by Pamela Yaye
Roderick winced. He couldn’t believe that Geneviève’s mother, Althea Harris, could be so mean and hoped she didn’t upset Geneviève.
“Mom, you don’t understand—”
“No, you don’t understand. You’re being paid remarkably well for the European tour, and I won’t let you throw everything away just because you’re upset. You can’t let a deranged fan and a little bad press stop you from performing. The show must go on.”
“But, I’m physically and mentally drained—”
“Stop whining,” Althea snapped. “Your European tour only has twenty-five dates. Beyoncé and Taylor Swift did twice as many shows last year, so you have no right to complain.”
“You have no idea what it’s like being me. I’m tired and stressed, and I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in months,” Geneviève confessed in a quiet voice. “I can’t keep living like this.”
“You have to. You have four sold-out shows in Madrid, then stops in Paris and Dublin...”
Roderick and Demi shared a look. His first thought was to leave, to return in an hour, but before he could speak, Althea gestured for him to join her on the balcony. Statuesque, with heavy makeup and dark curls, the single mom was in her fifties, but dressed like a college student. Her ruffled tank top showed off her cleavage, her denim shorts were skintight and her chandelier earrings jingled every time she moved.
“Roderick, I’m so glad you made it.” Rising from the table, a cigarette dangling from her lips, Althea greeted him with a hug. “It’s good to see you again, son.”
I wish I could say the same, he thought, forcing a smile onto his mouth. He’d met Althea twice, and both times the momager had rubbed him the wrong way. He knew from past conversations with Geneviève that her mom had been her manager from day one, and Roderick pitied her. Althea was a momager of the worst kind—selfish, bossy and shortsighted—and if Roderick wasn’t worried about making waves at the law firm, he’d tell Geneviève to fire Althea and hire someone educated and experienced who’d support her wholeheartedly, not a calculating momager who was driven by the almighty dollar.
You’re a fine one to judge, said his conscience. You’re driven by the almighty dollar, too!
“Roderick? What are you doing here?”
His gaze landed on Geneviève, stretched out on the striped chaise lounge chair in the corner of the balcony, and his thoughts scattered. She looked glamorous in her silk headscarf, oversize sunglasses and flower-printed dress, but he couldn’t help noticing her woeful disposition. And that wasn’t all. Her mocha-brown skin looked lifeless, and her curvy, voluptuous figure was a thing of the past. He was shocked by her drastic weight loss, and feared the stress of being Geneviève—one of the biggest pop stars in the world—was affecting her health. Was she eating well? Did she have time to rest after concerts, or was her schedule jam-packed with meetings, rehearsals, costume fittings and interviews?
“I came to see you, of course. The opening night of your European tour received rave reviews and I wanted to see the show for myself,” he said. “I’m your biggest fan ever. Think you can hook me up with some front-row tickets?”
Geneviève’s eyes narrowed, and a scowl pinched her lips.
“You’re not here to see the show,” she said. “My mom called your firm in a panic and summoned you here to talk some sense into me, and you came running. Isn’t that right?”
Geneviève stared him down as if they were mortal enemies, but Roderick wasn’t intimidated by her piercing gaze; he stared back at her.
Althea raised her iPhone in the air. “I have some calls to make, so I’ll leave you two alone to discuss business. Make the right choice, Gigi. I’m counting on you.”
“Mom, it’s my life, my career, my decision, and I don’t need your permission to cancel the tour.”
“That’s not how it works in the music business, and you know it.” Althea sounded exasperated, as if she was at her wit’s end. “If you cancel the tour and return to Philly, there will be serious consequences.”
“Geneviève, don’t worry,” he said smoothly. “We’ll figure something out.”
Stepping past Roderick, Althea jabbed him in the side with her elbow, then whispered, “I don’t care what it takes. Convince Geneviève to finish the tour.”
Roderick nodded in understanding. “Ms. Harris, I’ll try my best—”
“No,” she snapped. “Make it happen, or you’re fired.”
Chapter 2
Geneviève inspected her French manicure. She pretended to admire her nails, but she was listening in on her mother’s conversation with Roderick. As usual, Althea was up to her old tricks. Her mom wasn’t happy unless she was calling the shots, and it was times like this—when Althea was plotting and scheming—that Geneviève wished she could fire her. But she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. She felt guilty for even having the traitorous thought. She owed her success to her mother, and if not for Althea’s drive and tenacity, Geneviève wouldn’t be an international pop star. Her mom didn’t wait for things to happen, she made things happen, and even though Althea didn’t have a business degree from Harvard, she acted like she did, and could outwit anyone, including record executives, event promoters and seasoned professionals.
Her ears perked up. Convince Geneviève to finish the tour, or you’re fired? Geneviève scoffed. As if she’d let Althea fire Roderick. Before retaining his counsel last year, she’d done her homework about the popular, New York attorney. She’d searched the internet for information about him. And the more articles she read about the Columbia University graduate, the more Geneviève was intrigued by him. Success was sexy, and Roderick was an overachiever destined for greatness in the legal world. His clients included actors, singers, bestselling authors and artists, and everyone he represented raved about him.
The first time Geneviève met him she’d drooled all over her Gucci pantsuit, but what impressed her most about Roderick Drake wasn’t his good looks, or his smooth-as-silk baritone; it was his confidence, how he carried himself, his strength. Unlike everyone else who worked for her, Roderick wasn’t afraid of her mother and didn’t back down when Althea lost her temper.
* * *
“Bye, honey,” Althea said with a smile and a wave. “See you in a bit.”
Geneviève was annoyed with her mom but she bit her tongue—for now.
“Let’s discuss the incident at the airport,” Roderick said, sitting down at the table.
Glad she was wearing dark sunglasses, she admired the attorney’s good looks. His low-cropped hair, his neatly trimmed goatee, his blinding-white teeth and flawless pecan-brown complexion. Damn, he can rock a suit! A year ago, Roderick was an out-of-shape groom-to-be, but today he was chiseled, dapper and fine. Why are all the good guys taken? she thought. Why can’t I meet someone as successful and charming as Roderick-fine-ass-Drake?
He smelled of spices, and his scent was intoxicating. Over the years, Geneviève had met some of the biggest names in the entertainment business, but none of them excited her. Not the way Roderick did. It was hard to be in his presence without gawking at him, and every time their eyes met she had to remind herself to breathe.
Wetting her lips with her tongue, she fingered the ends of her wavy, shoulder-length hair. Gosh, I wish my mom had told me we were having company, she thought, crossing her legs at the ankles. If I knew Roderick was stopping by I would have done my hair and makeup, and put on something cute.
Roderick clasped his hands together. “Let’s talk.”
“Let’s not, and say we did.” Geneviève acted as if she couldn’t be bothered to discuss her problems, but deep down she was glad Roderick had made the trip to Madrid. Her interactions with him had always been positive, and she could count on him to tell her the truth even if she didn’t agree.
Her thoughts returned to last year. She hadn’t seen Roderick since he’d attended her post-Grammy celebration
party in Philadelphia. He’d arrived at her estate with his fiancée, a perky blonde with a fitness trainer’s body, and she’d reluctantly posed for a picture with the happy couple. “Congratulations on your marriage,” she said now. “How was the wedding?”
His face darkened, and his shoulders tensed. Why was he mad? Had she crossed the line by asking about his personal life? Was he having problems at home? Seconds passed before he spoke, and when he did his voice was so low Geneviève had to strain to hear him.
“My engagement ended.”
Boy! Spill. The. Tea! For some reason, she wanted to cheer, but resisted the urge. She didn’t know Toya, or have anything against her, but Geneviève never thought the socialite was good enough for him. Sure, she was pretty, but Roderick should be with someone who was ambitious and successful, not a woman who spent her days shopping, waxing and Tweeting.
For the second time in minutes, Geneviève gave Roderick the once-over. Took in his stoic demeanor and rigid posture. Is that why he’d lost weight? Why he wasn’t his usual playful, jovial self? Because he was bummed about the demise of his engagement? Roderick was her attorney, not a friend, but Geneviève wanted to hear more about his breakup. Before she could ask him, though, he changed the subject.
“I know you’re busy, so I won’t take up too much of your time.” Roderick opened his briefcase, took out a yellow notepad and a gold-plated fountain pen. “Tell me what happened at Madrid-Barajas International Airport on New Year’s Day. I saw the footage online, but I want to hear your side of the story.”
Geneviève dropped her gaze to her lap, and fiddled with the charm bracelet at her wrist. It was a Christmas gift from Demi, and every time she looked at it a smile warmed her heart. Geneviève didn’t want to talk about the frightening incident at the airport days earlier; she wanted to discuss the legal ramifications of canceling the rest of the European tour. She’d been in the public eye ever since she landed her first TV commercial at eight years old, and after two decades in the entertainment business, Geneviève needed a break.
And now was the perfect time. Yesterday, her sixth studio album was certified triple platinum, and her singles, “Savage,” “Salty Girl” and “Don’t Tweet Me, I’ll Tweet You,” were burning up the Billboard charts. She’d amassed a fortune beyond her wildest dreams, and she would never have to worry about going to bed hungry again. Tired of living out of suitcases and being hunted by the paparazzi, Geneviève was ready for the next chapter of her life. She didn’t want to just sing about love; she wanted to experience it for herself. But first, she had to shake her mom, and the record label.
“Why did you slap the fan who asked for your autograph?”
The sound of Roderick’s voice broke into her thoughts. His question irked her, set her teeth on edge. He’s not a fan! He’s a jerk! She had a loyal fan base, nicknamed G Posse, and every day they flooded her social media pages with well-wishes and concert pictures. They supported her endeavors, and unlike the creep who’d grabbed her outside Madrid-Barajas International Airport, they respected her as a person.
“He’s lucky that’s all I did,” she said. “I wanted to slap the taste out of his mouth, but my bodyguards grabbed me before I could.”
“Why did they let José Sánchez get so close to you?”
“They didn’t. The crowd was out of control and that creep used it to his advantage. He attacked me when my bodyguards had their backs turned, but I handled it—”
“Attacked? What did he do? The video shows you slapping him, and that’s it.”
Geneviève leaped to her feet. “Of course I slapped him. He grabbed my ass!”
“But there were thousands of fans there. How can you be so sure it was him?”
“Because the creep had the nerve to wink at me. He’s lucky security confiscated my pepper spray at the Portugal airport because I would have sprayed his ass.” Geneviève wanted to say more, to tell Roderick about the downsides of fame, but since she didn’t want him to think she was another ungrateful celebrity, she held her tongue.
“Geneviève, I’m sorry that happened. That must have been awful for you,” Roderick said, wearing a sympathetic expression. “Now I understand why you want to cancel the rest of the tour and return to Philly.”
Her eyes widened. “You do?”
“Yes, of course. You were sexually assaulted, and instead of being comforted and supported, you were vilified in the press. You’re the victim, and you shouldn’t be criticized for defending yourself,” he continued. “And now that I know the facts of the case, I’ll arrange a meeting with your attacker and his attorney first thing tomorrow.”
“Earlier, you mentioned the kid’s name. Do you know anything else about him?”
Roderick consulted his notepad. “His name is José Mateo Sánchez, and he’s a nineteen-year-old college student from a small town near Barcelona. He has no living relatives, and was raised in an orphanage in one of the poorest neighborhoods in Madrid—”
“I don’t care if he was raised by wolves!” she thundered, pacing the length of the balcony to blow off some steam. “He had no right to put his hands on me.”
Geneviève couldn’t read the expression on Roderick’s face, but she sensed his disapproval and regretted yelling at him. It wasn’t his fault that she felt overworked, unappreciated and disrespected as an artist. “Roderick, don’t get me wrong. I love my fans, and I’d be nothing without them, but people are always touching me and grabbing me, and it’s infuriating.”
“Geneviève, you have rights just like everyone else. No one has the right to touch you without your consent, and the law permits you to defend yourself against all harm.” Roderick wrote on his notepad for a few seconds. “I know you’ve decided to leave town, and in light of what happened at the airport, I don’t blame you, but have you ever stopped to consider all the people who’ll be out of work if you cancel the rest of the tour?”
His words gave her pause, and she listened to his argument closely.
“The people who sell refreshments and souvenirs in front of the arena, the viejos who drive the buses and taxis that bring the fans to your concerts, and the local musicians you hired will be adversely affected if your tour abruptly ends,” Roderick explained. “I don’t care about the concert promoters or scalpers. I’m thinking about the folks who are just getting by, living paycheck to paycheck and desperately need the income generated from your shows.”
Guilt overwhelmed her, making Geneviève feel low. She’d been so busy thinking about herself and what she wanted that she’d never stopped to consider the hardworking locals who helped behind the scenes of her shows.
“I don’t want you to get burnt out, but—”
“Too late for that, counsellor. I was fried before the tour even started,” she confessed. “I don’t have any downtime. Every minute of every day is accounted for, and it’s exhausting. I have photoshoots to do, interviews, dress fittings and fan meet and greets lined up.”
A frown darkened his face. “Cancel them. You need a break.”
“Tell that to my mother.”
“I will. You’re a musician, not a machine, and it’s imperative you take time for yourself.”
“That’s easier said than done. You don’t know my mom, or the executives at Urban Beats Records.” Geneviève rubbed her hands across her chilled shoulders. “They’re hard on me.”
“It’s obvious you need a vacation, so finish up the rest of the tour, then take a month or two off,” Roderick advised, returning his notepad and pen to his briefcase. “And that’s an order.”
“I wish I could, but I can’t. The record company arranged for me to shoot the music video for ‘My Bae’ in Santorini, and I have several movie auditions lined up in Paris, as well.”
Roderick stood, and joined her at the balcony. Geneviève held her breath. She could smell his aftershave, and the clean, subtle scent made her think of t
urquoise-blue water, ice-cold cocktails and skinny-dipping after dark with him. To regain control of her wayward thoughts, she gave her head a shake. Geneviève didn’t know why she was fantasizing about Roderick. He was her lawyer, not a love interest, and she’d never hook up with someone who worked for her. I learned my mistake the last time.
“Mind if I give you a piece of advice my grandmother gave me when I was deliberating over going to law school or joining the marines?”
Afraid he’d hear the desire in her voice if she spoke, Geneviève simply nodded.
His eyes twinkled, and a grin dimpled his cheek. “Live your life without worrying about pleasing others, and if they don’t like your choices, screw them and keep it moving!”
A giggle tickled her throat. “I don’t believe you. Your sweet, old grandmother did not say that. You’re just trying to make me laugh.”
“She sure did! And just so you know, there’s nothing sweet about my Grandma Edith. She smokes cigars, drinks Jamaican rum like it’s water and swears more than a gangster!”
Geneviève cracked up. It felt good to joke around with Roderick, and for the first time in forever she could see the light at the end of the tunnel. She’d finish the tour, then take six months off. Or more, she thought, but didn’t say out loud. It wasn’t the right time. Geneviève didn’t want anyone to know about her plans to quit show business—for fear they’d talk her out of it—and hoped that when the time came for her to retire, Roderick would be an ally, not a foe. Signed to a multi-album contract with Urban Beats Records, she needed legal advice about how to renegotiate her contract, and made a mental note to speak to him about her future before he left for New York.
He squeezed her hand, and goose bumps rippled across Geneviève’s skin.
“Urban Beats Records is lucky to have you signed to their label.” He wore a broad smile. “And thanks for being so easy to work with. Last night, I dreamed that you whacked me upside the head with your purse, but I was worried for nothing. You’re a sweetheart.”
