Page 2 of The Comedown

I narrow my eyes, filling in the blank for him with, “A little over fourteen years.”

Now, would Bruce be saying this to a man? Perhaps. But would he be saying it like this to a man, like he can’t believe I’m still going, performing into my thirties? Definitely not. My ex is ten years older than me and tours frequently as well, but I can guarantee the only reaction he gets is awed respect.

“Especially as a mother now, too.” He sends a pointed look past my shoulder at Holter.

There it is. Not only am I an aging woman—thirty’s the new fifty-five in show business, for women only, of course—but I’m also a mother. A double whammy in this biased world that’s absolutely steeped in double-standard expectations. Unfortunately, this has become a common occurrence talking to basically anyone anymore. I get asked questions men my age, or fathers of any age, would never get asked, and I’m expected to answer them all in a pleasant, politically correct way. Otherwise, I run the risk of being labeled aggressive. Aggression in powerful men is applauded, expected even, and usually results in them gaining more power. But aggression in powerful women negates our power altogether because ours stems from “emotions” and emotions aren’t valid.

Just valid enough to be terrifying for men to encounter, but not valid enough to be taken seriously.

Misogynistic logic…an oxymoron if I’ve ever heard one. Much like entertainment news.

After giving Bruce’s hand a firm squeeze up near his wrist, I finally let it go, making sure I don’t break eye contact to say, “Hope you’ll be able to keep up, Bruce.”

I’m well aware of my age and what I’m up against. Popstars half my age crop up every day, and if I wasn’t touring constantly, keeping my impact up as much as my image, my name wouldn’t still ring like it does today. I’ve fought like hell to keep my career from fizzling out, and I’ve sacrificed a lot along the way, too.

Behind me, I hear Holter shuffle his feet, so I turn to give him an apologetic look. It doesn’t scratch the surface for everything I’m sorry for though. Not even close.

I really am happy he’s here.

Bruce clears his throat. “I’ll try my best.”

I face him again, saying simply, “Be sure that you do,” before bringing Holter forward for an introduction.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Bruce says to Holter, making my heart squeeze. Sir. How is my son old enough to be called sir already?

“So, are you two ready to meet Julez?”

Julez, huh? Not his given name? Microaggressions. They sound exactly how they taste—revolting.

I wave a hand at Bruce to go ahead of me but instruct Holter to wait over on our bus. Some tours are family-friendly, but the skunky sweet smell of weed threatening to knock me off my feet as I approach Julez’s bus tells me everything I need to know. This one isn’t.

Yet another reason to be grateful for having my own bus.

Inside, all I can make out are heads. And smoke. Smoke so dense I have to wave a hand in front of my face just to see…and breathe. Big entourages are a telltale sign of overcompensating, and the way Julez’s bus is practically bursting at the seams right now has me wondering what exactly the rapper’s overcompensating for.

“Where’s Julez?” Bruce asks the person closest to him, only getting a sluggish headshake in return.

It’s eleven o’clock in the morning—in the fucking morning—and these people are already fried out of their minds. On day one.

“Whassup?” a deep voice calls from somewhere further back in the bus before breaking into obnoxious laughter.

Bruce looks back, grinning at me like I should be so lucky, then does a double take, obviously expecting Holter to still be with me. Did he really think I’d be okay with my son being hot-boxed?

“I got someone that wants to meet you,” he tells…Julez, I’m assuming.

There’s a long pause with no response whatsoever, and I spin on my heel, not wanting to waste another second of my time. I’m the fucking opener of his tour, if he can’t pull his head out of his ass long enough to meet me, then that’s on him. We can keep this impersonal. I’ve dealt with every kind of personality imaginable over the years, even a singer that refused to use his voice for anything other than performances. He literally typed all conversations on his phone, then used an app that read it aloud for him. It was one of the quieter tours I’ve been on, but not the worst by far.

Someone coughs on my waist as I pass and I push my middle finger into their forehead to get them out of my way, watching as they slink back into their seat like a popped balloon fluttering to earth.

“What’s she wearing?” I hear at my back, and against my better judgement, I cast a look over my shoulder. Is he serious? Julez should know what I look like and what I’m usually dressed in considering he follows me on social media. He even commented the fire emoji on one of my bikini pictures. The comment was made last year—at two in the morning—after our tour was announced publicly, but the post was from two years before that. So not only was Julez scrolling my feed, he went deep while doing it because I post a lot.

Aside from that, I’m wearing what the tour’s stylist sent me to wear. This meeting was supposed to be photographed even though I haven’t seen a single camera since I boarded this bus. Which is weird now that I think about it. I thought there’d be more press today. Or just press in general. Sometimes this moment is recorded for a news outlet or even just social media.

A slimy-looking man appears from the smoke, clutching two phones in his fists as he flicks his gaze over me, letting it linger on my ass before saying, “I’m Slade,” unimpressed.

Julez’s agent. I could’ve guessed. Even though we’ve had dozens of conversations in the last twelve months, we have yet to meet in person, but once you know one Slade, you learn to recognize all Slades. They’re…slimy. There’s no other way to describe them honestly.

“How’s the bus?” he sneers.