Turn Over(7)

4





Alexa





“I tried to tell you…” Helena shrugged.

I raised my hand to silence her. I didn’t want to hear it. As long as I was under contract with Jake I was his puppet. I was his slave. I was his Barbie doll to dress and style how he pleased, shoving a mic and a song in my hand.

I watched as Helena started with my hair from the beginning. I knew what would happen. She’d part it down the middle, wipe the makeup from my eyes, and replace the red lipstick with a dab of light pink lip gloss. America’s Sweetheart always had to look the part.

“We could add some charcoal at the corners. It will be a little smoky and sexy.” She tried to make up for it. “With your blond hair it will really pop.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I smiled. It wasn’t her fault. “He won’t go for that either and it’s a waste of time. I appreciate it. Just keep with the peach tones. He likes those.”

“At least you get to wear the leather boots.”

I grinned. The boots were my favorite. And for some reason, they had become an acceptable part of my image. I could wear them with dresses or jeans. It didn’t matter. The brown leather was embroidered with a darker thread of brown, printing paisleys along the side of my calf.

Other than my guitar, they were the most sentimental thing I owned. I had bought them with my first royalty check. A real country singer needed real boots. I had even worn them out of the store, tossing my beaten up tennis shoes in the box before walking out.

“Always the boots,” I agreed.

The boots were my first foray into starting a fashion line. It was a natural fit to start working with boot designers. I had an entire footwear collection called The Alexan.

I was excited about my new venture in athletic wear. Fans always wanted to know what I did to stay in shape on the road. I posted pictures of my workouts. I posed with my trainer. Truth was I had to workout seven days a week to keep this body going.

It didn’t come naturally to me. Once slice of chocolate cake and I wouldn’t be able to slip into my jeans. Besides, it was a good way to spend my down time on the road. Francisco had gotten creative with our routines. The man was like an artist, but with workouts.

From there it seemed like the next step was to see if I could start selling my own brand of sportswear. I practically wore it around the clock when I wasn’t prepping for an event. Next week I was supposed to meet with the designers who had sketches on my new athletic line. My brand was growing rapidly. It wasn’t only about the music anymore. I was in stores. I was in magazines. I had commercials.

Twenty minutes later I looked at my reflection. “Lexi Wilde,” I mouthed, wondering where the girl was who had fought so desperately to get here. Because I barely saw a whisper of her when I looked at the straight blond hair and the pink rosy cheeks.

I had to believe she was somewhere in there and I hadn’t given up on bringing her back.

“Thanks, Helena.” I stood from the vanity and walked to the closet where my clothes were organized by color. I pulled a white, long-sleeved top from one of the hangers.

As I fastened each of the buttons, I thought about why I was in Austin. This was a charity event to help sick children. And here I was pouting about my manager. Angry that I had to do a meet and greet. The guilt surfaced as I sat on the bed to pull my boots up to my calves.

“You ok, Lexi?” Helena asked as she packed her brushes into a black case.

I nodded. “Just thinking.”

She sat next to me. “Don’t let Jake get to you.”

“No, it’s not him. Well, only partially him.” My eyes drifted toward her. “Do you ever feel like we’re in fishbowl? Like everyone is watching us?”

She put an arm around my shoulder. “I see you in that fishbowl, honey. But that’s nothing new. What’s going on?”

I shook her off. “Nothing.” I took another look in the mirror and pressed my lips together. “I’m thinking too much about the concert tonight.” There were things I couldn’t even talk to Helena about.

How could she understand the guilt I felt surrounded by the life of privilege I had built? Was there any way to make it sound as if I appreciated it, but yet was completely burdened by my fame and wealth?

I walked into the living room and pulled my guitar from the stand. I sat by the window, staring out over the city. I closed my eyes, strummed a few chords and let the music I wanted to sing pour out of me. The words I wanted to shout. The sound I wanted people to hear flew through my fingers and my chest as if I needed to get it out before I lost the ability to breathe.





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