Contents
Chapter One: Nora
Chapter Two: Nash
Chapter Three: Nora
Chapter Four: Nash
Chapter Five: Nora
Chapter Six: Nash
Chapter Seven: Nora
Chapter Eight: Nora
Chapter Nine: Nash
Chapter Ten: Nora
Chapter Eleven: Nash
Chapter Twelve: Nora
Chapter Thirteen: Nash
Chapter Fourteen: Nora
Chapter Fifteen: Nora
Chapter Sixteen: Nash
Chapter Seventeen: Nora
Chapter Eighteen: Nash
Chapter Nineteen: Nora
Chapter Twenty: Nash
Chapter Twenty-One: Nora
Chapter Twenty-Two: Nora
Chapter Twenty-Three: Nash
Chapter Twenty-Four: Nash
Chapter Twenty-Five: Nora
Chapter Twenty-Six: Nash
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Nora
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Nash
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Nora
Chapter Thirty: Nash
Chapter Thirty-One: Nash
Chapter Thirty-Two: Nora
Chapter Thirty-Three: Nora
Chapter Thirty-Four: Nash
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Links
Contact
Founded on Goodbye
Copyright © 2021 by Kat Singleton
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Cover Design and Formatting Images by Ashlee O’Brien with Ashes & Vellichor
Edited by Christina Hart of Savage Hart Book Services
Formatted by Victoria Ellis of Cruel Ink Publishing
Cover Image: Regina Wamba
Cover Model: Jackson Walker
To Ashlee,
Founded on Goodbye wouldn’t be what it is if it weren’t for you.
Thank you for being as passionate about Nash and Nora’s love story as I am.
You nailed the aesthetic.
Love you forever.
“Why me?” The question lingers in the air between the two of us.
The silence causes me to take a long, nervous pull from my straw, and I swish the water around in my mouth before swallowing.
I use this moment to take a good look at the woman sitting across from me. She can’t be much older than my twenty-one years. I’d guess she wasn’t a day over thirty, but it’s hard to tell in Los Angeles.
There are so many plastic surgeons out here, she could be forty-two for all I know. Her hair is cut in a short, polished bob, the platinum blonde color of her hair appearing natural.
Monica takes a long breath, her narrow shoulders lifting and falling in a fluid movement. I can hear the annoyance in her sigh just before she says, “Why not you, Nora?”
Her comment spins in my head. She has a point; any girl would love the opportunity she’s giving me. I’m just not sure I’m the girl to accept the offer.
Monica’s phone chimes from where she has it laid out on the table. She says nothing as she picks it up and starts rapidly typing away at it.
While her fingers hit speeds I didn’t know were humanly possible, I look around the swanky restaurant. At the plants cascading down the black wall located behind her.
It’s loud enough inside that the two of us have had to speak up to be able to hear the other. Patrons around us are drinking cocktails named after literary heroes out of copper mugs. This is the nicest space I’ve been in since packing all my bags and moving out to California.
When I got the text from my agent—AKA my best friend Riley—to meet Monica Masters in an hour, I didn’t believe it at first. Monica is the right-hand woman to music icon: Nash Pierce. I thought this meeting might give me the opportunity to be one of the dancers on his upcoming world tour. It turns out, what Monica wants from me is a bit more complicated.
When Monica’s nails finally stop tapping away at her phone, she looks at me once again. “Look,” she starts, lifting her perfectly manicured hand to call our waiter over for the check, “there are thousands of girls who’d jump at this opportunity in an instant. I don’t particularly need you; you were just my first choice.”
Her cell phone continues to ping next to her as she exchanges brief words with the waiter. When she looks back at me, the look on her face screams business.
“How did you even find me?” I use the question as a diversion, to get my thoughts together. If she were to look under the table, she’d see the incessant tapping of my foot against the shiny floors, my nerves getting the best of me.
Monica studies me a moment, only looking away to hand the waiter her credit card. A few moments pass before she speaks. “You have a large following on Instagram. It seems people gravitate toward your life. That’s exactly what I need. I need people to give a damn about you.”
I gulp, her words simmering in my head. I think about my followers, or friends as I like to call them, on Instagram. Somehow, I have amassed over a hundred thousand of them. My following had started to grow after a news company featured my senior showcase on the air—a contemporary number that set the small town I lived in ablaze.
I try not to think of the showcase, of the reason they featured me.
When I moved to LA, I was just a simple small-town girl with big dreams. The same kind of dreams that most people in LA have. In my case, make my passion for dancing a career.
When I snagged a position in an up-and-coming dance company, my follower count kept increasing. Once I realized people were interested in that type of content, I started posting videos of me free styling to popular songs; and after that, my following skyrocketed.
It still feels odd that I share my life with so many people. If I accept Monica’s offer, there will be double—maybe triple—the amount of people looking at my life. I’m not sure I’m prepared for that, but then again, her offer is a one-way ticket to pursuing my dreams.
I just have to sell myself in the process.
I try to swallow past the lump of nerves in my throat. “I need some time to think about this.”
Monica’s eyebrows raise. She probably thought I would have jumped at the opportunity. She doesn’t know I swore I wouldn’t be a cliché when I moved to LA. I didn’t want to sell myself to achieve my dreams. And what she’s offering is a complete sellout. A sellout I find myself highly considering.
Her nails tap against the table. “You can have a day. Rehearsals for the tour begin next week and if you happen to say no, which I’m not sure why you would, then I’ll need time to screen other girls and meet with them. We have auditions on Saturday. If you say yes, you’ll be expected to be there.”
My eyes flick back to the plants hanging on the wall behind her. Staring at Monica for too long makes me incredibly nervous, and right now I’m just trying to keep my cool. “You haven’t given me many details on what this gig will entail except that you’re literally hiring me to break Nash Pierce’s heart.”
My hands move all over the place as I recount the conversation we just had. People are probably staring, but I’m too deep in my thoughts to worry about that. What she’s proposing to me is crazy.
“Which, while we’re on the topic,” I mutter, “why do you even think
I can break his heart? He’s Nash Pierce and I’m, well, not on his level.”
The waiter hands Monica her card back before scurrying off. I don’t blame him—the look on her face makes me want to run away as well. Monica is known for being one hell of a ballbuster in Hollywood, and after meeting with her today, I can confirm what the tabloids say about her are true.
She’s terrifying.
“Have some self-respect, Nora,” Monica chastises.
I want to shrink down in my chair at the tone of her voice. It makes me feel like a child. It’s how my mother used to talk to me and my sister when we did something wrong.
“You’re stunning,” she continues. “The dance videos you upload show just how sexy you are. You’re very talented to be able to dance like that. If I didn’t think you were up for the job, I wouldn’t have gone through all the hassle to look at every single one of your Instagram posts and take the time out of my very busy schedule to meet with you.”
“Then answer me as to why you need to hire somebody to break his heart?” I lean across the table, my elbow almost bumping the drink in front of me.
“I think it’s pretty obvious that his new self-titled album lacks the, let’s say emotion that his debut album had. He wrote Back to Yesterday after his first love broke his heart. The fact that those songs were so raw, it reached his fans in a special way, highlighting every bit of his feelings through that heartbreak. Those feelings were the steppingstones for what made him the music icon he is today.”
She takes a moment to fire off another message on her constantly pinging phone before she goes on.
“While this new album has been sitting at number one for a few weeks now, it isn’t reaching the fans the way we need it to—to have lasting stardom for him. And much to the dismay of Nash’s inner circle, he refuses to let any girl get close enough for him to even possibly fall in love, let alone feel anything. At this point he’s got nothing to inspire his music.” Monica leans back in the brass chair, her arms folding over her chest gracefully.
I stir the ice cubes in my drink with the fancy straw, mulling her words over. “What makes you think I’ll be able to get close to him, then?”
Monica laughs. “Oh, hon, I’m not positive you’ll be able to.” She reaches across the table to put her hand on mine. Her brown eyes look me dead in the eye as she continues to speak. “It’ll be hard, and it’ll take time, but we just need someone to inch their way in close enough to make any of this a possibility. My bet is you’re just the girl for the job. With those sweet hazel eyes and kiss-me lips, it’d be hard for any guy to say no to you, even if that guy is Nash Pierce.”
She must be certifiably insane to think a girl from small-town Ohio is going to break Nash Pierce’s heart—better known as the music god of my generation. But I humor her because she does paint a pretty picture.
“So, you hire me as a dancer for his new tour, expect me to get close enough to him to make him fall in love with me, and if somehow it is possible for me to make that happen, I’m just supposed to break his heart? All so he can write and perform better songs?”
Monica gives one fervent nod of her head. “Exactly. Heartbreak sells, sweetie. And Nash needs someone to break his heart again so he can connect with his music. It’ll need to be one hell of a broken—”
“If he falls in love with me.”
A baby cries in the background; it’s shrieking loud and interrupting the hip atmosphere of the restaurant.
Monica’s eyes flick to the area where the cries are coming from before bringing her brown-eyed gaze back to me. “For starters, I don’t like being interrupted.” She taps her nails against the screen of her phone and stares me down like she’s planning my demise.
I bite the inside of my lip before mumbling out an apology.
“Like I was saying…” Monica sits up straighter, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. “The team isn’t putting this whole thing together with absolute certainty that he will fall for you. We don’t know if you have what it takes to slither your way into Nash’s heart, but you were my first choice, so the offer is on the table. We might even choose a few of you to try to be more efficient with all this.”
She shrugs, as if it is totally normal that Nash Pierce’s team is going behind his back to hire girls to come in to break his heart. It makes me feel kind of sad for him.
“Just so we’re clear, this is not to be discussed with anyone, whether you accept or not. Understood?”
I swallow nervously. “I understand.”
Monica pulls a large stack of papers from her purse. “Here’s the NDA. You can’t discuss this with anyone but me or your agent, whether you accept the terms or not.”
My eyes rake over the words on the paper. I have no idea what any of this legal jargon even means. Before I can get my thoughts together, Monica sets a pen in front of me.
Picking it up, I look over the document in front of me. The pen feels heavy in my hand as I sign on all the lines she points to. Deep down I know I should probably have this looked over by a lawyer or something, but I’m still trying to process what she’s offering to think about anything beyond it. I do know I have no problem keeping this a secret from everyone in my life but Riley. I’m happy we faked her being my agent so she could be my loophole in this whole thing. There’s no way I could make this decision without discussing it with her first.
“So, what will it be, Ohio?” Monica leans across the table, her body language making it apparent she’s two seconds away from leaving.
My head spins with all the details she’s given me. I want to make dancing a career like I want to marry Chris Pratt—very badly. There’s nothing I want more than to be successful in this industry. But am I willing to chase my dreams at the cost of somebody else’s heart?
“What’s in it for me?” I finally ask.
Monica hums, a smile upon her face. “Name your price, darling.”
“Hell no,” I snap, strumming out a few chords on my guitar to drown out her voice, making it known the conversation is over. Unfortunately, my manager is persistent and doesn’t give a rat’s ass if I’m done with the conversation or not.
“It’s already been decided, Nash. I was just letting you know as a formality. Two days from now we’ll be holding auditions for this tour’s backup dancers.”
I still refuse to look at her, instead staring down at my guitar, until I see two death trap shoes step in front of me.
I sigh, my fingers falling from the fret board as I look up at my manager, Monica Masters. By the look on her face, she’s annoyed by me, but if we’re being honest, that’s the normal look I see from her.
“I said I didn’t want fucking dancers. It’s me and my band up on stage. There’s no need for dancers,” I huff. I managed to sell out arenas on my last tour just fine without dancers. I don’t know why she’s being such a pain in my ass about them this time.
I’m not doing fucking dancers.
Monica sighs, swinging her huge purse from one arm to the other, almost taking out a guitar in the process. She glares at me, and if looks could kill, there’s a good chance I’d be dead on this floor right now.
I’ve taken a backseat to planning my upcoming tour, not having it in me to form too much of an opinion on anything to do with it. But I do have a strong opinion on this. I don’t want to perform with dancers. I want it to be me and my band—no one else.
Speaking of said band, two parts of it walk into the studio as Monica stares a hole through my forehead. Troy raises his eyebrows behind Monica’s back when he notices her stance. We’ve all learned by now that when Monica has her foot tapping, she’s about a minute shy from having you by the balls.
Well, they all seem to understand this. Unfortunately for Monica, I employ all of them, and I can tell her no whenever the hell I want. Like right now, because there won’t be dancers on my tour.
“Nash, the whole team has decided,” she says smoothly, enunciating every syllable. “You will have dancers. Now
it’s up to you if you would like to show up at auditions on Saturday or not to choose them. But you’re going to have dancers whether you like it or not.”
Her phone rings at the perfect time, giving her the opportunity to walk out the studio, her obnoxious shoes thumping against the padded floors during her exit.
Poe lets out a long whistle. “What’s up her ass today?”
Troy laughs next to him, spinning his drumsticks between his fingers. “Does Monica ever not have a stick up her ass?”
I shake my head at the two of them, letting them continue their banter as I adjust my guitar and imagine firing Monica for the umpteenth time in my life. Just as I focus back on my guitar, playing some of chords to the song we’ll be working on, the rest of the band walks through the studio doors.
My band consists of the best of the best. Troy on the drums, Poe on bass, Luke on rhythm, Landon on keys as well as various other instruments. Then we have my backup vocalists: Josh, Elton, and Leo.
All the guys taking their spots in the studio now have been with me since I started my solo career. Some of them, like Poe and Landon, I met when I was part of the boyband: Anticipation Rising.
Three friends from middle school and I had decided to perform in a talent show on a dare. Little did we know, there was an agent in the crowd as a spectator that night.
The next years went by in a whirlwind. One minute, we were nobodies; the next minute, our faces were in every teen girl’s bedroom—and our teenage years were spent under a microscope.
Founded on Goodbye: A Rockstar Romance Page 1
