#rockstar!leon

I was the innocent little pop princess. As innocent as one could be when singing about sex and relationships.

I'd never been with a guy that old before, only ever dating within my age bracket—and within the target demographic of ‘boy next door’ types, to match my ‘girl next door’ type. But Leon was different—a grungy, dirty rockstar that ran through my mind and my body like a tornado, destroying everything in his path in the most addictive way possible.

And then he’d ruined it, by acting as if I was some innocent little doll in need of protecting. But I wasn't. I was a grown woman, with control of her own body and sexuality—for the most part. I could handle myself just fine.

I certainly wasn't no fucking princess. Though I didn't mind the little pet name.

Huffing out a sigh, I cut the engine to my car and unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbing my purse and the little tray of cups and getting out of the car. Anger bubbled deep within my gut again, as it had done when I left Leon’s place—the nerve of that fucking man. I stormed through the lot before I could get myself too worked up to even want to work.

Where one got angry, I told myself as I made my way to the lift, one should use it in their craft. Plus, the amount of songs I’d written because of shitty exes were over the amount of fingers and toes I had. But, at least my fans ate it all up.

Stepping into the lift, I made my first stop at the ground level reception. The reception area of RC Records was peak minimalism—wide and open, with a lot of black leather and white marble. The reception desk itself was a beautiful painted black oak piece, with the company logo emblazoned on the front in neon.

Clearing my throat, I placed the plastic cup containing an iced vanilla latte with soy milk onto the desk, sliding it over toward Ashley. She had been a close friend of mine back in school, and was currently the receptionist for RC Records—as well as the daughter of Warren Graham, who owned Division Records a few blocks from here. We’d split for some time—I'd put my all into acting and music as high school was coming to an end, whilst Ashley had basked in the fruits of her father’s labour.

But, as of late she’d had a quarter life crisis in which she felt like she was being left behind, and so she wanted to learn the ropes of running the industry—starting from the ground up, in a company that her daddy didn't have control over.

At least I got to see one of my best friends every day. Ashley looked up at me as I slid the cup over. “Hey, you,” I grinned, leaning against the desk. “I bring caffeine—but as if you need it, right?”

Ashley grinned, her big blue eyes glinting with glee as she accepted my offering. Taking a long sip through the metal straw, she hummed in delight. Peeking over the desk, I could see her Twitter timeline. As always, Ashley Graham was keeping up on last night’s news on my big wins. I didn't expect anything different from her.

I wonder if I had been seen last night. The thought echoed in the back of my mind. I pondered briefly if maybe that had been another reason why Leon had hurriedly forced me out—the attention that I would bring onto him, as a pop megastar seeing a guy who hasn't had much fame in nearly fourteen years.

Not that the guy was unpopular—just irrelevant in today’s social sphere. This was an incredibly different world than the one Leon had been formed in—the thought of the young, impressionable pop star being seen with the older, wiser rockstar with a wild streak? Shocker.

I had made sure to be careful last night, though. I’d had a decoy of myself that attended every single one of my events with me that had been sent out ahead of time to keep the paparazzi off of my back, which meant that Leon and I were able to sneak through the back without any real hassle. And I hadn't seen any cameras this morning when I was leaving his place—but, like I said, the guy hadn't released any music in nearly fourteen years, other than the occasional anniversary album—

“Hello? Did you hear me?”

I blinked, shaking myself back into the present day. Ashley giggled, sipping from her coffee again as she sat back from waving a hand in front of my face. “Welcome back. Wow, you really did have a long night, huh? Was it fun?”

“Mm,” I hummed casually, taking a sip from my own coffee that I'd brought alongside the others—a frappe, extra foam, with a tiny shot of espresso. Licking my lips of the creamy foam, I murmured, “yeah, very long night, but tons of fun.”

“I saw online that you practically swept every award. Go, Dee,” She chirped, leaning forward and stretching out her palm for a hi-five, which I accepted.

“Gonna need a bigger shelf soon enough. Or maybe build out a whole new wing for this place to show off my success?” I joked, flipping my ponytail with a flourish before picking up the cups and heading back to the lift, tapping my ID card on the way through. “Anyway—duty calls, Ash. Check in later?”

“Yeah, yeah. You go do your thing, I’ll do mine. Guard this desk with my life.”

I laughed softly, shaking my head at her enthusiasm. “Maybe don't go that far, but, yeah. I like the spirit.”

I could have told Ashley about Leon, I realised. But, then again—Ashley was a bit of a gossip, plus her father owned the very label that Dante was under. That would just be an unnecessary headache. And there was hardly anything to tell, anyway. Other than the fact Leon Kennedy was, in fact, a Grade A asshole—but a unforgivably brilliant fuck, which only made me hate him even more in this current moment.

I called the lift again, stepping on and heading up to the sixteenth floor. My floor. Upon joining the label, every artist got their own dedicated floor, as well as their choice of which floor it would be. I had chosen sixteen, as that was my birthday—which was coming up in a matter of weeks. I’d be twenty-seven soon.

Still too young for you, Leon? The cynical thought passed through my mind as the doors opened to the long, wide, stark white-walled hallway, greeted by pictures of my face that had been snapped for magazine covers, album art, or stills from my shows and movies from my time on the Disney Channel.

A little ways to the left was a display shelf full of some of my awards—AMAs, Kids and Teens Choices, and one of the BBMAs that I had won last night. The rest of the awards were decorating the shelves of my penthouse apartment up near the Hills. On the right was another display case, full of art from my fans as well as gifts. Handpicked, and well-looked over before they had the honour of being displayed. I’d heard horror stories of crazed fans, and didn't need reminders of them every time I walked into work.

Boasting a state-of-the-art recording studio, a practice room for rehearsals that was bigger than two New York studio apartments on the Upper West Side, a conference room and a fully stocked kitchen and living space—for when those late nights hit—this floor was my home away from home.

As I pushed my way through the heavy door into the recording studio, I was greeted by my favourite sound tech guy, my producer, and Claire, who was draped across the chaise lounge tapping away on her phone. At my arrival, she looked up at me, giving me one of those ‘you’re late’ smiles as she put her phone away and stood up to greet me.

I thrusted the coffees out in front of me to avoid the oncoming lecture, divvying out the cups to keep myself busy. “Caffeine for my favourite people. Marvin—black coffee. Rebecca—cappuccino. And Claire—espresso.”

The cups were taken with murmured thanks from Marvin and Rebecca and a soft hum from Claire. Continuing on my groove, I put the container and my bag down on the scotch before breezing my way through to the recording booth. “So, what’s on the agenda today?”

“Well, we just have one song to work on,” Rebecca, the producer, answered.

“Title track?” I asked, grabbing the over-ear headphones that hung over the microphone. My new album—‘Short N Sweet’—was slated for a mid-December release, if I could get that title track right. but every recording of ‘Greedy’, an R&B type beat akin to the old Britney era, with lyrics about loving yourself over some asshole who seemed to only want you for one thing, had never quite pleased me.

Even if it sounded good to everyone else, I was a total perfectionist.

“You don't have to. Ada already filled me in.” The two of them hadn't been planning on getting back together, she’d said. After I’d left the venue, Leon had fallen hard, so she was bringing him back up. Her and the rest of the band. So I’d relaxed, thankful that at least I still had a chance. That I hadn't run here for nothing.

“Oh.”

“I’ll give you two a little privacy,” Ada said with a knowing grin, heading into the bedroom. She came out a few minutes later, dressed in a gorgeous red jumpsuit and fancy black stilettos, handbag hanging from her arm as she strode through the apartment. She touched Leon tenderly on the shoulder before nodding to me.

Neither of us said a word, or even moved, until the door closed behind her. Then Leon spoke up, voice full of disbelief. “You… you’re here?”

“Yeah.” I took a single step forward, drawn to him like a magnet. Or a fish baited on a hook, and he was pulling me in. “I… I kept thinking about what you said up there. You poured your heart out.”

He grunted softly in agreement, taking his own step forward.

“You… you got clean,” I said, my voice quivering with relief at the gesture. “Did you do that for me?”

He fiddled with his fingers, looking down at the floor as his lips tugged with sheepishness. “Well… I kinda… fell off the wagon. Sorry—”

“It's fine.” I shuffled forward. I was close enough now to reach out, to brush a hand against the tiniest sliver of skin. Then, when he stepped forward, I could grab him properly. My hand found his jaw, caressing the stubble there. Remembering the feeling of him.

“It’s okay. We… we can get you help. I’ll be here for you.”

“You will?” His voice broke slightly. He rested his forehead against mine, his hand coming to the back of my neck.

“Yeah,” I swallowed thickly, nodding as his fingers brushed the nape of my neck, tickling the tiny baby hairs there. “I… I told Claire I didn't care anymore. About my image, my brand, whatever. About what people thought about me, or you. And it was so… freeing.”

He laughed softly, brushing his nose against mine. “You ran all the way here, in that dress, in that storm.”

“Claire’s pissed at me. Sherry will be pissed at me. But… but I don't care.” I bit my bottom lip, preparing myself for a speech of my own, the words I had been dying to say since he’d asked me to speak privately back at the show. “I love you. I still do. And.. I want you. I've always wanted you. You’re in my head, like, all the time. And it gets to the point where it physically pains me when you aren't around, because I got so used to you. My body knows your body. My soul knows your soul—”

He disrupted my speech with a kiss, grabbing my chin and forcing my lips to his. I briefly froze, before I shuddered and melted, hands sinking into his hair as his arms wrapped tight around my waist, pulling me to him.

This had been our first proper fight. Of course it would be over this—the need for secrecy, when I’d told him time and time again that as much as I wanted to be out and proud with him, we had to be careful. Not that we were. There were many times when we’d been reckless in public, yet somehow Leon had always known how to get away with it.

Until now.

My body had been plastered all over the internet, and the fans had seen it. Picking up my phone, I doomscrolled through the slew of comments, disregarding Claire’s social media ban to see the fallout.

“On the beach?! That's gross. Like, I was there today with my family…” one read—not my fan or Leon’s, just a random netizen.

“I mean… get your man, girl, but do we really need to see that?”

“I knew she looked familiar! She’s the girl on Dante’s album cover!” One of the Infernos exclaimed, attaching their post with side-by-side pictures of our beach trip and the ‘Delight’ album cover, where anybody with eyes could now see the resemblance—even with the artistic fog. That one little post had millions of comments all confirming the theory, as well as disappointment conveyed that they hadn't known until now.

There were a few supportive comments, from more angelic members of my fan army wishing me well or coming to my defense, but most of it was negative. The negativity was what my brain latched onto, sinking me so deep that I jumped out of my skin from shock as three sharp knocks rippled across the door.

Letting out a squeak, I tossed my phone like it was a bomb, just in case Claire was sniffing about.

“Dee?” It wasn't Claire. It was Sherry. “Hey, let me in?”

I breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of Sherry’s voice, getting out from beneath the covers and padding across the room to the door. On the way, I quickly glanced at my appearance in a nearby mirror, hoping my face wasn't too splotchy or that my eyes weren't too puffed up. They were. I was a wreck.

Shit.

Sucking in a deep breath, I plastered on the fakest smile I could muster and opened the door. My face crumpled within seconds when I saw Sherry standing there, a shy smile on her lips as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, a bottle of my favourite red and a brand new corkscrew in her hands and an empathetic glimmer in her eyes.

“Hey. I heard what happened. Came over for support. Jake warned me against it, but, he’s not the boss of me.”

Without waiting for an answer, Sherry pushed into the room. She popped the cork before climbing beneath the covers, patting the space beside her as she got comfy in bed.

That was meant to be a bed that Leon and I should be sharing, snuggled beneath a thick fluffy blanket of warmth as we watched crappy movies and stuffed our faces with junk food. But, instead, I was sharing the bed with my stylist and my closest confidant, guzzling down wine like it was oxygen whilst my boyfriend was… wherever.

Sherry watched me with a soft chuckle of amusement, gently rubbing my back as I choked on my swallows. “Easy there,” she teased, “the bottle is for sharing.”

“Sorry.” I croaked, letting some much-needed oxygen flow through my veins. I felt like a kid at a birthday party, having drunk too much juice within a short period of time. I groaned, putting my head in my hands. “Fuck. My tits are all over the internet. And not even in a fun way.”

Sherry snorted, taking the bottle and lifting it to her lips for a much daintier sip. “Jake told me all about what you guys were up to. Plus… neither of you were really subtle about it either.” She smirked, winking at me to rub it in. “I think we were all just waiting for the pin to drop.”

Great. More people who knew. Tonight couldn’t get much worse. “You knew?”

“Mhm. I always know. And, unlike my grump of a boyfriend, I don’t care. Not just because I’m also dating an older guy,” she beamed supportively, placing her hand on top of mine and squeezing. “It’s nice seeing you happy. I always root for your happiness, you know that.”

I pouted. I didn’t feel very happy.“Thank you.”

“And Claire does too, even if she can be a little intense.”

“She ripped me a new one.” I winced, taking the bottle back. This time around, I followed Sherry’s lead and sipped. “Zane Thomas is asking for an exclusive.”

Sherry sneered, rolling her eyes. “Fuck that guy. A leech. He went after me and Jake when we got together at first, but we shut that shit down fast.”

“That’s different, though,” I whined, even though it wasn’t right to compare the situations. I sounded childish. “You’re not a pop star. Fashion designers have it easier in terms of celebrity fame.”

“We still got it tough, Dee.” Sherry laughed, taking no offence to my petulant grumbling.

“Sorry. I’m just… I don't know what to do—”

Across the room, my phone began to blare, vibrating as the shrill ringtone bounced off the walls. Sherry got out of bed to pick it up, peering at the screen before showing it to me. There was a huge crack down the middle of it which spiderwebbed out to somewhat obscure the caller, but not too much. “It’s Ashley.”

“Okay, answer.” I couldn’t leave her hanging. Ash was a good friend too, plus I trusted her with my secrets. Not that I had many of those anymore.

Sherry slid her thumb across the screen to accept the call, walking back over to the bed and getting back under the covers.

Ashley screeched mere seconds later, barely giving Sherry a chance. “You’re dating Leon Kennedy?!”

“Hi, Ashley.”

“Hi, Sherry,” Ashley quickly greeted, her tone suddenly subdued, before quickly the decibels picked up. Her face filled the screen—FaceTime—as she seemed to be hidden beneath her desk, her blond bob swinging wildly with each shake of her head as she continued to rave. “So—wait, hold on. How long have you two been together?”

“Around.. seven months.”

“When did it start?”

“You know when I came in after that award show. The day of my live?”

“When you were wearing that band shirt?” Ashley paused, instantly putting two and two together and gasping dramatically when she got to four. “Wait—was that his shirt?!”

“Yes.”

“Dee! I thought you really thrifted that!” Thankfully, she didn't seem pissed at me. She looked like she was happy for me as well. She was grinning from ear to ear, giggling and gushing. “No wonder Claire was so pissed off that day. Was it like that all the time?”

I found myself smirking at Ashley’s conspiratorial grin. “Some of the time. Other times we just… we hung out. Ate food. Had normal date nights.”

“And the whole tour?”

I nodded. “Yeah, we’ve been together a lot then. We only just started using the label. He met my folks.”

It was time to start the song, now that we had the crowd ready to eat out of the palms of our hands. “Now you know us! We’re Dante, and this…” I riffed off a few more chords, taking them from the solo in the middle of the song, which usually was the biggest part for us—the showstopper. “This is ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’! Let’s go!”

As soon as we started to play properly, the energy of the crowd seemed to rise all the way to eleven, and then beyond that. Fans from both sides—our grunge-loving Infernos, who knew every song and had followed us from our inception, to the less rock-inclined Delights who seemed so out of place in the mosh pits with their pretty pink outfits—jumped around and screamed to our songs as we put on a pretty amazing opening set.

It was the opening night of the tour between Dante and Dee. A few weeks ago, the remix album had come out, which had sold pretty well—which had been expected, seeing as Dee was so popular. The paycheck from that album was quite a nice gift to receive, but something even nicer to me was knowing that for the next few months, Dee and I didn’t have to navigate something long-distance. We could be together if we wanted.

Sneaking around, of course, but still together nonetheless.

We had a pretty good timeslot for the tour too. At the start of every two-hour show, we had the first thirty minutes to play our own songs—both for our fans and for the other side. But then we also played for the rest of the concert. Of course, we were playing mainly Dee’s songs, but there were also the three new songs off the remix album—‘Angel Eyes’, ‘Genie In A Bottle’ and ‘Brick By Boring Brick’.

I had plans to make all of these shows fun, though—and perhaps also toe the line a little bit in terms of keeping what Dee and I had under wraps. I could always just call it ‘fan service’.

As our set went on, we eventually broke into our ballad track, ‘Photograph’—the nostalgia-trip track that had pictures from our younger days splashed out on the big screen behind us. Stuff from when we were kids, then teenagers playing our first shows. Each photo showed us getting older and older.

But then, halfway through the song, the photos began to change. They weren’t just of us anymore, but of her. Pictures from her childhood, of her teenage years, and her time on Disney Channel, silly candid photos and selfies that had her fans suddenly brought to life as she came out on the stage, walking out slowly from stage left and singing softly into her glittery microphone, wearing one of the new outfits she’d had designed for this remix tour.

She had on the shirt that I had given her all that time ago, paired with a brown leather corset-like belt that cinched her waist in. The shirt looked like a dress on her, the hem coming down to her mid-thighs, and underneath she wore a pair of black Lycra cycle shorts and black leather boots that came up to the knee that had a tan furry cuff around the top.

She’d still be wearing her stage lingerie, of course, but she did look damn good in these new outfits. She was a showstopper, strutting along the main catwalk into the crowd, bending down to brush her hand against theirs as screaming girls held their phones aloft to record her every move. I couldn’t help but chuckle at her little surprise.

As the final notes of the song rang out across the arena, I leaned in toward the microphone, gazing toward the woman I loved, who at that moment was smiling so brightly she could rival the moon. “You don’t come out for another five minutes, Miss Hartwell.” I crooned playfully, tutting into the mic. It was all a tease, of course. The next song we were set to perform that night was ‘Bring Me To Life’, before we would transition into Dee’s set, starting with her new tracks.

She addressed the crowd with a wild sweep of her arm, before winking back at us—at me. “I got bored waiting back there. Thought I’d make sure you’re keeping my lovely fans entertained. Delights, how do you like Dante?”

As expected of her loyal army, they cheered and screamed in response. Though, it was unclear whether they actually liked us, or if they were just cheering because she was speaking. Either way, I didn’t care. We still had a show to put on, after all. They could cheer all they liked.

“Well, since you’re out here, you wanna sing another song with us?” I asked, my voice spiking with forced enthusiasm.

“Sure!”

We launched into ‘Bring Me To Life’. That night was the first night we’d ever played the song live, and it went off without a hitch. The fans—both mine and hers—loved it, and so I loved it. Mainly, I enjoyed that star power she exuded. It filled me like an electrolyte-filled sports drink, sinking deep into my veins and spurring me on as well, even though I was the veteran when it came to the stage.

Even though I had seen her performing so many times—both when I was waiting backstage at her birthday show as well as through videos taken from the rest of her tour—it was entirely different now that the two of us were sharing a stage. She was constantly within reach, yet I couldn’t touch her. Not unless I wanted to fuel that rumor mill.

I wondered what might happen if I did. If our little relationship went public. If I could proudly claim that she was mine. It would bring a lot of heat onto us—onto her, and her brand. It would get me into a lot of shit, and probably her too. But, would it also really be that bad?

I was in that fantasy for a while, playing on autopilot whilst imagining more. I still hit all the right cues and notes though, as we transitioned into the main set of the night and the band was moved from center stage to a raised platform at the back. She pranced around as she had during her last tour, only this time she had a grittier, edgier look to her as she danced to the reimagined rock versions of her biggest hits alongside dancers that had also gotten a grungier reboot.

There was a part of me that had wanted to sneak myself in amongst her dancers—to get up close and personal with her. But that thought had been quickly shut down by her as soon as I’d addressed it. Oh well, I thought to myself as we soon were in the final five minutes of the show—just one more song to go. Then, I would have her all to myself. All I had to do was keep her in my sights until we were all alone.

The final chords of ‘Greedy’ rang out. I looked toward the band, who looked as sweaty and as exhausted as I felt, before I nodded. Dee was in the middle of her goodbye speech, thanking the fans for coming out, when we launched into a surprise encore song—‘This Is Me’, her song from the end of ‘Camp Rock’. The fans recognised it instantly and went crazy, and her eyes found mine, her jaw dropping before she shot me a sneaky, mischievous look, as if to ask what I was playing at.

I blinked at the question, having expected something totally different. Though, what I was expecting, I wasn't sure. A slight scoff of disbelief rumbled in my throat as I raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You’re serious?”

“Mhm. I gave my manager your number. Expect a more official call soon—uh, how long until your podcast thing is done?”

“Uh…” I pulled my phone back from my ear to glance at the time that flashed up on my screen. It was currently one in the afternoon, and I knew that something like this would last for a little while. Podcasts always did, after all. “Give me two hours? Tops?”

“Alright. And, uh, follow-up question—what’s the name of the podcast?”

I heard the tiny little expectant hum in his tone and smirked, knowing almost immediately what he planned to do. “You little stalker.” I crooned, the thought of him watching me like he’d done during my livestream making my nerves tingle.

“I just wanna see my girl shining, that’s all.”

I rolled my eyes at the cheesy line, though the little possessive title—my girl, I was his girl—had my stomach filling with butterflies. With a slow grin, I finally said, “‘Cee Foster’s Pajama Party Podcast’. Streams live wherever you get your podcasts, and also has an accompanying video going live on YouTube, which may be more your preference seeing as I’m currently wearing something you’ll get your rocks off to.”

I pressed my lips together—most definitely triggering an aneurysm in the poor makeup artist as I was probably smudging and ruining her perfect lipstick—as I stared into the vanity mirror, the pale yellow fluorescent bulbs making my black silk negligee all the more sultry. This outfit was a part of my stage lingerie that I planned to wear on tour, a set I’d swiped from the wardrobe department and that I’d promised Claire that I would have washed and returned as soon as I was done.

Claire, thankfully, wasn't here to supervise me today. She was busy doing whatever it was that managers did before a big tour, no doubt running around like a headless chicken trying to ensure that everything was ready for when my album dropped in three days and for the upcoming tour. Though, whilst I might not have her breathing down my neck physically, her presence was still felt nonetheless.

The chat that we’d had about my risky encounter with Leon in the practice room last night, where Tom the night watchman had been given a free porno to watch, hadn't been fun at all. Not only had she lectured me on how to properly maintain my popstar image and the dangers of creating a scandal so close to a release date, I was also given a lecture on safe sex—like I was a seventeen year old girl about to lose my virginity. But, I’d smoothed things over rather easily—after buying Claire her favourite coffee and promising to be more quiet about my indiscretions, she let me off the hook. So long as such indiscretions wouldn't distract me from my own career, which I also promised they wouldn't.

Except I was doing a shit job at keeping that promise, it seemed, as that indiscretion was trying to be very distracting right now. “What are you wearing, princess?”

I giggled at his raspy drawl, biting on the tip of my tongue as I crooned teasingly, “you'll have to find out for yourself, won't you?”

Without saying anything else, I hung up, putting my phone back onto the table once more and apologising to the makeup artist, who was probably sick of my constant fidgeting right about now. “Sorry about that. It won't happen again.”

The woman’s perfectly shaped eyebrow arched upward as a crooked smirk tilted one of the corners of her red matte lips. “Boyfriend?”

I bit my bottom lip as a blush threatened to crawl across my cheeks, which would thankfully be hidden beneath the artificial blush that had been applied in its place. “Yeah, something like that. Some guy I’ve been seeing recently—”

“Who’s got a boyfriend?” A figure was reflected back at me in the mirror as Cee leaned up against the back of my chair, a playful grin stretched onto her lips as her hazel eyes glinted with mirth. She looked absolutely gorgeous in her own matching negligee, the shimmering gold silk illuminating her tanned skin as her sleep mask, which had her name embroidered on it in black thread, sat atop her head, her slick brown hair tied back into a high ponytail.

I smiled bashfully, feeling my cheeks get even hotter. “It’s just some guy I’m seeing,” I mumbled softly, covering my mouth with my hand to hide the smile. “It’s not official or anything.”

“Ah.” Cee winked. “Well, am I gonna get a name, or is that private—”

“Private.” I immediately said, knowing that Claire would absolutely kill me if I were to say anything—once the rumour mill got going, it was hard to get it to stop.

And the main people running those mills? Podcast hosts.

“Gotcha.” She tapped the side of her perfect nose, flashing perfect white teeth at me. She then cleared her throat, nodding her head toward the set. “Well, that being said—ready to go on? Crew says we go live in a few.”

“Yes.” I said, jumping up out of my chair as the makeup artist finally stops fussing over me. Swiping up my own embroidered sleep mask—which had my name stitched in white thread on black silk—I settled it atop my head as my hair had been fixed into a neat-yet-messy bun before following Cee over to the set.

The room in which the podcast was being filmed had everything all in one—the main set, which was a bedroom scene, and the hair-makeup-wardrobe area tucked into a faraway corner. The main attraction of the set was a large, California King-sized bed decorated in pale yellow throw pillows and blankets on a white bedspread, with sheer yellow drapes hanging from the mahogany posts.

On the wall behind the bed, the name of the podcast was lit up in gold neon. When we arrived on the set, one of the runners handed us each a glass of red wine as the camera tech was busy tinkering with his settings, and other personnel buzzed around like worker bees.

Cee and I had mic packs hooked up to our clothes to pick up our voices, before we set ourselves up on the bed, posed in a way that looked like two women having a wine night and a gossip session—which, really, was the whole premise of Cee’s podcast, and why I wanted to appear on it in the first place.

It was kind of a wonder that Claire got me the gig on such short notice, but I wasn't about to turn it down.