“I have a few photographs you need to sign for the fan club and the list of radio stations you’ll be doing call-ins for tomorrow morning starting at six,” my mother states a she pulls a stack of black and white glossy photos out of her Birkin bag along with several sheets of paper.
I make my way across the room to my kitchen table so I can stare out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the woods surrounding the cabin while she methodically organizes the stack of photos next to a black Sharpie marker, standing there with her arms crossed in front of her waiting for me to do as she wishes. Just like always.
I pull out a chair, the legs scraping across the floor, and sit down with a small sigh, wishing—not for the first time—that I can say no to my mother. These three days are supposed to be vacation days for me and the band, time for us to regroup and take a break from the back-to-back touring schedule Eve booked the year before. For six months, I’ve done nothing but think about these three days, dreaming about not having to set my alarm in the morning and being able to take my coffee out onto my wrap around porch so I can watch the sun rise over the hills of Tennessee. Three whole days without my mother telling me what to say, what to wear, and what to sing.
I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. It never is with Eve. She's always working, always thinking about new ways to make a buck and increase my value. I've tried many times over the years to defy my mother, to do things on my own time, my own terms. But it never ends well. My mother controls every aspect of my life, and I've allowed it to happen.
Sure, I was young at the time, and I’d just lost the one person who I thought truly cared about me, but I should have known better. Eve made me promises and dangled dreams in front of me that could be mine if I just reached out and took them. I signed every paper she put in front of me the day of the funeral, thinking I’d finally done something to make my mother proud of me, make her love me. It didn’t take long for me to realize it was all a lie.
It comes as no surprise to me as I sit down at the cedar table that the promise of vacation time was a sham. I should have known better than to dream, even of something as small as a few uninterrupted days alone in my cabin. Nothing good ever comes from dreaming except disappointment.
I pick up the black marker and begin the tedious process of signing my name to hundreds of copies of a picture of me smiling straight into the camera with a cowboy hat on my head and my long, blonde hair hanging in waves around my shoulders. I don’t even pay attention to the name I scribble. As I flip picture, after picture, after picture, all I do is stare into the eyes of the woman in the photo and wonder why it looks nothing like the one I see in the mirror every day.
She’s late. Of course she’s fucking late. God forbid she realizes the world doesn’t revolve around her.
Reclining comfortably in my chair, my booted foot resting on one knee, and my fingers tapping a steady rhythm on top of the conference room table, I’m sure I look like the epitome of calm and cool. Inside, I’m about to punch the God dammed wall. Leave it to the princess to not give a shit about a meeting regarding her own personal safety.
I watch as her mother, Eve, glances at an expensive diamond and gold watch on her slim wrist and huffs in irritation.
Right there with you, sister.
Gwen had made all the arrangements with Eve Carlysle about the job, so I have yet to talk to her, aside from our initial introduction when I first got to Hummingbird Records a half hour ago. She seems nice enough, concerned about her daughter’s safety and all that crap, tells me I have full access to Layla, and she'll make sure this whole thing is my call. Whatever I need, whatever I ask—it's mine. She says her daughter most likely won’t be happy about the whole thing, but I expect that. And I don’t give a shit.
As soon as I got over my initial shock that the twenty-percent increase I demanded to perform this job was accepted, I began doing research on the twenty-three-year-old singer. Google was like the Great and Powerful Oz in all things relating to Layla Carlysle.
Pulling out the few printed pieces of paper I’d stuck in the inside pocket of my black leather jacket, I open them up and scan the words probably for the twentieth time while the small handful of people in the room talk amongst themselves quietly.
To say Gwen was irritated with me that I clearly had no idea who this person was is an understatement.
“Layla Page Carlyle, born to loving parents Eve and Jack, led a pampered upper class life,” I read aloud from the screen of my computer while Gwen perched on the edge of my desk. “Father started up one of the largest recording labels ever to hit the music scene in Nashville. Mother worked as a secretary for him. Layla attended—”