Read Online Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) by Brandace Morrow - Free Book Online Page A

me up that my
parents are here, even if they don’t want to leave out of pride.
What the hell do I do now?

Chapter 10
    “Let’s go red.”
    “Oh, but this is your signature color, are
you sure?”
    I nod and grab the gossip magazines in front
of me to thwart any more conversation. The first thing I see is my
face, the old me. She looks high, white blonde hair, nappy, needing
a brushing like nobody’s business. She has thigh high leather
boots, stockings that are ripped and pulling at the seams, and the
caption is, “Has Popper relapsed?” No. No she hasn’t. I remember
making the cuts myself in the comfort of my home straight out of
the package. What the hell am I doing with my life? I look in the
mirror, seeing the fashionable woman working behind me, feeling her
pulling and tugging at the yard of hair afforded to her expertise.
Turning back to the magazine, I keep reading about how Popper from
Chimera is adrift in her career, relapsing into drug abuse and how
“inside sources” are worried about her.
    Fuck them.
    I have never been addicted to drugs, are you
shitting kidding me?! I’ve seen what the effects are, the chaos
that ensues as a result. No thanks. Granted, I’ve done them. When
you’re on tour and every adult around you is pushing them on you,
telling you it’s part of the life, you do it at least once. I sigh
and page through the rest of the vitriol that is mainstream media.
Shortly after, I’m pulling my Facebook page up on the phone.
    “Personal assistant? Slave? Did I catch your
attention? Drop me a line.”
    I hit send and think nothing more about it,
other than I need a damn assistant yesterday. I’ve been back from
Oregon for a day and the inaction to move my parents is already
eating away at me. Also starting this new show has me shaking my
leg in impatience.
    Three hours later, I’ve exhausted the gossip
rags and am ready to walk out the door. I’m never this inactive.
I’ve even responded to a million emails from fans that I never
would have thought to check before. I need an assistant. ASAP.
    It’s not until I check out that I’m aware
that I don’t have my wallet. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I
murmur, waiting in line at the busy counter. I hold my cell phone
desperately. “I’ll be right back. As long as it takes to get to
Malibu and back, I’ll be here with a credit card.” The girl looks
at me skeptically before my ‘hair artist’ comes up to her and
whispers in her ear. I pass over my cell phone as a gesture of
goodwill I don’t really think they’ll take, but they do.
    I hop into my car and jet toward my house,
racing as fast as I can. Fucking producers and their deadlines. I
hit my privacy gate on a screech, almost hitting the wrought iron
gate, punching the security code as fast as I can. I run in, grab
my wallet where it had spilled over on the counter and run back to
the door.
    There’s a man standing in my doorway. “Who
are you?” I blurt out.
    “I’m . . . I came because I—”
    “Oh! You saw the post, right? Well, come on,”
I interrupt, making my way back to the car.
    “I . . . what?”
    “I posted on Facebook about needing an
assistant. Wow, you’re fast. Do you need work? Get in, I’m about to
be late.” I slam the door and barely wait for the guy to figure out
that the door of my car goes up instead of out. He huffs and
buckles his seatbelt as he settles in.
    “So you saw my Facebook post. What are your
references?” I ask, cutting someone off and getting a horn blared
for my efforts.
    “I’m . . . I saw your post and I . . .” I
barely notice what he’s saying, trying to cut someone else off to
get to the exit I need to get there faster
    “That’s great. So you know how to arrange
things and make appointments. That’s basically all I need you to
do. If you can walk in there and pay my bill you have the job.”
    “What, where?” he asks before I slide into a
spot, performing a parallel parking job that would have taken
anyone