot?” I ask, my voice squeaking a little.

“I thought that was for headliners only,” Clay murmurs to Trina.

Her answering grin is slightly manic. “That was before, Clay. Now, they want Annie’s pretty face right there next to yours.”

He yanks off his hat and bends the rim between his long fingers. “How long are they going to hold that against me, Trina? It was one night.”

She flicks a glance at the rest of us, but he’s not budging, so I don’t either. Might as well know what I’m in for. “It was more than one night, Clay. It was the culmination of many nights, which makes you a calculated risk for the label. So either you cooperate and hold on to your career or you don’t. Make your mind up now so I can write my resignation of your Dumpster fire of a career before you take me down with you.” Trina’s smile is fixed as ever, but her voice carries a lash, and Clay cringes a little under her scrutiny.

He sighs. “Christ Almighty, Trina. That’s not what I meant.”

She glares.

“Let me grab a water, okay?”

“Fabulous.” She turns to me. “You’re coming with me, honey. Flawless takes time, and we’ve only got a few hours.”



* * *



Trina leads me through a back door—a solid, no-window affair—and down a dreary hallway. If it wasn’t for the fact I’m worth more alive than dead after her lecture to Clay, I’d be concerned. This place is shady as all get-out.

Like a low-brow movie set. Or a local access television studio.

Eventually the soft murmur of voices breaks in, and as we approach a well-lit hallway, I release a slow breath. A young black woman in smart eyewear grabs my arm from Trina and pulls me into a dressing room. She’s wearing sensible flats and cropped skinny slacks, and next to Trina, she looks like the student class president with her smooth hair and muted style.

“You’re late,” she says. She readjusts a clipboard under one arm and pushes me gently toward a stark vanity and one of those rickety-looking folding chairs. It seems I’ve stumbled upon the not-so-glamorous underbelly of show business. That took approximately two hours.

Trina examines her nails next to me, unfazed. “Good to see you, Beth, as always. I’m doing marvelous, thanks for asking. Just got engaged last month.” Trina flashes a giant, sparkling diamond. “Melody Parker? She’s an entertainment lawyer.” My eyes flicker over to the smaller woman, whose expression sours comically, and I make a mental note to never, ever get on Trina’s bad side. “Anyway,” Trina plows on. “Blame Clay. Pretty boy needed a little come-to-Jesus.” She shrugs lightly and offers me a grin. “Annie, this is Beth Lewis. She’s from Country Music magazine and is running the shoot today. I’m going to find a sweet tea. Want one?”

I grimace. Sweet tea is one of those Southern things I cannot abide. If it wasn’t for my love of grits, my dad’s side of the family might have questioned his claim on me.

Trina pulls her keys out of a giant designer bag. “Suit yourself.”

Beth lets Trina out before peeking into the hallway and calling for a couple of assistants. She then points to the chair. “You. There.” I plop down, tucking my grungy satchel between my even grungier Keds. “This is Christian. He’ll be doing your hair, and Maria will be fixing up your face.”

Christian is tall and slender, wearing a loud scarf even though it’s probably a thousand degrees under the hot vanity lights. He sort of reminds me of Lumiere in Beauty and the Beast, and I want to be his friend. I feel like you can tell a lot about someone who wears vibrant accessories.

“I love your curls,” he gushes, running his fingers through my frizz. “How attached are you to the length? You’ve got this old-school Taylor thing going on, and I’m picturing you with a pixie.”

I shake my head quickly. “Nothing above the shoulders, thanks. I need to be able to pull it out of my eyes when I play.”

“No pixie,” Beth butts in from the door. I slump in relief. “Carl’s vision for this shoot is a modern-day play on Johnny and June. She’s gonna need a bouffant.”

I inhale sharply and choke on air. “I’m sorry, do you mean Johnny and June Carter Cash?”

Beth scribbles something on her clipboard and then tucks the pen behind her ear. “Good. You know of them? Some kids these days can’t see past Blake and Miranda.”

I sputter at her offhand tone. “But they are like this epic love story! They’re legendary. That’s complete sacrilege.”

“Easy, Mathers, it’s not like we’re dressing you up like your parents. That was tossed around, you know.”

I whip to face her. “What?”

“Don’t get all offended. I talked them out of it.”

I swallow hard past the lump growing in my throat. Day one, jumping right in, I guess. “Double-suicide is hardly something to emulate in a publicity shoot.”

“Exactly my point. Which is why we are going with Johnny and June.” Beth speaks slowly, and I want to smack her upside the head with her stupid clipboard.

Christian places a hand on my shoulder. “Jesus H., Beth.”

I shake my head, quickly, and set my jaw. “No, it’s fine. Really. Just do the bouffant.”