Chapter Two: How About Her?

Zach’s POV

One thing I wish I could do is to go back in time and not have a Publicist.

Unfortunately, at the age of twelve, my parents, two rock icons that created a pop legend, had bestowed my publicist upon me. This was to ensure that I had the image that record labels would want. I was a pop icon. My image should have been able to stand through anything. The saying “you can’t have rock and roll without drugs, you can’t have rock and roll without sex” was a lie. And did not apply for me.

The parade of women I was parading around was not what record labels were looking for.

The endless amount of pictures of me at parties was not what record labels were looking for.

The endless amount of hotel room destruction was not what record labels were looking for.

“Keep your head down, and find a good woman to hunker down and weather this storm,” Vince, my publicist, said. “And write some damn songs.”

Vince was not my first publicist, and most likely, he would not be my last. He was just Vince; he had been around for the previous four years and was not too annoying.

My image itself wasn’t the issue so much as I had not written or sang a new song in two years. I refused to be a sell-out and play anyone else’s songs.

Zach Rivers only sang his material.

My father could never say that as he played any song that was thrown his way. Sure he had some top singles, but none of it had a theme; you couldn’t hear it and say it was him. My material was original; it was me.

I wasn’t huge into drugs, but I would light up a joint to calm the nerves from time to time. There was this feeling I always had… that the other shoe would drop.

And it had.

“The label is pulling you, Zach” I knew it was bad when they called my father into the meetings. When I was a kid, he couldn’t control me, so why they thought he would be able to handle me now was laughable.

I laughed. “They can’t. I have two years left.”

“Wrong,” Vince said in the condescending tone he liked to use. “You have not written or sung anything in two years. They are keeping your albums but moving forward; they want a clean break.”

“What the fuck does a clean break entail?”

My father stood and walked over to in front of me. “Zach.”

“Father.”

“Clean the act up or do something. Your life is….”

“Fading away?” I smiled at him. “You mean I’ve only accomplished what two other artists have ever done?” I was my own breed, one of the best.

“You peaked, son.” He shook his head, looked at Vince, and said, “I tried.”

After he shut the door, I glared at Vince. “You are a fucking twat.”

“You have said worse.”

I had. Mentally abusing Vince was something I had done too much of, and he always stayed around.

I lean forward. “Fuck. You know how I am around him.”

“I do. Clean up the image. Settle down. That’s my advice” he glared at me.

Settle down?

Vince and I were heading to the airport the following day when he kept hammering on. “What about Olivia Delaney? She’s cute.”

Puke.

I had already had an on-again-off-again thing with her that no one knew about. I wasn’t proud of it either; she was the biggest bitch of Hollywood. When I say this, I mean to her workers and fans.

“How about her?” I asked, nudging my phone screen over to him.

“A dog groomer?”

“She owns her own dog grooming company and has a decent amount of followers.” I had been following her videos for about six months now.

Vince takes his phone out and starts pushing things into his screen.

“Owner of DogLife, seven million followers…” he’s scrolling on his phone as he’s reading. “I can reach out to her people.”

My hand takes back my phone he still had clutched in his one hand. “No.”

“No?” He looks over at me.

“I doubt she has people. She seems normal. It’s refreshing.”

Vince keeps staring. “Zach Rivers does not do normal.”

I huff. “I’ll see about that. It’s either her or no one.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “Fine. As long as it’s just her and no side pieces.”

“Just her,” I said, watching her newest TikTok video.

This time she was at DogLife, her dog spa, with a 130 pound St Bernard and was grooming him. She giggled every time the dog’s wet nose would find her. “Tobin, no,” she commanded in her sweet soft voice. And I realized when she laughed that I was jealous of a damn dog.

DogLife had the aesthetic of an upscale dog groomer. The building itself was sleek and black from the outside. When you stepped inside, it had natural light flooding throughout the whole lower level, which was the grooming section. Zoey had done a tour of it on TikTok when she moved out of the mobile vans into the building. The building and the makeover had to have cost a pretty penny. She either saved enough money, which was unrealistic, or had a couple of heavy backers. Black spiral case stairs led to the office level, which looked over the dog grooming bays. It was impressive.

A couple of articles had come out after her opening, and one of the quotes that were listed in the article was “Zoey Michael is the Michael Phelps of dog grooming.” If you had a dog, you were lucky to have this woman’s hands fluffing and cutting their fur. The world was a funny place.

I could have thought of a different plan. Something less crazy. But I never did anything half-ass. Because of Zoey Michael, I had traded ocean views for downtown New York City views.

“This was not what I had in mind,” Vince said; I was cradling my phone against my ear. This was the third phone call I had taken with him since the move.

I felt like all I did with Vince was defend myself. “I do not need a damn babysitter,” I said to him. “We do not need to be in the same state for you to be my publicist, and if you are saying we do, then I can find someone else.”

Vince detested New York City. California life was the only life for him. He was a thirty-year-old male who had already complained of early age arthritis. My last statement had him shut up real quick.

“That is not necessary. The apartment is ready for you and is move-in ready.”

My stalker tendencies may have gone a little too far in this scheme.