Lost in You

off relationships like that, which is why I’m single. I want “normal” but “normal” definitely isn’t knocking on my door.
    He’s persistent though. I’ll give him credit for trying, but if seeing him talk to me and then walk to the first willing girl is supposed to make me want him more, it doesn’t. It makes me feel sorry for him. I’ve taken to carrying handiwipes with me so after he touches my hand I can disinfect my skin.
    Anal Anna opens the door to my dressing room. I have a bouquet of sunflowers sitting on the table along with magazines for Alex. My rack of possible outfits sits in the corner and all of Anna’s make-up is stacked on the table in front of the full-length mirror. I sit down and plaster on a fake smile so Anna knows I’m ready. The last thing I need is for her to tell my uncle Ian, who doubles as my manager, that I don’t have my game face on. A lecture from him is something I can do without.
    There are more flowers, roses this time, on each side of this vanity, no doubt set up by Ian. I don’t know why he insists on having more flowers. They go to waste each and every night. It’s not like we can take them with us when we leave, so why have them here? This is supposed to be my sanctuary.
    Alex lounges on the couch, reading the newest People magazine. I’m in this issue as one of the top one hundred most beautiful people. I wanted them to use Alex, but she’s not famous enough. She mocks me when she comes to my page and reads the quote from Smith, “ Being with Hadley on tour has been an amazing experience. When we aren’t on stage, we are together. She’s such a lovely and sweet girl. ”
    I glare at her through my mirror. Anna has my hair in big rollers, the pins digging into my scalp. While my hair sets, she does my make-up. She’s only been with me for two months. She was highly recommended by some tart that was dating my uncle. When the tart got kicked to the curb, Anna stayed. I suspect she's doing my uncle, but I don’t ask. I think if I knew, I’d fire her and that would piss him off.
    Anna picks out my outfits for tonight. A couple of dresses, which I love because I can wear my cowboy boots with them; a pair of jeans with rhinestone tank tops in various colors; and my least favorite is an uncomfortable leather number with stiletto heels. I hate the leather outfit, but Ian says it gives me sex appeal, which apparently I need. I refuse to have my shows staged. I hate it. I want my fans to expect the unexpected and that includes my clothes. Wearing the same thing over and over, night after night, is boring and lacks creativity. I want my shows to be fresh.
    When Ian walks in, he’s on his phone. He doesn’t say hi to Anna and her face drops. If they aren’t doing it, she wants to or they did and he’s ditched her. That's usually how he operates.
    He hangs up and looks at my outfit, very Sandy from Grease . I want to fire whoever suggested this idea. “Are you ready?”
    “Yeah, I am. Are the contest winners here?”
    He rolls his eyes. He hates the contest winners, but I love them. They make this all worth it. To know that they’ve won tickets by repeatedly calling a number to enter a contest shows a lot about a person’s character. Ian thinks it’s too charitable and Alex says it’s not enough so she usually invites them to an after-party. This just pisses Ian off even more because he says he’s stuck babysitting all night when he should be able to enjoy himself.
    “Yes, they're here, are you ready?” he sighs heavily. He’s frustrated and angry about something. What else is new? Ian is good at his job, but his interpersonal skills need a lot of work.
    “Where are they?” I need to know because I like to focus on them during the concert.
    “Front row and one girl answered all your trivia questions right so she has a backstage pass.”
    “Did you—“
    Ian puts his hand up for me to stop talking. “I told her she and her guest can come and go as they please, but to wait until after the show is over before approaching you.”
    “Perfect.” I kiss him on the cheek, earning a tiny smile from him. I know deep down he loves me, but loves the money and power he has more.
    He opens the door. I take a deep breath and step out. I’m flanked by my bodyguard, Jones, and the rent-a-cops as they push us through a wall of reporters who all have press passes. They never get it. I don’t do interviews before a show. This is my rule, not Ian’s. I hate