Grace Unplugged: A Novel (23 page)

O
ne week after her confrontation with Mossy, she showed up at Sapphire Music to sing her new song—late. As she rode up the elevator, she felt waves of nausea washing over her—either the result of nerves, or the hangover remedy wasn’t working. She steadied herself as she emerged from the elevator. Moving her guitar case to her other hand, she could feel her palms sweating. Wiping a palm onto her thigh, she realized that her jeans were stained—the same ones she’d been wearing when she’d passed out last night. She didn’t even want to think what her hair and face looked like. If she wasn’t so late, she would’ve stopped by the restroom to fix up a bit. If that was even possible.

But maybe it was better like this. Let them see Gracie Trey in all her glory, a burned-out rocker at her finest. And only eighteen too. She should make her father proud. As she walked into the big conference room, she decided she didn’t care. Let them see her for what she was—a big fat liar.

“Sorry I’m late,” she mumbled as she came into the room. Everyone there looked clean and tidy and buttoned up, as well as a bit impatient. But as soon as they got a look at her, their impatience seemed to transform itself into concern. They were probably worried about their bottom line—they’d invested their money into a failure. Well, they’d wanted her father’s daughter, hadn’t they? It seemed that she was delivering.

“Go ahead,” Mossy told her with a furrowed brow. “Show us what you got, Gracie.”

She opened her guitar case. Fumbling to extract her guitar and feeling like she’d never played before, she strapped it on and awkwardly made the adjustments. If she’d been standing up there in her underwear, she couldn’t have felt more conspicuous.

“Okay then.” She took in a breath. “Here goes.” And trying to make it sound like she meant it, like she believed it was a good song, she started to play. But as she played, she could hear how weak it was. The lyrics were bad, and the tune was dull. It was entirely forgettable—if the listeners were lucky.

By the time she finished, she had hot tears running down her cheeks. “I’m sorry,” she choked out as she dashed for the door. “I’m really, really sorry.” As she was leaving the conference room, she heard Mossy speaking.

“I thought she could do it,” he was saying.

Grace hurried down the hall. Ducking into the women’s restroom, she entered the stall on the end and closed the door. She wanted to die. And if it was possible to die from humiliation, she should be dead any moment. As she jerked off a length of toilet tissue to blow her nose, she imagined the headline—
Has-Been Rocker Gracie Trey Discovered Lifeless in Public Restroom.
She was just wiping her eyes when she heard the door to the restroom opening . . . footsteps. With her guitar still strapped over her shoulder, she quietly perched on the toilet, squatting like a baseball catcher so no one would guess she was in here. The last thing she needed was for a curious Sapphire employee to strike up a conversation with her.

“What was
that
?” It sounded like Phoebe’s voice.

“I know. I’ve dropped pans in the kitchen that sounded better,” Kendra said in a bitter tone. “Seriously, why did I waste my time on her? I mean I went beyond the call of duty with that girl. I thought she had what it took.”

“She took us all for a ride.”

“Well, at least Daddy wrote a song she could gravy train.” Kendra’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“I know, right?”

Grace didn’t think she could take anymore.

“I mean if she can’t handle it, next contestant, please.” Kendra laughed in a mean way.

“And if she thinks she can come in looking like something the cat dragged in and expect to win anyone over, she is—”

Grace jumped noisily down from the toilet and burst out of the stall with her guitar still strapped on. She locked eyes with a startled Kendra and gave her a long stone-cold stare before she turned to leave. But just as she reached the door, Kendra reached for her arm.

“Gracie,”
she exclaimed with worried eyes.

Grace just jerked her arm away and hurried on out. Then realizing that her guitar case was still in the conference room, Grace marched back down the hallway to get it. Thankfully the room appeared to be empty now. Except that when she got inside, there was Quentin cleaning up coffee cups and water bottles and pushing in chairs.

“Hey, how’d it go?” he asked cheerfully.

She glared at him as she grabbed up her guitar case. “Did you pray for my song?”

“Yeah,” he said, looking at her with concern.

“Well, it didn’t work!”
She shoved her guitar into the case, snapped it closed, and stormed out of the room.

She was just past the women’s restroom when Kendra came after her. “Gracie,” she called, “just listen to—”

“Get away from me!” Grace hissed at her as she walked even faster.

“But Gracie—”

“Leave me alone!” She was just turning a corner when she felt someone grabbing her by the arm. In surprise, she turned to see Mossy.

“Come with me!” he commanded as he led her toward the elevators.

She knew it was useless to fight this. And besides, they might as well have it out here and now. The sooner he handed over her walking papers, the better off they’d all be. She’d had enough—she was fed up with all of them. She would prefer to be homeless and on the street than to keep jumping through Sapphire hoops. She could do what she’d seen other down-and-out musicians doing—sitting on a corner, playing guitar. People could throw coins into her open guitar case.

“Sit down,” Mossy told her as they went into his office.

She sat down, watching him as he paced back and forth behind his desk.

“Why don’t
you
sit down?” she said defiantly.

“Fine. I’ll sit down,” he huffed as he dropped into his chair. Now he shook his head. “I just don’t get you. One week ago you came in here acting like I’m the devil and—”

“Yeah!” she shouted. “That’s because you tricked me, Mossy. You lied about—”

“You’re the one who lied, Gracie. You said you could write.”

“I tried . . . but—”

“When I think how you stormed in here last week, accusing me of ruining your life, going on your little tirade. Then today—and look at you.” He pointed at her. “I’d say you’re doing a pretty good job of ruining your own life.” He grimly shook his head as he looked through a pile of message memos, going through them like there was something more interesting than her in there, not that it would’ve surprised her. Probably the “next contestant.”

She sighed, slumping down into the chair. “I’m sorry,” she muttered.

“One hit and she falls apart,” he said as if she wasn’t even there. “Well, the apple sure doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He looked at her with what seemed like disgust but could’ve been something more. “Go on. Pull yourself together. I’ll see what I can do to fix this.”

Feeling like something smelly that her manager wanted to wipe from the bottom of his shoes, Grace picked up her guitar case and schlepped out of his office. On her way home she stopped by the grocery store to pick up a fresh supply of vodka. No vermouth this time. Just vodka.

By eight o’clock that evening, one of the vodka bottles looked dangerously close to empty. She held it up to the light, staring at it in fuzzy wonder. Had she really drank
that much?
And if she had, why was she still standing? She should be totally wasted by now. More than anything Grace wanted to pass out and flee the reality of the mess she had made of her short-lived career. She emptied the last of the vodka into the tumbler and went back out to the living room.

Disappointed that the booze wasn’t providing the escape she longed for, she turned on her computer. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for—perhaps it was praise . . . or maybe condemnation, but she wound up at Sally Benson’s blog on WideSpin. And today’s headline threw her for a complete loop.

Hard Drinking Renae Taylor Lashes
Out in Public Tirade

Grace blinked and then read the stunning words again, repeating them slowly as she tried to absorb the meaning behind them.
Was it true?
Was the smooth and successful Renae Taylor really unraveling? Was it even possible? But, as if to substantiate this unfortunate news, several unflattering photos of an angry and intoxicated Renae Taylor were posted right along with it.

Grace slammed her laptop closed and, taking her drink with her, staggered across the room. Turning on the light by the front door, she caught a glimpse of a haggard-looking image in the mirror hanging there. With drink in hand, she leaned forward, peering at her reflection with a morbid curiosity—kind of like looking at nasty car wreck with fatalities. Was that really her? As horrid as the photos of Renae had been, Grace looked far worse. Greasy hair, pasty complexion, chapped lips . . . but the worst part of this picture was the empty, haunted eyes staring back at her. This ghastly image shook her so thoroughly that the glass of vodka slipped from her hand. Falling onto the tiled entry area with a loud crash, it shattered into shiny jagged pieces.

Shuddering, she turned away from the mirror and, leaning her back against the wall, she let out a low guttural groan as her knees buckled beneath her. Slowly sliding down the wall, she sank to the floor in a disgusting heap of hopelessness. Her career was ruined, her life was ruined. . . . Everything was ruined.

On the other side of the country, Johnny sat down at his computer and Googled his daughter’s name. He’d been trying to control himself from this compulsion in recent days. After so many sleepless nights obsessively tracking Grace online, he knew it was futile. He’d waste hours trying to reassure himself that she was okay, but then he’d end up reading a horror story about some other young celebrity whose life had fallen apart. Naturally, that would send him down a whole different road of worry and fear and desperation. But thanks to his pastor’s counsel, he’d controlled himself recently. As a result he’d had a few nights of relatively restful sleep.

But tonight he was simply curious. It wasn’t the middle of the night; he didn’t plan to obsess. He was only going to look . . . he wanted to see if she was still the bright rising star that the Hollywood gossips had been describing her as. Besides, Michelle hadn’t gone to bed yet. She would make sure he didn’t get carried away in his Internet search.

However, the first thing that popped up on the Google list was Grace’s new video of “Misunderstood.” Of course, he was curious. He downloaded it and watched with fascination as his daughter did a mesmerizing performance of the song he’d written so long ago. She was really fabulous. He played it again, this time put on his critiquing hat, ready to pick out any flaws or misses. But he could not find a single thing wrong with it. Grace was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

He could feel Michelle standing behind him now, looking over his shoulder at his computer screen as he played the video one more time. She was probably fretting that he was obsessing again. And who could blame her?

“You okay, Johnny?” she asked gently.

“Uh-huh.” He studied Grace’s expression as she finished the song. She seemed pleased with her performance too—as if she’d done a fabulous job and knew it. If he was ready to be perfectly honest with himself, he’d have to admit that it seemed like she was doing exactly what she was made to do. She was in her groove.

“So what’re you doing?” Michelle asked with concern.

“Oh, Shel,” he said in a slightly choked voice. “Grace is incredible, isn’t she?”

Michelle came around to sit on the couch next to him. “Yeah, she is.”

“No, I mean really,” he insisted as if Michelle hadn’t just agreed with him. “She is really phenomenal.” He pointed to the computer. “Have you seen this video?”

She smiled and nodded. “Just a dozen or so times.”

“But you never said anything?”

“I wasn’t sure how you’d take it, Johnny. You know how you’ve been lately.”

“Yeah, a basket case. I know.” He closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table, looking into his wife’s eyes. “Sorry.”

“Hey, I’m sorry too. We’ve both been struggling through this thing. Is it possible that we’re finally making a little progress?”