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him to . . . dialysis three mornings a week.” She had to give it to herself—she could make up a good lie at the drop of a hat.

      “Oh, no,” Sheryl gasped. “Is she going to make it through?”

      “Prognosis is pretty good.” What about my prognosis?

      “Whew! I got goose bumps when you said that! What’s your cat’s name?”

      “Her name is . . . Fluffy.”

      “Awww,” Sheryl sang, “what kind of cat?”

      Cats have kinds? “Huh?”

      “Is she pedigree or just domestic?”

      “She’s . . . it’s a mutt,” Camille said.

      Sheryl laughed heartily. “You crack me up. Well, I certainly understand your situation with Fluffy. My little Yorkie, Valectra, had to do chemotherapy for a while, but it didn’t do the trick. We had to put him down last summer.”

      The word “chemotherapy” stabbed Camille’s heart. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

      “He’s in a better place now,” Sheryl conjectured. “You know what they say—all dogs go to heaven.”

      A weak laugh escaped Camille.

      Sheryl continued, “Why didn’t you tell me your morning schedule was so busy?”

      “I guess I didn’t want anyone to feel sorry for me,” Camille said.

      “Well, I’ve walked in your shoes. If you need to come in late and make up for it at lunch, that’s fine with me. We have to do what we have to do in order to care for our helpless friends. I’m willing to work with you,” Sheryl empathized.

      “Thank you.”

      “Take care. Hope to see you tomorrow.”

      For the record, she did feel a little guilty about lying. Sheryl’s heartfelt offer to be flexible with scheduling, however, opened up yet another door for the lifestyle Camille wanted. Freedom, freedom, freedom. Who knew this sick-cat invention could buy a piece of the pie?

      I’m a genius.

      After dozing off once more, Camille got to the business at hand. She originally thought cold calling music agents would be a piece of cake compared to pestering people who were more interested in making a little profit from a Coke machine than the water-purification systems her employer tried to sell.

      Time to make her own cold calls. She had her elevator speech ready to rip: Hi, my name is Camille Robertson. I sang with the R&B group Sweet Treats and I’m looking for an agent who can take my solo career to the top.

      The first two agents’ secretaries did nothing more than take her name and number and say the agent would get back with her if he was interested. Yeah, right.

      One assistant advised Camille to send in a demo. “Once you make the investment in presenting yourself well, we’re ready to make an investment in you.”

      Almost sounded like a reprimand. Camille double crossed them off the list.

      She refined her approach. “Hi, this is Camille. I just missed Stanley’s call. Could you put me through?” The old he-called-me-first trick, a staple in her current profession.

      At least she’d gotten past the screen for the next agency and actually spoken to a real live artist representative. But when Stanley figured out that he didn’t actually know Camille, he transferred her back to the secretary, who again took her contact information and put her name in file thirteen with the rest of the losers trying to get a break.

      Three hours later, she was still at square one. No leads. Nothing. Worse, there was only one agent left to call. Why weren’t people listening to her? She had experience. She was still sexy enough to sell at least twenty thousand CDs with just her face alone. And once people heard her voice, the rest would be history.

      That’s it! This agent needed to sample her singing.

      After squeaking past the administrative assistant with another lie, Camille found herself on hold for an agent named John David McKinney. His biggest client to date had been featured in USA Today and appeared on one cable television show to speak of. He obviously had some connections but not enough to put him in the top tier. If he had any sense, he would realize that he needed Camille as much as she needed him.

      Her stomach twisted with anticipation. What should she sing? What if he hung up on her? What if he had some kind of hearing problem and she messed up his hearing aid?

      “John David here.”

      Camille took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and belted out the same chorus she’d sung to the kids at the recreation center. She added a twist at the end—one of those Mariah Carey high notes, straight from her gut.

      Then she waited. Three seconds had never been stretched so wide.

      “Quite a range you’ve got there,” John David remarked.

      “Thank you.” Camille could feel the blood rush to her face. “I need an agent to help me share my voice with the world.”

      “You got a demo?”

      “No.”

      She heard a sigh on his end and figured she had better say something before she lost this live one. “But I can get one.”

      “Have you worked in this industry at all? Seriously, a demo is your calling card.”

      Camille explained her background, exaggerating the group’s fifteen minutes of fame into a half hour. She fabricated the CD sales figure, and ended with, “We parted due to artistic differences.” She’d read that somewhere online.

      “So, basically, you had one hit song, some residual success on a second CD, and then the group split up because its members couldn’t get along,” John David surmised.

      No sense in playing around with this man. “Right.”

      “Then just say so. I’m a busy man, I don’t have time for games, but I do appreciate your boldness and I can’t deny your talent. Can you meet tomorrow? One o’clock?”

      She smothered a squeal. “Yes.”

      “Bring some headshots and a copy of your previous CD.”

      “Okay.”

      “And another thing,” John David added, “don’t ever lie to me or anyone on my team again.”

      “Gotcha.”

      Camille jumped on her bed like her momma hadn’t taught her any better. “Yes! Yes! Yes!” she screamed.

      Then, just like in her dream, she slipped off the corner. She landed straight on her butt and yowled in laughter. That hurt. In a good, funny way. Camille cracked up even more now as she rubbed her backside. “Shoot!”

      Bang, bang, bang. Her downstairs neighbor communicated his dismay. Camille knocked on the floor and yelled, “Sorry.”

      She couldn’t wait to move out of this apartment complex someday. Someday soon.

      CHAPTER 6

      No makeup. No brush. No jewelry. Camille’s crusty lips threatened to pass along whatever “virus” she’d contracted. When she got to work, her first objective was to saunter by Sheryl’s door with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, Kleenex in hand.

      “Hey, Sheryl,” she eeked.

      “Oh my goodness, you look awful,” Sheryl cried. “I mean, in a sick person kind of way.”

      “I know, I know.” Camille sniffed, careful to guard her expression after the near insult. “I just didn’t want to let the team down.”

      Sheryl shook her head. “No. If the office catches what you’ve got, we’ll all be

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