Founded on Goodbye by Kat Singleton

“Hell no,” I snap, strumming out a few chords on my guitar to drown out her voice, making it known the conversation is over. Unfortunately, my manager is persistent and doesn’t give a rat’s ass if I’m done with the conversation or not.

“It’s already been decided, Nash. I was just letting you know as a formality. Two days from now we’ll be holding auditions for this tour’s backup dancers.”

I still refuse to look at her, instead staring down at my guitar, until I see two death trap shoes step in front of me.

I sigh, my fingers falling from the fret board as I look up at my manager, Monica Masters. By the look on her face, she’s annoyed by me, but if we’re being honest, that’s the normal look I see from her.

“I said I didn’t want fucking dancers. It’s me and my band up on stage. There’s no need for dancers,” I huff. I managed to sell out arenas on my last tour just fine without dancers. I don’t know why she’s being such a pain in my ass about them this time.

I’m not doing fucking dancers.

Monica sighs, swinging her huge purse from one arm to the other, almost taking out a guitar in the process. She glares at me, and if looks could kill, there’s a good chance I’d be dead on this floor right now.

I’ve taken a backseat to planning my upcoming tour, not having it in me to form too much of an opinion on anything to do with it. But I do have a strong opinion on this. I don’t want to perform with dancers. I want it to be me and my band—no one else.

Speaking of said band, two parts of it walk into the studio as Monica stares a hole through my forehead. Troy raises his eyebrows behind Monica’s back when he notices her stance. We’ve all learned by now that when Monica has her foot tapping, she’s about a minute shy from having you by the balls.

Well, they all seem to understand this. Unfortunately for Monica, I employ all of them, and I can tell her no whenever the hell I want. Like right now, because there won’t be dancers on my tour.

“Nash, the whole team has decided,” she says smoothly, enunciating every syllable. “You will have dancers. Now it’s up to you if you would like to show up at auditions on Saturday or not to choose them. But you’re going to have dancers whether you like it or not.”

Her phone rings at the perfect time, giving her the opportunity to walk out the studio, her obnoxious shoes thumping against the padded floors during her exit.

Poe lets out a long whistle. “What’s up her ass today?”

Troy laughs next to him, spinning his drumsticks between his fingers. “Does Monica ever not have a stick up her ass?”

I shake my head at the two of them, letting them continue their banter as I adjust my guitar and imagine firing Monica for the umpteenth time in my life. Just as I focus back on my guitar, playing some of chords to the song we’ll be working on, the rest of the band walks through the studio doors.

My band consists of the best of the best. Troy on the drums, Poe on bass, Luke on rhythm, Landon on keys as well as various other instruments. Then we have my backup vocalists: Josh, Elton, and Leo.

All the guys taking their spots in the studio now have been with me since I started my solo career. Some of them, like Poe and Landon, I met when I was part of the boyband: Anticipation Rising.

Three friends from middle school and I had decided to perform in a talent show on a dare. Little did we know, there was an agent in the crowd as a spectator that night.

The next years went by in a whirlwind. One minute, we were nobodies; the next minute, our faces were in every teen girl’s bedroom—and our teenage years were spent under a microscope.

Some of us grew up fine despite all odds. Others, like me, were still fucked up from the whole ordeal.

Now, at twenty-four, I can barely take a piss without the paparazzi following me in. Privacy is nonexistent for me, and the more I want to create music I love and believe in, the more the people who pretend they own me push back.

Take my current shitty situation for example. I know, and they know, that I managed to sell out my first world tour—a stadium tour—without fucking dancers. I don’t need them, clearly, and fuck if I know why they’re so hell bent on having them this time. But I’ll be damned if I stand up there and sing songs I know are complete shit while girls—and probably guys—parade around me, half-naked and twirling and shit.

Fuck. That.

A rough hand squeezes my neck, and I look up to find Poe standing next to me. “You ready?” he asks, stepping back and running his hands through the mop of hair on his head.

I nod, forgetting about the dancers and putting my head where it should be—with the music. “Let’s start with Love Me Like You,” I instruct.

Everyone takes their spot in the studio, preparing their instruments and looking to me for confirmation.

I count us in with, “One…two…one, two, three—”

As I get lost in the song, everything else fades away around me. We run through good chunk of the setlist before calling a break for lunch.

Wiping the sweat from my neck, I look to my band. “Meet back here in an hour.”

They nod before filing out of the room, leaving me and Poe in the studio alone.

“How do you think it went?” I ask him, unscrewing the cap to my water bottle while following him to a couch.

Poe sighs, plopping down onto the brown leather. He runs a hand over the stubble growing around his mouth, avoiding my eyes for a moment.

Unease builds in my chest. “Spit it out, Poe.”

“Nash…” he begins, his hands falling tiredly next to him, slapping against the stiff leather. “The band is doing everything they need to, but it still feels off.”

“Then the band isn’t doing everything they need to,” I counter, shaking my head to move the long piece of hair blocking my sight.

He rolls his eyes at me. “No, man. It’s you. You aren’t in it anymore. Not like you used to be. It seems like you don’t even want to be here. I see it, the band sees it, and quite frankly, I think everyone sees it but you.”

I tap my hands against the counter in front of me, anger bubbling inside me. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Look, I’ve known you since you were a teeny bopper dancing in sync with your adolescent friends. You’re like a younger brother to me.”

All I can do is let out an irritated sigh. Poe isn’t much older than me, but I let him have his moment as he rattles on.

“That’s why I’m going to be real with you when I say you need to get your head back into the music. Hell, your heart needs to be in it, too. Because there’ll be tens of thousands of fans cheering you on at this tour, and they deserve someone giving their all to it. Someone who gives a fuck about what they’re doing.”

Annoyed by his words, I roll my eyes. I’m sick and tired of everyone telling me this bullshit. “What’s up with everyone being on my ass about my heart not being in the music anymore?”

Poe shrugs, pulling at the label on his water bottle. “You seem like you don’t want to be here.”

I let out a resigned sigh, because he’s right. I’m exhausted by the life I live. I don’t exactly want to be here. I don’t know where the fuck I want to be. Nothing matters to me more than the fans and the music, but right now it doesn’t feel like my life revolves around either anymore.

I’m controlled by numbers and corporate assholes who wouldn’t know how to write a bridge if it slapped them in the fucking face. When I went solo, I left the group because I wanted to be my own boss. I wanted it to be me who had the final say in things.

To get where I am now, I had to cut ties with three of my best friends. I left them high and dry when I sold the front-page story on how I, Nash Pierce, was leaving Anticipation Rising.

The only way I could live with myself after doing that to my friends was knowing I had to do it if I wanted to control my music. Because I wanted to be in control of me. Now, as I let out a half-hearted laugh, I can’t help but think twenty-year-old me was incredibly naïve.

Here I am, four years later, hating myself and my job at times because I’m doing the exact opposite of what I’d set out to do. I can barely take a piss without someone telling me when, where, and how to do it.

My mind tracks back to my last tour. Things were so much simpler then. I was allowed to perform a setlist completely written by me. Songs I was proud of. Not the cookie cutter shit I perform now that are written with one purpose only: to top charts.

“Do you?” Poe’s voice breaks through my thoughts.

I look up confused, forgetting what he said. “Do I what?”

He gives me a dejected look. “Do you even want to be here?”

I snicker. “Well, I mean, I wouldn’t mind cutting to the part where I’m underneath someone tonight.”

Poe straightens on the couch, resting his elbows on his thighs, and the leather underneath him groans with the quick movement. “Cut the shit. Your whoring-around bullshit isn’t going to hide the truth.”

It’s my turn to get angry with him. I’m annoyed he’s not taking the fucking hint to drop it.

“Yes,” I lie, “I want to be here.” I stretch my arms above my head. “Now, I’m going to go eat before I continue to work my ass off for the fans paying to see this tour.”

I push past one of my best friends, not bothering to look back at him. I don’t want him to see the lies written all over my face.

Nothing feels more like home to me than a stage in front of thousands of fans. Nowhere else could ever compete with that.

I’m just bitter that when I stand up there this tour, I’ll be standing up there as a washed-up version of myself that I can barely tolerate to look at in the mirror anymore.

It doesn’t feel like I’m performing for myself or even my fans at this point. It feels a whole lot like I’m performing for my label and the people trying to run my life.

And I fucking despise it.