Page 13 of Holding On

Me

Love you forever, Fi!

When my brother’s company signed Fiona Skye eight years ago, they also brought one of the best people I’ve ever known into my life. I will forever be grateful that Wells introduced us—it may be the greatest gift he has ever given me. Fiona is five years older than me, but as she likes to say, our souls just recognized each other. Her music is more pop-focused, and despite what the press wants to say about us, we’ve never viewed the other as competition. I really hope her sister will be able to help her dreams come true, it’s only been her and her older sister Dahlia for so long. Some days, I find myself wishing it was just me and Wells in our family—our mother nor Rick really add anything positive to our lives. Drama and pain? Absolutely. Love and support? None to be found.

Pushing that train of thought away, I try and refocus on the good things I do have in my life. I have a great brother and I’m lucky to have two really good friends in Fiona and Allie. That’s more than a lot of people will ever have, and it will just have to be enough.

“You useless, ungrateful, little bitch,” Rick screams at my face as he winds his foot back and kicks me again in the stomach. I don’t have anywhere to go, so I just curl in on myself and try to block the next blow that I know will come. Rick always has a next blow, and today he’s wearing some new cowboy boots that I’m sure I paid for.

“You think you’re smarter than me? You’re an idiot, Tinsley. What did you think telling your mommy was going to do? Huh?” Rick grabs my hair and pulls my head up until I’m standing.

I bite down on my lip until it bleeds. If I could stop my tears all together, I would; he doesn’t deserve them, but I hold back what tears I can—even if a few traitors escape.

“What did you think was going to happen by telling her that I hurt you? Did you think she was going to take you away from me? You can’t get away from me. I own you. You seem to forget your place, Tinsley. You don’t go complaining to mommy dearest unless you want me to give her the same kind of attention. Is that it? Do I need to have you stand there and watch me beat the shit out of your drunk deadbeat mother for you to understand who the fuck is in charge here, Tinsley? You try and ruin everything, you taint it all, just like your daddy did.”

Spittle flies from his mouth, and his hair, which is usually so perfectly styled, is disheveled, sticking out all over the place. My mom was mostly sober this morning and I thought it was worth the risk of asking for help. When I explained what Rick has been doing and showed her the bruises on my back, I thought she would see me; I thought she would care—I didn’t think she would laugh at me for being dramatic and call Rick into the room. He said I was crazy and dramatic, making my mom laugh before grabbing my arm and dragging me from the room while my mother poured herself another vodka soda.

His face is red with anger and the vein in his forehead is throbbing—which is always a huge warning sign for me. If his vein is throbbing like that, I’m going to be exceptionally sore. “You will tell your mother that you were mistaken and that I am a fucking wonderful stepfather and manager, do you understand that, Tinsley? Can you get that simple task into that stupid tiny brain of yours, or do you need more reminders?” He grabs my wrist and starts to turn it, and I know if it wasn’t for the concert I have in a week, he would break my wrist. It wouldn’t be the first time either. I’ve had so many injuries over the years that my own mother is convinced I’m exceptionally accident-prone. But Rick always has an excuse for whatever lesson he beats into me—or attempted to, anyway.

At sixteen, I’ve been under Rick’s thumb since I won that stupid contest nine years ago. I was more or less invisible to him for years before that competition, and he didn’t care about the regional pageants my mom put me in, so long as I won some cash prizes.

If I could talk to Wells, maybe he could help, but Rick has told me—in detail—how he would kill my brother if he tried to help me. I thought I was protecting my mom all this time, but she couldn’t care less when I finally confessed everything to her this morning. I only have to make it to eighteen and then I’m out of here. I’ll only stay in touch with Wells; my mother and Rick can rot in hell together. I’m sure Wells will help me when I do finally get away, but on the off chance he won’t, I’ll find my own way.

“I asked you a question, you stupid, useless waste of space.” As Rick raises his hand with his palm close to his ear, I should’ve seen it coming. It’s not the first time, and I knew that throbbing vein was bad news. I should’ve ducked or tried to block it, but his hand connects with such force, I fly back into the wall and crumble to the floor. Thankfully, the pain is momentary before I’m swallowed by the black abyss.

Allie sets a fresh bottle of water on the kitchen island for me as she moves around the hotel suite. We always make press calls from her number, just to be safe, so her cell is on speaker phone on the countertop in front of me.

“Tinsley Sinclair, I’m so pumped to talk to you! You’re on tour everywhere with more number-one hits than most singers or songwriters dream possible. Girl, you have so much coin you don’t even need your brother’s insane fortune from Lux. I mean, you just seem to have it all!” It would seem like that from the outside, wouldn’t it? Isn’t it funny how deceiving appearances can be?

The interview covers the usual questions about my current and upcoming tour—there’s always an upcoming tour; Rick makes sure of it.

“So, Tinsley, you know I have to ask, how are things going with you and Roman Cash? You two blew us out of the water last summer with your whirlwind romance, and we have been here for all of it ever since. He is so hot—I don’t know how you stand it!” The bubbly DJ gushes over the phone, and I’m glad she can’t see my face as I roll my eyes at Allie, who is trying not to laugh at my expression.

“Roman and I are great, both super busy with our tours and careers, but we both know what’s important and that makes all the difference.” My stomach twists as I lie through my teeth.

I hate that I have to lie to my fans every single day.

Roman Cash is a lot of things. He initially found success in the pop-punk rock scene, dominating the charts for a few years, until a couple of years ago when he crossed over successfully into mainstream pop, and even country with a few key collaborations. Musically, he’s a superstar with the golden touch. Artists love to do collaborations with him because they are instant hits, and his concerts always sell out. He’s beautiful with a radiant smile, chiseled cheekbones, and black hair that seems to look good whether he has it in a buzz cut or grows it out long enough to put in a man bun.

But eighteen months ago, his partying got out of control, and Roman had an epic meltdown outside a bar—which of course was all caught on security cameras. It was like someone challenged him to burn down his entire life in one single evening and he said, “Hold my beer.” After getting kicked out of a bar in downtown Nashville for belligerent behavior, he got in a physical fight with some fans who wanted a photo with him, and was caught on camera using racial slurs, in addition to shoving two women out of his way as he left the scene of the incident. His public relations team went into overdrive with Roman issuing apologies, attending rehab, making donations to relevant nonprofits, and multiple other efforts to redeem his repulsive actions.

One of those tactics was to have a relationship with someone that could help his image, and of course, slimeball Rick agreed to the terms before I was even aware of the idea. If I had been able to spend five minutes with Roman one-on-one, I never would’ve agreed to the two-year contract Rick forced me to sign that resulted in Roman and I having a public on-again-off-again relationship for twenty-four months starting the date the ink dried. Rick saw the opportunity to expand my fan base and thought the exposure would be beneficial for my career, as well as put him in a favorable political position with a few music executives that were trying to save their golden goose’s image.

Roman may be beautiful, musically talented, and extremely popular, but he is an absolutely disgusting person. It makes sense why Rick likes him so much. I’m already counting down the days until this is over, and I still have an entire year to go until we release our joint statement announcing our mutual breakup and wishing each other the best.

“You guys are just so cute together! I think some of us were surprised when Roman started dating you.” Wait … what? Why did that just sound like Roman was slumming it to date me? I scrunch my eyebrows and look at Allie who shakes her head as she scowls at the phone. She hates Roman just as much as I do. “But it’s so nice to know that guys like Roman Cash would date someone like you.” I cock my head as I try and find a non-offensive way to interpret that statement.

Girls like me?

Girls that are a multi-platinum award winning artist? No, that doesn’t seem to fit.

Girls that are a size fourteen—okay, closer to a sixteen around my period—with an ass and a killer rack? Or maybe girls like me who didn’t go to college? Nope, there isn’t a way to take that and not be offended. I look up to Allie, and she has gone from scowling to straight up pissed off. She will cut this interview the second our time is up.

Clueless to my offense, the DJ pushes on in a breathy voice, “What’s something that would surprise your fans to learn about your relationship, or like, something that Roman does that makes you just swoon over the guy?” Yeah, as though I’m going to tell her something that’s actually private.

“You know, I don’t know if it’s that surprising, but we’re just normal people and our favorite thing to do is to stay in.” Away from cameras that could catch on that I hate the man. “We love our fans, of course, but there’s something about just having a quiet night at home with your significant other, cooking dinner together, and slow dancing in your kitchen.”

Roman and I have never slow danced. The only kiss or physical affection we’ve shown has been shoved down my throat in public settings. One time, he copped a feel, and I told him if he ever intentionally touched my boobs without permission or an invitation, I would remove at least one of his balls from his body.