While I know he means that in a religious sense, my mind works his words into something that directly relates to me. I’m tired of living a life I no longer want.

A flash of light pulls me out of my thoughts, and I scan the ridiculous number of people here for this moment. Most are reporters who are just here for a story. They could give a damn about allowing me to grieve in peace.

I mean, I just lost my fucking mother, don’t I deserve that?

The constant flash of the paparazzi surrounds me. Graveyards aren’t exactly private areas, and there’s no law stopping the vultures from swarming in and turning this tragedy in my life into a form of entertainment.

This is why I’m sick of the celebrity that comes with my job.

I’ve lost myself, and my life is no longer my own. People who’ve never experienced this level of privacy invasion will never understand how big of a pain in the ass this lifestyle is. Money and fame are overrated and not worth losing your soul to.

The moment the cemetery workers fire up the heavy equipment to push the dirt over Mom’s casket, I know my time to stand here and grieve is done. As strong as the urge is to drop to my knees and break down yet again over my loss, I refuse to put on a show for all these people.

I shove the sunglasses up my nose with my index finger and turn toward the awaiting car the funeral home provided for me. As I near the car, a tall, blond reporter rushes me with a microphone in her hand, firing questions.

“Ace, I’m Linda Bronson with Celebrity Pop Buzz Nightly. Will you be returning to the tour with your band, Wicked White?”

Her camera crew follows close on our heels, and I remain silent as she shoves the microphone in my face. I don’t see why people give a damn about my personal life. I’m a musician. That’s the only thing about me they should be worried about, but I know that making music for a living thrusts me into this crazy spotlight.

“Why did you give your band the middle finger?”

I still refuse to answer as I make it to the car and the driver opens the door so I can slide in. Once I’m inside the car, the flashes continue while they try to snag photos of me through the tinted glass.

I need to get away from all this madness. I can’t take one more goddamn minute of the reporters, the dicks in the band, or Jane Ann. I’m through with it all. I never want to go back.

When the car pulls away, I shove my hair away from my face and a thought occurs to me. If I’m going to go into hiding from the world, I’m going to have to change everything about me that the world knows.

My hair.

My beard.

Hell, even my name. My stage name will have to go. No one knows the name Ace Johnson, and that’s the way I intend to keep it.

The car pulls up to the hotel, and the reporters nearly break their necks as they rush me yet again as I make my way outside.

These people are fucking relentless.

After I get to my room, I pick up the phone and request the concierge to bring me a pair of scissors. I’ve always cut my own hair. It’s a curse/blessing of growing up poor. I never had a lot of money, so cutting my own hair was something I learned to do out of necessity.

Finally, after what feels like ten minutes, the bellhop arrives with what I’ve requested. I go straight to work combing out my shoulder-length hair and then chopping it off with the scissors. The locks float down into the sink in front of me. Each piece flutters almost as if it’s waving good-bye. Soon my hair is cropped into a short mess on the top of my head. I take care, styling it into a trendy disarray—a look that I know will throw people off my scent, making me unrecognizable. Next is my beard. It has to go too, so I take the scissors and cut away its nearly two-inch length, making it easier for the razor to shave my face smooth.

When I’m done, I stare at myself in the mirror. My nose is prominent, but not so big that it’s disproportionate, and it’s slightly crooked where I broke it when I fell out of a tree. It’s been so long since I saw this clean-shaven guy in the mirror. For once, I finally look twenty-six years old, not ten years older because no one can see my face beneath the beard and cloak of long hair. The light brown of my eyes matches the odd color of my bronze hair. Even I have a hard time recognizing myself, so I have faith that I’ll be able to slip out of here without being noticed as long as I keep my head down.

I pull on a black T-shirt and my favorite faded jeans before slipping on my boots. I don’t have much in the green duffel bag I brought with me, but it has enough clothes to last me awhile. The credit cards in my wallet access all the money I have in my bank, but I know if I want to disappear without being traced, I won’t be able to continuously use them. I need to pull some cash out and make do until I can find a job and get some money coming in.

When I get everything together, I take a deep breath and leave the room, setting out on a new adventure.

First things first: I need to find some transportation and an obscure place to stay. I’m ready to walk away from it all. I’ll admit I feel a little lost on what I’ll do with myself, but I haven’t felt this free in a long time. I’m going to make Mom proud of me and be a man who stands on his own two feet and lives by his own rules.

I don’t want to go back to that life. The fame—reporters always in my face—I’m done with it all. I want a life of simplicity, and that’s what I’m going to set out to find.

CELEBRITY POP BUZZ NIGHTLY

The camera zooms in on Linda Bronson, the leading gossip queen on the hit television show Celebrity Pop Buzz Nightly. Her long, blond hair flows over her shoulders in soft waves as her blue eyes stare straight into the lens.