“So that’s what you ran away from?” Gwen guessed. “When you left home at fifteen… It was to escape that showbiz life?”
I nodded, then heaved a heavy sigh. “My uncle was also my manager. It made our relationship less avuncular, more…” I searched for the correct word. “Authoritarian.”
Gwen grimaced.
Some of Flo’s enthusiasm visibly dimmed.
“Whatever he said, I did. I didn’t get to pick what I wore, what I ate, who I talked to. He told my stylists how to dress me, the makeup people how to do my eyeliner, the hair techs how to braid my hair?—”
“Oh my god! Thebraids! I remember the braids!” Flo touched her own dark, glossy hair. “God, growing up, I wanted nothing more than to have hair like yours.”
I snorted. Florence looked like Lana Condor mixed with hints of Nina Dobrev. She could be on a freaking Vogue cover. “Are you kidding?”
“No! Those braids were so cute!”
“They didn’t feel so cute when a woman in the hair and makeup trailer was yanking them into my head at six in the morning so I could step onto the studio stage and perform for twelve hours straight in front of the cameras.”
Flo frowned. “Right.”
“What exactly happened on this show?” Gwen asked. “I assume, from the name, something of the supernatural variety…”
“Guests would sign up, audition for a chance to come on an episode. They’d sit across from me on the soundstage — all in front of a live studio audience, of course — and I’d take them by the hand and try to trigger a vision. Usually, the people they brought on the show had experienced some sort of loss and were seeking closure. A message from the other side.” I shrugged, feeling sheepish. “It was cheesy and exploitative and once I was old enough to realize that my uncle and the studio executives were taking advantage of desperate people for money and ratings…”
“You left,” Gwen finished for me.
I nodded. “I wanted to leave for a long time before I finally got up the guts to run away. But I was young. I had nowhere to go. I was scared. And the first two times I tried, my uncle dragged me back, kicking and screaming.”
“Jesus,” Flo muttered.
“The production people tried to throw more money at me. They thought a better trailer, fancier stage, bigger budget would make me want to keep beingThe Child Clairvoyant.” I snorted. “They didn’t know the money didn’t matter to me. I never saw a dime of anything I made in my contracts or in my residuals. My uncle — acting as my manager — controlled all the finances, and paid himself from my earnings. I never saw a dime. I still haven’t, to this day.”
“That fucking asshole!” Flo yelled.
“Guess that explains why you’re working in my coffee shop instead of sitting on your pile of millions,” Gwen murmured.
“Better here than there, trust me on that.” I smiled at her. “And I like working here.”
She smiled back. “I’m glad.”
“Hello? How are you twosmilingright now?” Flo sounded outraged. “Imogen just said that her dickhead uncle stole all her money! Am I the only one who finds that out-fucking-rageous? Not to mention ill-fucking-legal?”
“I appreciate your wrath on my behalf, but there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“That cannot be true,” Flo said instantly.
“Every time I’ve tried to fight my uncle, I’ve lost. I don’t just mean physically. I meanfinancially. He controls the purse strings. When I ran away at fifteen, I left him with the keys to the kingdom. And I’d do it again.” I blew out a breath. “A life on the run is better than the one I had with him.”
Flo and Gwen looked at one another, seeming to conduct an entire conversation without words in the space of a heartbeat. Whatever conclusion they came to, we never had a chance to discuss.
The front door of the shop swung open, bells tinkling.
Several tall male forms strode through it.
Chapter Seventeen
I once dated a dude who genuinely believed “going viral” had something to do with chlamydia.
- Imogen Warner, watching a cat video with 12 millions views