“I'm guessing you dragged me in here because you know I'm not so high on smack anymore that I can't make my own decisions. I've now become the 'difficult' one.” I make quotes with my fingers and feel bad when Milo cringes like a kicked dog. The poor guy's been through enough; I need to cut the bastard some slack. “Sorry. Long day.” I almost mention the swab that got shoved up my piss hole but decide that's a topic better left for later, in case Paulette really pisses me off. I can whip that out and see if her skin crawls when I mention it. “What I mean to say is no reality show.” Paulette opens her mouth, but I'm not done. “When I say no reality show, I really mean no fucking reality show. Not now, not next month, never. It's too much.”
“Mr. McGuire,” Paulette says when I give her the chance, folding my arms over my chest and refusing to take the seat Milo offers me. When my manager realizes that I'm not going to sit, he sighs and makes himself comfortable on his feet behind me. “I can understand why you'd say that, given the recent slew,” Paulette practically growls the word out, “of terrible reality television. Programs that are so far removed from reality that you'd be more likely to find truth in sitcom. Listen, Ronnie – can I call you Ronnie? – you're a smart man and obviously a very strong person to survive drug addiction. Many people – my own sister included – never make it out alive.” She leans forward, folding her perfect hands on her black slacks. Jesus, she reminds me of America. I tilt my head to the side and study her face, her perfect nose, her perfect cheeks, her perfect chin. She's like a little brunette Barbie doll, all Beverly Hills plastic surgery and cosmetic decadence. Hmm. America, at least, was real – physically speaking. Still, the resemblance is enough to convince me that I don't trust this bitch as far as I can throw her. No way, no how. “But you should at least hear me out. The idea I pitched to the studio has got a lot of people talking. This is the next best thing in entertainment. Live, twenty-four hour feeds of the house via planted cameras. No camera crew, no interference, no cut away interviews. Just you and your families living here and interacting. When you leave the house, nobody will follow you. You'll still have your privacy.”
“Yeah, just not at home, not in the one place in the world that's supposed to be sacred. Sorry, lady, but I smell your shit from over here. You want us to sign away our lives, let you market our pain, our love, our sex, our friendship, whatever. My music, I can sell because I know it's going to fucking touch people here.” I thump a fist against my chest. “But I won't sell my soul. That shit's just for rent, just up for a glimpse while we're onstage. Anything else would be a travesty.”
“Mr. McGuire,” Milo begins from behind me, but I wave him off. I don't need to consult with the boys about this, talk to my parents, discuss the pros and cons with Lola. I already have my answer and it's resounding in my skull like a lonely echo in the Grand Canyon. No. No. No.
“My daughters will be moving in here soon. The last thing they need is for their childhoods to be filmed, for their father's fuckups to be immortalized every second of every day. The answer is no.”
“This could be the thing that separates you from today's news to tomorrow's Gods. The world won't be allowed to forget about Indecency. We'll have a website with live feeds, twenty-four hours a day, and pages filled with fact – straight from the horse's mouth. Your hopes, your dreams. You'll each have a blog to post every thought that flickers through your head to the world.” I feel my lip wrinkle and have to really wonder if this woman is mentally challenged. How is she not getting this?
“I don't want my every whim broadcast to the world. And holy fucking fuck, the website thing? Is that meant to entice me? That's even worse. So not only are the cameras catching my every waking moment, but they're also playing them all. No cuts? No way to hide anything that happens here? You can really forget that shit.”
Paulette seems unfazed. She's still smiling at me.
“We could negotiate a little. Say, no cameras in the bathrooms or bedrooms?” Paulette lets her lips curl at the corners. Her version of a smile is fucking terrifying. She sweeps brunette hair over her shoulder and flutters her lashes at me, not in any coquettish sort of way, but more like she's hinting at something unspoken, something I'm not getting. Awesome. More shit to slog through. I pinch my mouth tight and turn away, refusing to participate in this discussion any further. If the words fuck no don't mean anything to this woman, I have nothing else to say.
Milo calls after me, but I'm officially done here, starting up the stairs and heading for my bedroom. Paulette might stay and try to convince my manager, my bandmates, whatever. They will never convince me, so fuck 'em. If I stay firm and say no, my friends will stand by my side. That's just the way we are; we work as a unit. Always have, maybe always will.