Prologue

Prologue

Cash

International pop sensation Cash Leigh is nothing more than a slut.

Okay, so she didn’t call me a slut. I believe the words she used were “promiscuous jezebel.” The wife of a prominent reverend turned politician wouldn’t dare utter the word slut. Two weeks ago, the woman was using one of my songs to push her husband’s senate campaign—a campaign I wanted nothing to do with. But when you don’t have the rights to your first three albums, you don’t get a say in how the songs are used and by whom.

“Come on, Cash. You can’t just leave it all behind,” my manager, Pete, says as he unpacks everything I’ve been throwing into the bag.

I follow him, picking up everything and shoving it into the ridiculous fuchsia suitcase with sequins all over it. I’d prefer a plain black suitcase if it were up to me, but Cash Leigh vomits pink everywhere she goes.

Pete grabs the end of a black Neil Young hoodie and tugs to pry it from my grip. “It’ll blow over. You know how they are. As soon as they sniff the stench of another scandal, they’ll move on, and all this will be yesterday’s news.”

“I’m not sticking around to let the leeches feed off me anymore. If this were DiCaprio, people would’ve already put it behind them. It’s ten times worse for women. Don’t deny it. Apparently, we’re supposed to stay virgins until we marry some jerk and cook and clean for an ungrateful dick for the rest of our lives.”

Pete tilts his head and gazes at me as if I’m road kill on the side of the highway.

The action enrages me. I tug hard on the sweater sleeve and whip it out of his hand. “It doesn’t matter. I’ve hated this shit for years. I wanted to make music that mattered, and instead, I was packaged into a cookie-cutter pop singer to make being a woman palatable to the masses. This shit has been killing my soul for years. There are only so many times I can get up on stage and shake my ass or sing meaningless lyrics about how I need a man.” I put the sweater back in my bag.

“Cash, you’re at the height of your career. You have five number-one hits. We need to keep the momentum. We still have to give the label an answer about when we’re going back into the studio. If you get back to work on the next album, I’m sure all this will be done with when the record drops.”

“What isn’t getting into your thick skull, Pete? They busted me on tape, living out a rape fantasy. No one is forgetting anything.”

“Everyone has already forgotten about the latest Tammy Livingston scandal.”

“I’m not a nepo baby internet celebrity who made a sex tape and married one of the richest rap stars in the industry. She wasn’t America’s sweetheart, caught on camera doing unsavory things. I’m sure the Karens have already worn out their pearls from clutching them so hard.”

I shake my head. Poor Pete. After twenty years in the industry, he’s still green around the gills when it comes to double standards. In the music business, men can do anything, say anything, and act without sounding alarms. A female has a bad hair day, and it’s the end of her career.

They caught me on tape fucking a thrusting dildo machine and licking a paid hooker’s shoe while he called me a slut. I should count my lucky stars that it wasn’t worse because that guy was tame. To be honest, they’re all tame. I say harder, and all they do is pull my hair. I tell them I want to be degraded, and the only word they think to use is “slut.” It’s anticlimactic. You’d think a professional sex worker would get the job done. It makes me wonder what a girl has to do to be fucked like a rag doll and humiliated like trash.

“No one is going to let this go. I mean, look at what happened to poor Britney, and she’s done nothing near as bad as those tapes.”

“What about the European tour?” Pete looks pale. I would be, too, if my main cash cow suddenly wanted to jump ship and run. Maybe all this is a blessing in disguise.

“Cancel it. I’m not signing another deal with the record company. If they want me, they need to let me shed this bubble gum image they’ve saddled me with and be me. I’m sure no one would’ve batted an eyelash if they didn’t manufacture bullshit to satisfy the ideals of rich suburban housewives. If the record company wants me back in the studio, they need to let me record my own songs. No more singing pop songs about being a girl written by a fifty-year-old man.”

Pete throws his hands over his head and paces like a caged wild animal. He walks back and forth a lot when things aren’t going his way. “I told you not to use that agency. What was wrong with the guys from Girl’s Best Friend? They were discrete. In two years, none of this shit happened with them. They’re vetted. This other company wasn’t. You have an image. Using any old business was an idiotic move, Cash.”

I can almost see the panic rolling off him in violent waves. He’s telling me how stupid I am, and I feel bad for him. I hate that I do, but here we are again, me sacrificing what I need to make others feel better. “I need some time, Pete. A minimum of three weeks. I need to get away from all this and clear my head. Figure out what I want. I’ve lived this life for others for a long time. At some point, don’t I get to live it for me?”

Pete has the decency to appear sheepish. He casts his eyes down and sighs loudly. “Where are you going?”

“I’m not telling you.” I zip my suitcase and pull it off the bed.

“Cash, you need to tell me where you’re going. What if there’s an emergency?” His question comes out as a whine.

I’m disgusted with myself for the years I let myself be talked into meaningless hit after meaningless hit in exchange for the giant paychecks rolling into my account. I’m frustrated at denying who I am for the pleasure of others. Ignoring my desires to appease a public that won’t care less about me as soon as I stop giving them what they crave. But most of all, I’m upset that I’ve abandoned what I love for fading fame and a spotlight that shines on me in ways I never wanted.

When I started in this business, I played for two people and my heart soared when my music touched them.

But then I sold out, grateful for the life-changing funds that turned my world on its head.

I don’t regret my decisions. They were right at the time and helped my family in ways we’d never dreamt of. My pop career paid my mother’s medical bills when she got sick. Something I could never do without singing about getting the boy as I shook my ass on stage.

When my mother died, I needed money to support my younger siblings. I was all they had.

After a time, I had more money than I knew what to do with, and I was empty inside. So, I filled it up with dull parties and mediocre sex. Sex that was always utterly boring, men who thought pleasing a woman was about getting on top of her and thrusting pathetically a few times until they came. I had a few lovers who had taken their time. They were gentle and eager to please, but I could never get off no matter what they did.

Until that one guy who was so fucked out of his mind that he flung me around like a rag doll and fucked me like I was trash. That guy made me come like Niagara Falls. I found out later that he was the bass player’s coke dealer, which made him off-limits for an encore. One thing I stay away from is addicts, and that’s a rule I’ll never break.

This scandal has shown me one thing. This isn’t the career I want. I want my words to mean something. I want to touch people. I want my music to have a tangible impact on their lives.

“You don’t need to know anything. I don’t have to give the record executives my answer until next month. You can give me three weeks to figure my shit out.” I look Pete in the eye, needing him to know the days when he could run me like a puppet are long gone.

I pull my suitcase off the door, lift the handle, and walk out. Once I’m outside in the fresh air with the scent of freedom, I can finally breathe for the first time in a long time.