Page 17 of Bad Intentions

“I didn’t mean to stir things up,” Rika says, which sounds like an apology, yet her expression is neutral.

“Then why did you⁠—”

“I know who you are,” she cuts me off. “I didn’t want to beat around the bush. And yes, I know your history, just so we are clear. What happened, the backlash, your angry fans. And I don’t care about your past. But you are a great singer. That’s a fact.”

Talking to her is comforting, even though her attitude is like a pendulum—nice, harsh, comforting, edgy. Hard, opinionated, but nice. This girl is a walking oxymoron.

I don’t tell her that I haven’t picked up my guitar in months, since that video. What she calls a hiccup was a disaster. The harassment, nasty DMs, death threats, stalkers, and bloggers’ videos relentlessly bashing me and stomping me into the mud, thousands of them a day. The “hiccup” was a nightmare. Still is. I don’t have the courage to check my professional social media accounts too often these days. After Pittsburgh, I wanted to crawl into a hole and hide from everyone. Looks like Burnville is not small enough to hide from it all. The stranger might’ve brought more trouble.

“Hey,” Rika says with a backward nod. “You should sing at Carrigan’s. Do a solo performance. People will love it.”

“Yeah, that’s a no,” I say, trying to fight frustration.

“Listen, you can’t let the opinion of angry and bored idiots affect how you think about yourself. The crowd at Carrigan’s is not the social media type. They probably don’t even know that you are a singer. They’ll appreciate you.”

“Hard no.” I shake my head, my defenses instantly up. It’s a reflex. Or PTSD. Many know I used to sing back in school, though, of course, no one ever believed that the girl with that kind of family would ever go far.

“I appreciate the sentiment, though,” I say and stomp away, into the kitchen and to my office.

I need a minute. My insides are twisting as my mind replays the nasty comments I got on that viral video. For some time, I sit in the office chair and try to hum, take deep breaths, think of something nice—anything to get away from those memories. But they are sticky. No matter the good parts, success, and praise, it’s the shitty stuff that tends to stick. Like superglue on your fingertips. The hard residue that doesn’t come off no matter how much you scrub. It takes time, they say. It’s been months, and I’m still drowning in shame.

On reflex, as if hoping that the bad stuff will somehow disappear overnight, I pull out my phone, go to the live-streaming social platform, and search my name.

That viral video has been taken down, but before it was, many had downloaded it, shared it, and bits and pieces of it are now everywhere, replicating the cringy memes of me in the worst way possible. I only see a screenshot of one of them, and the whiplash makes the world go dark around me.

I’m on a sofa, high as a kite, blabbering something. There were six more people in that room, but Skinner had his stupid camera on me, live streaming to the whole world, laughing, while I bent over and did a fat line of cocaine he dared me to do, wiped my nose, then started singing at the top of my voice. And then I started stripping… The rest is history.

One comment, one, made me feel like dirt two months ago.

@bad07: Like mother like daughter.

SLAP!

Silent but so loud.

It must've been someone who knew me, knew my mom. Hundreds can try to stab you and fail. But a single phrase from one person can end you in seconds.

I close the app and open my messages. A dozen unread ones, but I don’t read them. I don’t want to. I want everyone to leave me alone for some time.

A notification suddenly pops up on my screen. A new message.

Unknown: Tonight. 9 o’clock.

The address follows.

11

JOSIE

Bad idea? Probably. But bad ideas are often something that we thought we could handle, only to find out later we didn’t even have a chance.

I nervously fix my hair for the fourth time as I sit in my car, parked across the road from the blue house on Lauren Street, the address in the text. It’s nine in the evening, dark and eerie outside.

This idea is risky. But if I play it right, I will finally get to find out what the guy has for me. If something goes wrong, I will have to use the pepper spray in my pocket. I left a note with the address under the pillow in my bedroom. If anything happens to me or I go missing, Grandma will find it.

I exhale through my pursed lips, trying to summon the courage.

The house is in a row of old properties on the outskirts of Burnville. Shabby neighborhood. Sneakers hanging off the electric wires—no doubt someone is selling drugs around here. The drug dealers and users trickle here from Brownstown, the meth capital of the county, ten miles away. Rent is cheaper here. The police department is much smaller. You still have all the amenities at your fingertips, and the cell phone reception falters only farther up into the mountains.