Page 1 of Embracing the Beat
MICHAELA
Asliminess coats my skin as I finish the last song in my set. The crowd may see a singer who hasn’t quite hit the next level—let’s be honest, I’m nowhere near where I thought I would be by now—but the dingy bar, the drunk patrons, and the cigarette smoke that chokes me, all scream nobody.
“Thank you,” I rasp into the crackling microphone, waving a little and trying to keep the smile on my face as I grip my guitar.
The strings digging into my fingers help ward off the tears threatening to make an appearance. They’ll still come, but later. Once I’m alone in the motel on the outskirts of Atlantic City—our stop for the night.
A year and a half ago, I was in Chicago, high on the excitement of signing with Reverb Records after they’d promised sold-out shows and stadium tours. But for the last three months, it’s been dingy bars and clubs with makeshift stages. It’s been two-star motels—if I’m lucky.
Shane was my label rep then—a happily married man with two kids who treated me like a little sister. But Shane had been replaced almost a year ago with Brad.
And the two men couldn’t be more different.
No applause follows me off stage, and my shoulders slump as I stand next to the table where Brad lounges with several empty shot glasses and a basket of soggy French fries.
“Hungry?” he asks around a mouthful of food.
“No.” I am, but I’ll wait until we’re back at the hotel. Hopefully they have a vending machine, or if I’m lucky, I can grab something edible at a gas station close by.
He shrugs one shoulder. “Suit yourself.” Standing, he drains the rest of a bottle of beer and motions at me to put my guitar in its case. “C’mon, princess, we don’t have all day.”
I open my mouth, ready to hurl his attitude right back, but just as quickly snap it shut. He wants a reaction from me. But the less I give him, the sooner he’ll go back to ignoring me.
Instead, I gently place the guitar in its case. The Gibson was a graduation present from my parents. They wanted me to chase my dreams. Do nightmares count? Asking for a friend.
I snap the latches shut, and Brad pushes me toward the exit. The guitar case slams against a column, making me flinch at the thud. Hopefully it’s not broken. He steps around me and storms out into the darkness.
At least he isn’t leaving me this time. I hurry to catch up with him. He’s only done it once, but it left a strong enough impression to reinforce that I never want it to happen again.
The summer night in New Jersey is hot and sticky, and adds to the dirty feeling of my skin. Thank God it’s the last night of the tour Brad booked. Back to LA in the morning to start the next album. A whole different kind of torture, but a change of pace from the lecherous stares Brad’s been giving me more frequently over these last few weeks.
For most of the tour, he’s made comments to me about how he likes my ass and how I need to show a little more skin for more recognition. He even went so far as to take over my wardrobe choices. Tonight’s skirt barely brushes the bottom of my ass, and the shirt could double as a bikini top.
One more day. I can do this.
I set my guitar in the back of his rental car and carefully fold myself into the passenger seat to avoid flashing him. He smirks and punches the accelerator. I close the door quickly and drag the seatbelt across my body at the same time.
The silence is awkward, but I’ll take the discomfort over the awful death metal he listens to, so I don’t say anything as we drive the ten minutes back to the motel.
“You want to grab a drink to celebrate the end of your tour?” he asks as he parks the car.
“No, thanks. I’m tired, and our flight is pretty early, so I think I’ll just go to bed.”
Hasn’t he had enough?
My parents and my brothers would kill me for getting into a car with someone who drank as much as he had tonight. But they’re not here. None of them understands what my life has been like.
If I told them, they’d encourage me to come home. There would be offers to take care of me, to help. But I can’t be a failure at this too. Calls to my family are short, infrequent, and filled with lies about what an amazing time I’m having. About how all my dreams are coming true.
I step out of the car, then open the back door to grab my guitar case.
“I’ll walk you to your room. This neighborhood’s not so great.”
Who is this guy who gives a damn and what did he do with the Brad I’ve gotten to know over the last year? Maybe he’s as relieved to be done with this tour as I am? No one would willingly sign up for this. Right?
“Okay.”
The only sounds come from the motel lounge and restaurant. The air is polluted with dirt and neglect, and it seems like only half of the lights work, casting shadows in the flickering of the bulbs. At least the smoky smell of cigarettes is gone, and the headache throbbing behind my eyes is clearing too.
