All These Roadworks introduction:
The following text is the fourth chapter of Icon by Tori Hamlin. This story follows Brittany, a beautiful virginal teen who dreams of success as a gospel singer. But when she gets an offer of paid streaming on a dubious website, her father pushes her to take the deal – and Brittany finds that her new pop image isn’t quite what she expected…
This chapter picks up immediately after Brittany has learned what she’ll be expected to do as part of her new contract. If you like what you read, you can get the complete e-book in the All These Roadworks store right now for only $7.99 USD! (Click here to view in store.)
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Chapter 4 – Difficult Bitch
Brittany slammed the front door so hard the crucifix above the entryway rattled on its nail. A clatter of keys hit the linoleum, echoing through the Rivers’ split-level as she stormed straight into the living room, still in her humiliation costume: bubblegum miniskirt, plastic shopping bag, and a crop top so tight it threatened to expose both her nipples and her capacity for self-loathing. Every step she took left a faint trail of vanilla body spray and righteous fury.
The living room was straight out of a Hobby Lobby fever dream: cream-colored walls peppered with decade-old family portraits, chunky throw blankets with words like “Love” and “Home” stitched in cursive, and a rug so worn its floral pattern had faded into a field of beige and mystery stains. The only new item was the fifty-five-inch plasma TV, which Bill watched like it was a window into Heaven, and which currently blared a news ticker about gas prices no one in the room cared about.
Bill sat in his command center, La-Z-Boy recliner, extra-wide, built for a man who expected comfort as a birthright. He wore the same sweatpants from last night, plus a sleeveless tee that advertised a local auto body shop. A magazine lay open on his lap, but he wasn’t reading. He was scrolling his phone, thumbing through his preferred echo chamber, the air around him thick with his usual cologne: musk, sweat, and a hint of beer.
Tanya occupied the opposite end of the couch, knees together and ankles crossed, her floral dress still so bright it hurt Brittany’s eyes. She was dabbing at the screen of her Kindle, lost in a romance novel, but the moment Brittany entered, Tanya’s gaze flicked up, concern already stretching her face into a mask of “Mother Knows Best.”
Brittany stopped in the middle of the room, the shopping bag swinging in her grip. “Well, I hope you’re both happy,” she said, loud enough to compete with the TV.
Bill barely glanced up. “What now?”
Tanya set her Kindle down, as if prepping for triage. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?”
Brittany dropped the bag on the coffee table. “They want me to dress like—” she gestured at her own body, “this. For every stream. They said I can’t sing any more worship songs. They said I have to lip-sync to pop tracks written by some girl named Kelsey, who calls herself my ‘spirit animal.’ I almost threw up.”
Bill made a noise that landed somewhere between a grunt and a snort. “Did you think they were paying you ten grand because you play guitar real nice? Come on, Brit. Nobody gets famous for being a prude anymore.”
Brittany’s jaw tensed so hard she thought it might snap. “That’s not what you said. You said I’d be an ‘inspiration to girls everywhere.’”
“Yeah,” Bill said, “because they’ll want to be you. Not like before, when you looked like a backup singer for a Christian summer camp.”
Tanya interjected, her voice syrupy with concern. “Honey, you look adorable. It’s just clothes. If you don’t like the skirt, we can go shopping for something you like better, but you have to trust the people who know the business.”
“It’s not just clothes,” Brittany shot back. She could feel the tears coming already. Damn it, why couldn’t she just be angry like normal people? “He said I had to ‘show skin’ if I wanted anyone to care. He said my ‘brand’ is being a wholesome girl who gets corrupted. Is that what you want? For everyone to think I’m a slut?”
Bill put his phone down and fixed her with a look that was equal parts disappointment and disbelief. “I want you to toughen up, Brittany. Jesus. You think every pop star out there wants to dress like a stripper? No. But they do it. They suck it up, they make the money, and then they get to do whatever they want.” He let that hang in the air like a verdict. “You want to back out? You can. But don’t expect a second chance.”
Brittany stood there, stunned. The rage that had propelled her through the front door fizzled out, leaving only the mortification of being discussed like a defective product.
Tanya tried to rally. “Bill, don’t be so harsh. She’s just scared. Aren’t you, sweetie?”
“I’m not scared,” Brittany said. “I’m pissed off. I don’t want to sell my body so you can brag to your friends about your famous daughter.”
Tanya gasped—actually gasped, hand to mouth, as if Brittany had just barked the f-word at family dinner. Bill’s eyes went hard and small.
“That’s enough,” he said. “You don’t talk to your mother that way, and you sure as hell don’t talk to me like that. You want to be an adult? Act like it. Take some responsibility.”
Brittany’s hands were shaking now. She wrapped her arms around herself, the miniskirt riding up her thighs as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. “If I’m supposed to be an adult, maybe stop treating me like a kid,” she managed, voice quivering on the edge of a sob.
Bill pushed out of his recliner, using the armrests for leverage. He was bigger than he looked sitting down, and for a second Brittany almost flinched. He walked right up to her, so close she could smell the beer on his breath, and stared her down.
“Here’s how this is gonna go,” he said, low and steady. “You are going to march right into your room, call Ronald, and apologize for being a difficult bitch. You’re going to do every goddamn thing they tell you, because that’s how life works. You do that, and I’ll have some respect for you. You keep whining, and you’re not even welcome at this table until you figure out how to grow up.”
Brittany opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Just the sound of her own heart pounding in her ears.
Tanya, from the couch, tried to salvage something. “Please, honey. It’ll be okay. Ronald is on your side, he just wants to make you a star. Sometimes you have to play along until you’re the one in charge.”
Brittany wanted to scream. Instead, she grabbed the shopping bag and turned on her heel, stomping toward the hallway.
“Don’t slam the door,” Bill called after her, as if that was the thing that would ruin the night.
She didn’t slam it, but she wanted to.
She could hear Bill muttering in the living room, “Goddamn brat,” and Tanya’s anxious whispers.
“She’s just overwhelmed, it’s a lot for a girl.”
But the words faded as she reached her bedroom and shut herself inside, the click of the latch both a comfort and a defeat.
She set the bag on her bed and stared at it for a long, bitter minute. She could still feel the humiliation burning in her cheeks, the tightness in her throat. She wanted to take the stupid clothes and burn them, or at least shove them in the back of her closet where they could rot with her dignity.
But mostly, she just wanted to crawl under the covers and never come out.
Instead, she sat on the edge of the mattress and fished her phone from the bottom of her purse. Her hands were shaking so bad she almost dropped it.
She pulled up Ronald’s number and stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen. She pictured his face, oily, smug, and probably already halfway through a cigar, and felt a fresh wave of nausea. She thought about Bill, about the hard glint in his eyes, and about the way he’d said “bitch” like it was her new legal name.
Her thumb stabbed the call button before she could think better of it. The phone rang twice before Ronald picked up.
“Talk to me, superstar.”
She swallowed, tasting bile. “It’s Brittany. I just—” She closed her eyes. “I’m sorry for being a… a difficult bitch. I’ll do what you said.”
There was a pause, then the sound of Ronald’s laughter, loud and satisfied. “That’s what I like to hear. Don’t worry, Brit. We’ll make you a legend. See you tomorrow, bright and early.”
He hung up before she could say anything else.
Brittany let the phone fall to the bed. She stared at the ceiling, willing herself not to cry, but the tears came anyway, hot and bitter and unstoppable.
Out in the living room, the TV volume ticked up. Bill and Tanya laughed at something, but it sounded like it was coming from a different house entirely.
Brittany curled into a ball, still wearing the crop top and skirt, and let herself cry until she was empty.
Only then did she realize she’d left the door unlocked.
The moment Brittany hung up, the house went silent except for the fridge’s death-rattle hum and the faint click of Bill’s jaw as he ground his teeth. For a full five seconds, neither parent spoke. Brittany waited in the center of the living room, arms wrapped around her belly, as if hoping to squeeze the shame out through her pores. Her face felt hot, her eyes hotter. If she moved, she’d break into a thousand ugly pieces.
Bill was the first to move. He put both hands on his knees and pushed up from the recliner, looming over her with the slow, deliberate weight of a man who’d practiced this scene a hundred times in his head. He sniffed, squared his shoulders, and spoke in a voice that was two-thirds authority, one-third disappointment. “Did you do it?”
Brittany nodded, unable to look at him.
He grunted. “Good. You just learned a lesson, princess: when you screw up, you own it. No more whining, no more back-talk. That’s how the real world works.”
Tanya shifted on the couch, offering a tremulous smile. “We’re proud of you, honey. Really.”
But Bill wasn’t done. He sized Brittany up with the cold calculus of a football coach after a blown play. “But seeing as you forgot how to respect your elders, you and I have another little issue to address.”
Brittany’s stomach dropped into her ankles. She’d hoped he’d just yell, or maybe ground her. But the look in his eye said something else, something old and mean.
“Get over here,” Bill said, voice barely above a growl.
Brittany froze. “Dad, please—”
He cut her off with a glare. “I told you. Actions have consequences.” He jabbed a finger at the couch. “Bend over the armrest.”
Tanya’s hands fluttered nervously, but she didn’t protest. Instead, she reached for her phone, like she needed a distraction.
Brittany’s legs moved on their own, carrying her to the center of the room, every step heavier than the last. She planted her hands on the worn chenille of the couch’s armrest and bent at the waist, miniskirt riding up until it barely covered her ass. She was acutely aware of the way her thighs quivered, the way her breath came in shallow gasps.
She wanted to beg, just this once, please, but her voice was locked somewhere behind her ribs.
Bill took his time, moving in close. The smell of his cologne hit her first, then the heat from his hand as he pressed it to the small of her back.
“Count of ten,” he said. “You lose your place, we start over.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, bracing herself.
The first smack was so loud it echoed off the family photos. Brittany yelped, more in surprise than pain, but the sting followed fast, blooming across her skin. She blinked, tears already smudging her vision.
“One,” she whispered.
The second landed even harder. She bit her lip, trying not to cry out.
“Two.”
Bill kept a steady rhythm, slow, methodical, each slap punctuated by a lecture.
“This is for your own good.” SMACK.
“You need to learn.” SMACK.
“I won’t have a brat in my house.” SMACK.
By five, her voice was a ragged squeak. By eight, she’d started to sob, shoulders shuddering, tears running freely down her cheeks.
After the tenth, Bill let his hand linger on her hip, squeezing just enough to make her feel smaller than she already did.
“Stand up,” he said, like he was dismissing a recruit from boot camp.
Brittany straightened, swiping at her face with the back of her hand. Her ass throbbed, hot and exposed, and she realized with horror that her panties had wedged halfway up her crack.
She tugged her skirt back into place, face burning, and glanced at Tanya, hoping for a flicker of sympathy. All she got was a watery smile and a whispered, “It’s over, baby. You did great.”
Brittany didn’t wait for more. She bolted down the hallway, each step sending a fresh jolt of pain through her backside, and shut herself in her room. This time, she locked it.
She collapsed onto her bed, face first, not caring that her makeup would stain the pillowcase. The air in her room was thick with the vanilla scent of her own body spray, plus something darker. Shame, regret, the lingering musk of her father’s cologne.
She buried her face in the stuffed bear she’d had since second grade, muffling her sobs. The walls around her were lined with posters of Christian bands. MercyMe, Casting Crowns, Hillsong in various shades of blue and white. Each one stared down at her with expressions of bland encouragement. Her desk was crowded with framed Bible verses and a tower of battered devotionals, every one dog-eared and highlighted to death.
She squeezed the bear until her arms hurt. She wanted to pray, but the words felt fake, hollow. Instead, she lay there, counting the stripes of pain on her ass and the number of times her dad had called her a brat.
At some point, the tears slowed, then stopped. She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, letting the low whine of the air conditioner and the thump of her own pulse drown out everything else.
Tomorrow, she’d have to face them again. Tomorrow, she’d have to pretend nothing happened.
But tonight, she could be alone.
She hugged the bear closer, shut her eyes, and wished for morning.
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