reputation Read online

  Published by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Copyright © 2018 Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, photocopying, or recording, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales or events is entirely coincidental.

  reputation

  Cover Designer: Rebecca Sharp

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Visit www.drrebeccasharp.com

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prelude

  Track 01

  Track 02

  Track 03

  Track 04

  Track 05

  Track 06

  Track 07

  Track 08

  Track 09

  Track 10

  Track 11

  Track 12

  Track 13

  Track 14

  Track 15

  Track 16

  Track 17

  Track 18

  Track 19

  Track 20

  Track 21

  Track 22

  Track 23

  Track 24

  Track 25

  Track 26

  Track 27

  Track 28

  Track 29

  Track 30

  Bonus Track

  Thank you for reading!

  Up In the Air Extended Epilogue

  Other Works by Dr. Rebecca Sharp

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To every woman who’s ever had a story told about you.

  (‘You’re too fat.’)

  To every woman who’s ever had gossip and lies told about you.

  (‘You’re not strong enough.’)

  To every woman who’s had her life belittled and turned into a work of fiction.

  (‘This is all your fault. You’re pathetic.’)

  They’re all lies, darling. Ignore them.

  Keep your head high and your standards higher.

  You are beautiful. You are strong.

  You are not responsible for someone else’s failure.

  You are not responsible for someone else’s flawed moral character.

  You are not responsible for someone else’s hate.

  When the cruelest words want to cut you down, be brave.

  Be true. Be unapologetically you.

  You are enough.

  You. Are. Better.

  (And remember, as a certain someone might sing, “All they’ll ever be is mean.”)

  And to the woman whose resemblance to this story is purely coincidental,

  Thank you for being fearlessly you.

  Thank you for your heart-felt inspiration.

  Thank you for giving the world a model of strength and composure

  even when that same world tries to bring you down.

  Thank you for showing us how to ‘shake it off’ and

  deal with the ‘haters’ and the ‘narcissists.’

  Thank you for encouraging us to not ‘worry our pretty little minds’

  because ‘people throw rocks at things that shine.’

  And thank you for reminding us that ‘the best people in life are free.’

  So here’s to you, T.

  Long live all the walls we’ll crash through.

  The idea of my life as a fairytale is itself a fairytale.

  —Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco

  DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT’S like to have people judge you by what you say? How about what you do or don’t do? Or even by what you wear?

  Do you know what it’s like to have people twist your words or actions?

  Do you know what it’s like to have people say things—make up stories—about you for their own benefit, even if that benefit is to hurt you?

  Do you ever feel like you do all you can and still have a target on your back?

  I do.

  People have all kinds of ideas about fame.

  Being famous doesn’t make me different.

  Being famous doesn’t make me special.

  Being famous just makes my target bigger.

  Shinier.

  Easier to take down.

  “Blake Tyler wins 9th Grammy at only 25!”

  Rockstar.

  Rock. Star.

  You came from Earth—from the dirt and stones and nothingness—and were rocketed up to the stars, set ablaze along the way for everyone else to enjoy your glow. Every night. Every place. You were on display. Every bright and burning piece of you was seen. All. The. Time.

  “How does Blake do it? Love Struck sells 2.5 million copies the first week!”

  I’d barely finished high school when Heart Break caught fire and exploded me to the top of more charts than I’d seen in all my math and science classes combined. SATs and ACTs quickly became AMAs and VMAs.

  It was unnerving since I’d always been shy. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the kind of soul-sucking fame that someone had yet to diagnose as a more dangerous addiction than heroin. Turns out, my naiveté only seemed to make the world love me even more; how ironic that elusiveness was the most potent ingredient in the recipe for popularity.

  “America’s sweetheart named one of Rolling Stone’s Greatest Songwriters of All Time!”

  I followed my fame—willingly, excitedly, and with an innocence that can only spell eventual disaster. But that was the real me. America’s sweetheart. Believer of fairy tales.

  Perfect.

  Princess.

  Popstar.

  That was my reputation—and reputation was everything in this town.

  But I wasn’t perfect. And my life wasn’t a fairytale. In fact, it had taken me a decade to forget about my chronic, incurable disease.

  I’d had ZP since I was a kid. It did all sorts of things to my body, including, but not limited to chills, heat spells, sleeplessness, chest pains, nausea, and bouts of indescribable aches in unmentionable places.

  I guess I should mention that ZP isn’t actually a disease—then at least there might have been hope for a cure. No, ZP stood for Zach Parker and before he’d become my disease, he was the god-next-door that set my soul on fire.

  Zach was my neighbor, if that word still counted with a solid two football fields of farmland between our two houses, complete with growing corn, a small island of trees, and a stream small enough to babble. And to add icing to the cake, Zach was my older brother, Ashton’s, best friend. He was the gorgeous football star who should have had ‘Superman’ written on the back of his jersey. Instead of a cape, he wore a cap—the one from the University of Alabama was his favorite. Go Tide. He was the man of steel with a heart of gold and a smile that could light up our whole hometown.

  Whether I fully realized it then or not, I’d attached myself to him in ways that didn’t come apart without some sort of amputation.

  The loss of my heart all started the day I met him—the day he convinced me not to run away. One chunk gone. Then there was the time he let me steal all of the eggs from his chicken coop because I didn’t want the baby chicks to die. Once I calmed down, he gently informed me that unfertilized eggs don’t hatch. Another chunk missing. Piece by piece until the day I lost my glasses, tripping as I rushed out to the school bus pick-up. I broke out into tears when Jensen Nabors, the biggest and meanest third grade bully, found them and proceeded to hold them (and me) hostage while he made f
un of me for being blind without my four eyes. Zach, who was two years older, pushed him to the ground and threatened worse if he ever made fun of me again. And when Zach put the frames back on my tear-streaked face… Well…

  My heart became his to keep and his to lose.

  I’d loved Zach Parker with every fiber of my eight-year-old body, and every cell that had grown in it since only magnified the obsession. That’s what happens when you have a viral disease; it changes your DNA and how every molecule in your body is made. And from that moment on, breathing Zach Parker was written into the cells of my lungs, feeling Zach Parker was written into the cells of my skin, seeing only Zach Parker was written into each inky blue cell of my eyes. And loving Zach Parker? Well, that was engraved into the demanding cells of my heart—deeper and deeper with each and every beat.

  But to Zach, I was just a friend on good days and the annoying little sister he never had on bad ones. And after eight years, I learned that sometimes it’s the things that feel good in the moment that hurt us the worst in the end.

  When Zach realized he had my heart, he promptly tried to return it. At that point, it was too late. My own heart was a foreign object to me. What was I supposed to do with this thing that hadn’t been mine for almost a decade?

  I didn’t know how it worked, but there was no mistaking that it was broken.

  “Blake + Matt McCoy confirmed couple status with appearance at the Grammy’s!”

  Now, almost another decade later and with the whole world watching, I was still fumbling with the stupid thing. I wanted to give it to someone who knew how to take care of it, someone who actually wanted it—so pitifully so that I completely missed how they were all just after my limelight and not my love.

  “Blake Tyler spotted in close quarters at Met Gala with actor Xavier James. Is she done with McCoy?!”

  I came home and tried to focus on my music, writing in the hammock in our backyard, staying out late into the tranquil Tennessee nights, and staring up at the stars that could identify with the struggle of my soul: to not be swallowed up by the vast darkness of everything around me.

  “McCoy is gone and looks like Xavier has himself a new bae—or Blay!”

  “The only competition for Blake Tyler is the one between her number of awards and her number of ex-boyfriends!”

  That’s the thing about stars—they shine like a bright beacon amid the stifling masses of blackness. They sparkle and twinkle and put on a show. But at some point, everyone wishes so hard on them that they can’t hang onto the sky anymore.

  And that’s where most people get it wrong. You don’t wish on a falling star, you wished for it—for its magical plummet.

  They love you when you shine, but they only wish on your fall.

  “Blink and Blake has another beau!”

  I hadn’t done anything wrong. But the press isn’t a courtroom where you have the luxury of being innocent until proven guilty. Player. No, the tabloids thrive on guilt. Serial narcissist. They thrive on breaking shiny things… spotless things… like a reputation hiding a broken heart.

  “Swedish DJ, Levi Janssen, and Blake Tyler announce relationship with impromptu live collaboration of his song ‘Always’ at Webster Hall.”

  That’s the thing about reaching this level of fame. Everyone thinks you’re put on a pedestal—nice and tall and stable.

  You’re not.

  I was a superstar walking on stilts… on a very thin tightrope. And I was pretty darn clumsy.

  But aren’t we all when it comes to love?

  Which is how even doing the right thing put me so precariously close to being ruined.

  “Forget ‘Always,’ someone let Levi know that he’ll be lucky if he lasts two days with BT.”

  My reputation… everything that was real about me that I thought people truly believed… was being torn to shreds. Sputtering. Flailing. Falling.

  And I’d do anything to try to get the world to stop questioning the person my heart hoped they still believed me to be.

  Anything.

  Including re-infecting myself with the disease that—through what felt like extensive broken heart surgery nine years ago—I’d barely managed to recover from.

  Blake Tyler.

  Superstar.

  Sad story.

  Track 01: Reputation

  “They said, ‘you’ve gone too far this time.’ The thought never even crossed my mind.

  On my knees, I’d beg you to stay. Turns out knees are just a pit-stop on the fall from grace.”

  A LOT CAN HAPPEN IN a decade.

  I slipped off my shoes and crossed my legs as I stared at the wall in my manager, Bruce’s, office. A decade in photos, news articles, magazine interviews, and award letters that tracked every move of my brightly shining star from the moment it had been rocketed into the orbit of fame.

  I saw myself—the homegrown little girl from Tennessee who liked sweet tea, every flavor of chewing gum, reading James Patterson novels, and sleeping in a tree house under the stars—standing in a place that I never in a million light years thought I would be. From acres of land and freedom to roam to a personality cult where personal space is non-existent.

  #superstar

  #famous

  Sometimes I sat here and felt like I didn’t know that girl with all the make-up, holding her guitar up in front of a screaming crowd of seventy-thousand fans with the biggest smile on her face. Sometimes, I still felt like I was on the outside, trying to look in.

  “Hey, girl! So sorry I’m late!” Taylor said as she crashed in through the door, holding a million bags and coffee travel cups in both hands.

  Petite, with an asymmetrical mahogany bob that was in complete disarray, and a brilliant white smile, Taylor Hastings was an organized mess who was single-handedly responsible for keeping my life—and me—together. She was my PR manager-slash-publicist-slash-best-friend-slash-keeps-Blake-sane. She was my person—my go-to for everything. We’d known each other since middle school and I didn’t care that she didn’t have a degree in any of the things that she did for me; the fact that she’d come out on top (Prom Queen, Homecoming Queen, Class President and Valedictorian) and managed to stay friends with everyone in our class was enough qualification for me. ‘Popular’ made the best PR.

  I also may have been slightly freaked out when my debut studio album shot to the top of the charts within a few weeks after my seventeenth birthday and before you could flash a camera, I was opening for the likes of Justin Bieber, Ed Sheeran, and Maroon 5.

  Taylor had been my tether back to home and reality when fame tried to rebuild my world on fantasy. She was the anchor that kept my boat from being swept away with the storm. And over the past eight years, we clung to each other while we navigated the entertainment industry.

  Well… I wouldn’t call it an industry. Most days it felt more like the Hunger Games. I’d been picked as tribute and every song, every album, every performance was one more step to see whether I was going to make it out alive.

  May the octaves be ever in your favor.

  “God, you’re such a bag lady!” I teased, standing to take my Chai Tea latte from her hand. “Calm down; Bruce isn’t even here yet.”

  “Seriously? I just got off the phone with him like an hour ago,” she gasped, dropping one armful of stuff. “I swear. Sometimes, I think he forgets that you’re—oh, only the biggest pop star in the world. Like no big deal, dude. Just keep Blake Tyler waiting.” She rolled her eyes and I couldn’t stop myself from laughing at her dramatics.

  Bruce Pillars was my manager and for all his awkward quirkiness, he was considered the best in the business which is why I’d hired him at the very beginning even though four years of college would have been cheaper than what he billed. He was direct to the point of insult, abrupt to the point of rude, but knowledgeable to the point of premonition. He also had the habit of being perpetually late.

  “Sorry, just anxious to get this over with,” she mumbled grumpily.

  I winc
ed, burning my tongue on the steamed soy milk that was still too hot to drink.

  “Everything ok?” I asked with concern, setting the damaging liquid back on the coffee table, and crossing my legs on the black leather couch. I began to pull my straight blonde hair back into a ponytail and when she didn’t respond, I added, “I know you’ve been crazy busy getting everything ready for round two of the tour. I feel like I haven’t seen you.”

  It was in the middle—the intermission—of my Lovestruck album tour. The first leg had been our European shows; two weeks ago, we’d landed back in the US to regroup and re-organize and spend the holidays at home before we would start our trek through most major US cities at the beginning of the New Year. I’d been in a bubble of photoshoots, interviews, and promos for the past two weeks in New York City, all the while trying to find elusive inspiration for my next album that I was supposed to be writing.

  Busy was good.

  Busy meant ignorance and ignorance meant bliss.

  It had been a whirlwind and I was more than ready to go home and relax with my family for a few days before the craziness started all over again. And then Bruce had called this morning and asked for an emergency meeting before our flight home to Nashville this afternoon; he never had emergencies.

  Not when it came to me.

  “It’s… alright,” she replied hesitantly, with a tone that had completely changed to something much more somber. “How are you? After Levi?”

  And my blissful ignorance was coming to an end.

  My eyes fell, staring blankly at the lid on my tea.

  Levi Janssen was one of the hottest DJ’s out of the Netherlands. I met him right before the start of my European tour and we clicked. Of course, I thought it was fate that I was heading overseas, my tour aligning with some clubs that he was scheduled to DJ at. So, we’d jumped from a few casual dates to basically a three-month vacation together.