Spotlight on Love Read online

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  Finally, after a lot of internal debate, I decided to follow my instincts and sent a text to Roz to confirm the Vision Drakes for our closing act. It felt like a risk considering all the unknowns in the personality mix area. But I was a professional. And as long as they were too, it would probably turn out fine.CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  EPILOGUE

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  Spotlight on Love

  MMF Bisexual Menage Romance

  Maxene Novak

  Cover Designed by Duong Covers

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  EPILOGUE

  The story may be over but

  CHAPTER 1

  Sabrina

  As soon as I saw the doctor’s name flash on my phone’s screen, I held up a hand. “I’m sorry, guys…I really need to take this call. Can I have a few minutes, please?”

  Eyebrows rose all around Briar Rose Records’ conference table. But they nodded, and I quickly answered the phone as I stepped out of the room.

  “Sabrina, hello, it’s Dr. Marsden,” the rheumatologist greeted me. “Do you have a moment? I was hoping we could schedule a time to go over your test results.”

  My lips parted and I swallowed hard, hiding the shaking of my free hand by tucking it under my elbow. “Um, that might be kind of difficult. I’m training for a new American tour for my new record…” And then there was the fact that the last time I’d seen him I’d had to hide in the trunk of my friend’s car just to escape the paparazzi parked outside my latest hotel home of choice, the Beverly Wilshire. I didn’t relish the idea of a repeat performance of that particular humiliation. “Could we just do it over the phone? I promise I won’t think less of your bedside manner, doc.” I remembered to smile. Mom always said people could tell just from the sound of your voice when you were smiling.

  He sighed heavily. “You’re not my only celebrity patient. So I understand completely.” There was the sound of some tapping in the distance on his end of the connection. “Okay. I could throw around a lot of terms and numbers that probably won’t make a lot of sense, or I could cut right to the chase with the diagnosis. Which do you prefer?”

  “Um, just the diagnosis please?” I chewed on my lower lip, my free hand’s fingers drumming on my ribcage.

  “The diagnosis, and I do realize it’s been an awful lot of work to finally get to this point, is that I strongly believe you have systemic lupus erythematosus. Or commonly referred to as just lupus. It’s an autoimmune disease where…”

  The doctor went on and on, telling me that my immune system was basically attacking the healthy cells in my body, which explained the constant fatigue, aches in my muscles and joints and nerve endings, crazy headaches, even the occasional rash after being out in the sunlight, and my frequently running low-grade fever. I felt like I was constantly battling the flu—minus the extra snot issues and nausea—because my stupid body thought it was constantly fighting a virus that wasn’t actually there.

  My voice was shaky, despite my best efforts, when I spoke again. “Okay, um, how do we fix it?”

  There was a pause, and my stomach dropped as if I were on a roller coaster. Pauses were never good from doctors. “There is no cure just yet. But we can help mitigate the symptoms to some extent.”

  He started discussing things like extra-strength ibuprofen for the fever and lesser aches and pains, steroids to try and get the lupus under control, and opioids for stronger pain control.

  “Wait, what? I’ve heard about those in the news. There’s like an opioid epidemic going on, right? They’re addictive and cause all kinds of other problems?” My stomach twisted then tried to climb up towards my throat, forcing me to swallow hard.

  “That’s true,” he said on a sigh. “And unfortunately there are some new studies suggesting that opioids may actually increase pain levels with continued use—”

  “Then that’s a hard no,” I found the strength to murmur. “Sorry. My family has some…issues with addictive stuff, so I’d like to avoid anything like that if possible.”

  “Alright.” His tone hinted that I was making his job harder, which I was sorry for. But there was no way I was going my mother’s route in life.

  He outlined a few nonaddictive treatments we could try, which I agreed to. I would have to ask my housekeeper to pick up my prescriptions for me; no way could I go to any pharmacy for the foreseeable future with the paparazzi hounding me.

  “Also, Sabrina, you might want to consider at least scaling back your tour until we get a handle on your health,” the doctor advised.

  I closed my eyes and winced, rubbing my forehead as another headache began to fire up. “I can’t do that. All the dates and locations are set and all the shows are already sold out.”

  The doctor sighed heavily again. “Well, then the next best thing I can tell you is that you’re going to find you’ll probably have to make some lifestyle changes in order to make it all work. Try to prioritize your daily schedule. Reduce your physical activities and conserve energy for your shows. But try not to give in to the pain so much that you stop moving altogether on non-show days.”

  Conserve energy?

  I frowned at the ugly beige carpeting beneath my feet. “Wait. So we can’t do anything about the tiredness?” Lately I’d been sleeping fourteen hours a night just to feel even moderately rested when I finally got up. And within four to six hours after waking, I was exhausted again and ready for a nap. I was starting to feel like I was turning into a cat.

  How was I supposed to pull this off while on tour for six months? Sleep every second I wasn’t on stage?

  He sighed. “Unfortunately, no, not unless you want to try immune-suppressants.”

  “What are those?”

  “It’s like chemotherapy.”

  I thought of what I’d seen on TV and in movies. People on chemo threw up constantly, and their hair fell out. Not something I wanted to have to deal with on top of everything else during the tour.

  “Um, maybe we can look into that after the tour?” I suggested.

  “How long are your shows?” he asked.

  “Usually about three hours.”

  “And you’ll be doing one every other day or so?”

  “Sometimes every night. Sometimes every other.”

  He grunted. “Well, you’re young and in shape, so you’ve got that going for you. All I can say is be ready to be flexible and forgiving. You might get up on stage and find you’ve got plenty of fuel in the gas tank to make it all the way through a show. But on some days, you might not. If and when that happens, just try to have a backup plan in place. Maybe scale back how much movement you do in your performances, or modify what movements you do make to use less energy so you can make it all the way through each performance. And don’t be surprised if you feel like you’ve gone a few rounds with Rocky after what was once a typically easy performance for you. I’ll also want you to call in every couple of weeks and let my staff know how you�
��re feeling, and call instantly if you have any new symptoms.”

  By the time I got off the phone with the doctor, I was shaking from head to toe and freezing. Was this what shock felt like?

  I moved over to sit in one of the waiting area’s leather armchairs, my legs too wobbly to hold me up anymore. But I couldn’t go back into the conference room yet. Not if I looked as freaked out as I felt.

  I had lupus. It was incurable. Didn’t matter how much money I was supposedly worth now. Dr. Marsden was the best rheumatologist in the country. If he said it was incurable, it was.

  Which meant I was stuck feeling like crap for the rest of my life?

  How was this possible in this day and age in freaking America? Even cancer had treatment options that at least tried to cure you, and sometimes even worked.

  “Sabrina?” a woman asked from the conference room doorway behind me. I awkwardly looked over my shoulder at her. “They’re wondering if you’re ready to resume the meeting?”

  Right. The legal team were still waiting. Great.

  I pushed myself up from the chair, my knees popping in protests, feeling like an old woman trapped inside a twenty-five-year old’s skin suit.

  And through zero fault of my own. I never went out drinking or clubbing, didn’t touch drugs, didn’t sleep around, ate right, worked out four times a week…

  Just so I could still feel like shit.

  I managed to make it back into the conference room and my chair at one end of the long table by my manager, Roz “The Lion” Lionell. But even as the meeting resumed and the group once again began to list the many reasons we supposedly had to start cracking down on the unauthorized selling of fan-made merchandise online with my name, likeness or song lyrics on it, I stayed tuned out.

  I was too young for this. Too young to be sick with something that made me feel like I should be living in a retirement home, yet didn’t visibly change me at all.

  While the legal team yammered on, I started Googling lupus on my phone under the table. A traitorous hope began to unfurl in my stomach when I saw the many references and photos of what was called a “butterfly rash” because of its shape that often appeared across the cheeks and nose of people with lupus. I’d never had anything like that. Maybe the doctor was wrong?

  But so many of the other symptoms I did have. Which made my insides sink down again with that heavy, dark, twisty feeling.

  The good news was that the articles did say people with lupus now lived a lot longer than they used to. But there were all these mentions of things like “organ involvement,” “photosensitivity,” constant aches and swelling, eyesight issues, rashes and skin lesions…

  “Sabrina?” Roz touched my arm, making me jump.

  I looked around me, my heart racing, feeling like a little kid that had just been caught goofing off in class at school.

  I cleared my throat and attempted a wobbly smile. “Sorry. You were all saying?”

  “We want your approval to start the notification process with the biggest offenders on Etsy,” Roz murmured, her eyebrows pinched as her too observant gaze studied my face.

  I frowned down at the table, turning off my phone for the moment. I licked my lips. “Um, I have to admit I don’t love the idea. These are just fans making stuff to sell, right?”

  “Yes, but they’re infringing on your brand,” Roz said. “Which undercuts sales of officially licensed products. If we don’t do something now, our licensing partners are going to start having real problems with that.”

  “Which would mean…?” I hated having to ask, but another of the symptoms I’d had to start seeing doctors for—a mental fog similar to being woken up after too little sleep—was making it tough to follow the legal problem.

  Frowning, Roz leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, if the unauthorized fan stuff starts cutting into the licensing partners’ sales more, which it’s projected to do if we don’t curtail it now, then they could either start offering greatly reduced contract terms, or stop wanting to work with us at all. Part of our job is to protect the value of the brand they are paying to license product rights from.”

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead, which was now full on pounding. “It’s just…the fans are going to hate it. They’re going to think I’m just another greedy rock star.”

  “We’ll make sure the statement is carefully worded so they understand this isn’t about going after fans,” Roz murmured, giving her best soothing face. “We’ll tell them we still adore your fans. It’s just business.”

  Just business.

  I looked around at the solemn, earnest faces of the legal team and my manager. These were the advisors I was supposed to trust, if not because they cared about me personally, then because it was their job to. I wasn’t stupid. I knew I was a product-making machine for them. When I succeeded, they made more money. It wasn’t love or friendship, simply aligned business goals.

  But more and more lately, I’d begun to wonder if their colder, outside perspectives were truly all that aligned with my career’s future needs. They wanted to keep me in the box they’d created for me. “America’s Princess of Pop” was how they’d sold me for years. It had worked for me in the beginning because I’d loved the idea of being allowed to stay the nice girl-next-door. Because of that sweet, good girl image, I was never expected to take my clothes off for photo shoots or music videos, even after turning eighteen and then later twenty-one.

  But now things were changing in my life beyond my control. Eight years into the business, I felt like I was changing. And more and more lately, while performing or in the recording studio, I’d begun to feel this growing disconnect between myself and my music.

  And today’s legal debate was adding to that disconnected feeling.

  I wanted to fight more. I knew in my heart and gut that this was a terrible idea. Surely the fan-made merch couldn’t really be cutting into the licensed sales that much.

  I opened my mouth to say exactly that, then closed my lips again.

  I wasn’t just expected to play the good girl around fans and the media. I was also expected to be the good girl in all my business dealings. Because regardless of how ironclad the nondisclosure agreements, people still talked.

  And all it would take to kick off a shit storm in the media would be to argue just a little too long or strongly here.

  A wave of exhaustion crashed over me, and I leaned back in my chair. I was so damn tired, my entire body sagging in my chair as if someone had snuck up behind me and laid a bunch of heavy comforters on top of me. And…oh hell. My ankles, knees, and wrists were actually radiating with a low-level ache that the last seven months had taught me would only rapidly increase and spread to every part of my body. I had maybe half an hour to forty-five minutes tops before it would be agony to move at all.

  I had to wrap this meeting up now and get home while I could still walk.

  Sighing, I nodded and opened my eyes, forcing a tight smile. “Okay. Do what you have to do.” I pushed off the table’s surface with both hands in order to have the strength to rise to my feet.

  Roz walked me out then stood with me at the elevator. As soon as she pushed the button to call for the elevator, she turned to me with raised eyebrows. “Okay, spill. Do we need to hit a rehab before the tour starts, or…?”

  “God, no,” I grumbled, resenting the implication that I was turning into my mother. Sighing, I leaned a shoulder against the door jamb for support. “The rheumatologist got my test results back. He says it’s lupus.” I was careful to keep my voice barely above a whisper, grateful the receptionist was several yards away and likely out of hearing range.

  Roz scowled. “He’s sure?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay, so what’s the treatment?”

  My throat tightened painfully. I shook my head. “There isn’t one. Just pain management and steroids to try and get it under control apparently.”

  Incurable.

  My eyes suddenly
watered, shocking the both of us. Roz moved forward and put an arm around me, simultaneously comforting me as well as turning me towards the elevator doors so the receptionist wouldn’t see. God, she was smooth. Some might even say diabolically so.

  “Okay. It’s all right,” she murmured, holding her head close to mine so we could speak extra quietly. “We’ll roll with this. I’ll work with everyone to make whatever adjustments are needed to make this all doable for you. Whatever you need, you know to call me day or night. Did you discuss the tour with the doctor?”

  I nodded. “He asked if I could cut back on the number of shows—”

  She tensed up, squeezing my shoulder more firmly, which hurt shockingly considering I doubted she was actually squeezing me all that much.

  Seeing me wince, she forced herself to relax. “Sorry. And what did you tell him?”

  “That I couldn’t do that of course because they’re all sold out already.”

  She nodded. “What else did he say?”

  I briefly summarized what the doctor had said, wincing when I heard myself say “and try to stay active on my off days.”

  Try to stay active… The concept felt so ridiculous. I was used to cardio training for hours! But then I paid attention to how my body was feeling and realized…

  That super fit girl was gone, at least for now. I was somebody else. Someone who napped. And had to pace herself…

  Rising hysteria tried to crawl up my throat. I took deep breaths through my nose and pushed it back down.

  The elevator dinged, and the door slid open. She guided me in and pressed the button to take us down to the ground floor lobby.

  “Okay. So we can work with the choreographer to scale back your moves,” she muttered. But her eyes were doing that side-to-side dance they always did when she was thinking fast.

  “What?” I asked her. I’d hired her at the age of eighteen after firing my mother’s third husband as my manager. After seven years, Roz and I knew each other too well now.

  “We could cut back the duration of your shows if we added an opening act,” she said, looking at me sideways. “And maybe even a closing act.”