Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
He laces his fingers over his chest with a sigh. “I want to be supportive, I really do. I mean, babies are cool. We were all babies once. But I’ve got to be real with you, Bea. I mean, that’s what you want, right? That’s what you asked for when we started working together?”
I nod, my stomach tightening. “Yes, absolutely. Please, keep it real.”
Bean stretches, protesting my internal stress levels. I resist the urge to smooth my hand over my stomach, not wanting to draw even more attention to my apparently undesirable state of being.
Silently, I pray that Checkers isn’t about to be a stereotypical male music industry dick and insist pregnancy is a photo shoot dealbreaker. I know there are men like that in the business—a fuck ton of them—but I thought Checkers was different. I thought he was one of the good guys.
If that weren’t the case, I wouldn’t have agreed to work with him in the first place.
“The whole visual concept for this album, the ad campaign, everything we’ve been building, it’s built around a very specific image,” he says, spreading his hands to his sides. “You, coming out of the harsh light of the hardcore scene into a dark, mythic, uniquely feminine power. A sexy power.”
I arch a brow. “Are you saying pregnant women aren’t sexy? Because the guy I was fucking a few nights ago would beg to differ.”
Checkers’ eyes widen.
It’s not the kind of thing I would normally say, but then I’m not normally fighting for my right to be pregnant and who I am as an artist right now.
“That’s awesome,” Checkers finally says. But he doesn’t sound like he thinks it’s awesome. Not awesome at all. He actually sounds a little queasy as he adds, “But that’s not the way most people think. Not even other women. I did my research, Bea, and the research says this isn’t gonna fly. We put a pregnant woman on this album and on the ad push, and we might as well throw a bunch of money in a trash can down on Bourbon Street and set it on fire. So…I’ve canceled the photo shoot. Sorry, but it was the only logical thing to do. We can move forward with an object cover. Or maybe an old photo from when you were a kid or something. Nostalgia always sells. I’ll circle the wagons with the team and get back to you.”
I press my lips together, fighting to swallow past the rage tightening my throat.
This is such complete and utter horseshit.
I’ve never been one to play the looks card first—I’m too much of a music nerd for that—but he and I both know I’m a beautiful woman. And not just beautiful, but uniquely beautiful, in that fragile, big-eyed fairytale princess way that has always attracted attention. Pregnancy hasn’t taken that away. It’s added to it, matured it. I’m not fragile anymore; I’m lush and curvy and overflowing with life. With power. My eyes glitter, my cheeks are always pink, and my hair is a glossy mane so goddamned gorgeous I almost feel guilty wearing it braided.
In the dresses we chose for the shoot, with my hair down to my ass on that haunted bayou set, I will be extraordinary.
Or I would have been extraordinary…
It’s becoming pretty clear that Checkers has decided his “reality” is the only one that matters.
Still, I tamp down my anger and try one last time, “Respectfully, you’re wrong, Checkers. The concept is better with me pregnant, not worse. Can’t you see that? I mean, what says ‘unique feminine power’ more than a woman creating life? Right?” I laugh, the truth so obvious I can’t believe I have to spell it out for him. “I can sell it. I promise I can. Let’s just do the shoot. Everything’s already in place—wardrobe, set, makeup, the whole thing. Let me show you the kind of images I know we can get. Sexy, powerful, ad-friendly images that—”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you could get some good stuff. But good for who? Not for our core demo,” Checkers says, an edge in his voice now, his patience apparently wearing thin. “We need women eighteen to twenty-eight on board here. Those are the people who buy tickets to concerts. They’re also a generation of women who don’t want kids, Bea. They want sovereignty and stability first, romance second, and kids…maybe later. Maybe. If the world doesn’t burn down before they can save up enough cash in their emergency fund.”
“But I—”
“I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.” Checkers cuts me off before I can tell him that sovereignty is what I’m all about, what I’ve been fighting for.
I’m no less “sovereign” because I decided to become a mother. If anything, I’m more sovereign for choosing to walk this path alone, just me and my baby against the world.