by Bryce Oakley
The Kaleidoscope Album
Undone, Bewilder, Midnight, Bloom
Bryce Oakley
Copyright © 2020 by Bryce Oakley
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact [email protected].
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used for fictional purposes. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Edited by Amanda Laufhutte
Contents
I. Undone
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
II. Bewilder
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Epilogue
III. Midnight
Prologue
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Epilogue
IV. Bloom
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Epilogue
Thank you!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Bryce Oakley
Part I
Undone
Chapter One
Billie
“There’s no way in hell I’m writing with Vero De Luca,” Billie said, as she took a sip from her too-hot cup of coffee. She stared across the booth at the stern face of her manager, Micah.
“Why not? This is going to be the kind of exposure—”
She was cut off by two women coming up to the table with shy expressions.
“Excuse me, we’re so sorry to bother you, but we’re huge Shrikes fans, and we were wondering if we could take a picture?” One of the women asked, pushing her hair behind her ear. She was the kind of girl Billie’s sister, Domino, would easily take home, given the chance.
“Of course,” Billie smiled, her mood brightening. “I’m Billie, what about you two?”
“Leslie,” the woman who had asked for the picture said.
“Cara,” said the other.
“Leslie, Cara,” she said, looking into both of their eyes. "It’s so nice to meet you. Should we do a selfie or do you want my friend to take it for us?” Billie asked, raising an eyebrow as she glanced down at Micah, who was sitting at the table looking pleasant but not enthusiastic.
“Selfie. Angles and all that,” Cara said, blushing.
“Totally,” Billie said with a laugh. She wrapped an arm around each woman and Leslie held out the camera to take a picture.
“When is the next album coming out?” Leslie said looking eager after lowering her arm.
“Soon,” Billie said, grinning. “Really soon.”
The lie came out so smoothly that even Billie felt convinced.
The women smiled and said bye with waves and shy smiles.
In truth, the album hadn’t been recorded. It hadn't been recorded because it hadn’t been written. It hadn't been written because Domino was having writer’s block and the two of them had written the entire first album together.
Now, even Micah didn't trust Billie to write the songs herself.
Truthfully, the songs that Billie had been writing weren’t right for The Shrikes at all. The first album had been alternative, indie, and fun, but the songs Billie had been writing herself had ended up as full-fledged pop songs.
Domino always balanced her out. If Domino was Lennon, she was McCartney, and everyone knew McCartney was way too sugary without Lennon’s darkness. Silly Love Songs, anyone?
Not that she imagined herself to be on the Lennon/McCartney level, but hey, a girl could dream.
She slid back into the booth. “Tell me again why we need exposure, Mikey?” She asked.
Micah rolled her eyes. “Were those paid actors? Did you hire them before I got here?” She joked, pouring an extra half-and-half cup into her coffee.
“But seriously, I’m not writing a song for a pop star,” Billie said, clearing her throat.
“Well, you’re not writing songs for The Shrikes at the moment, so why not monetize your talent?” Micah asked, her spoon clicking against the cup as she stirred it.
Billie studied her manager’s face. Micah had been with the band since the early days, but she had changed drastically after their first album. She had leaned into the lifestyle they could now afford, and had micro bladed eyebrows, lash extensions, and plumped lips to show for it.
Billie, on the other hand, was a low-key dresser. She still wore the same type of clothes; still styled her hair in the same low-maintenance middle part. She wore either a leather or denim jacket over every outfit, no matter the season. She rarely wore makeup outside of shows and shoots.
The Shrikes had hit it big about three years before with their first album, Heart’s Content. They straddled the line of pop and alternative for the writers at Pitchfork to still like their albums but enough pop to have their songs on the charts and even a few singles on the popular alternative stations.
They had toured the world for a year and a half, and then they had settled to record their second album.
Except, it was now a year after that, and they still lacked material.
Billie usually wrote the songs with her sister, Domino, the bass player of the band. The songs rounded out with the help of Zoey and Meghan, the Shrikes keyboardist and drummer.
Zoey, their keyboardist, had accidentally become a fashion icon, adored by indie designers ‘round the world. And Meghan, the drummer, was recording with some European alternative band that Billie could never remember the name of.
But the band was antsy. Billie was writing, but it wasn’t their style. Domino simply didn't write at all, even when Billie flew them out to a secluded beach house in Maine without internet or phone access.
“Billie, come back to earth,” Micah said gently.
Billie grimaced. “Sorry,” she sai
d. She had a bad habit of getting lost in her head.
“Vero De Luca’s people have been talking to others at the label. They're interested in getting someone to write for her next album. But they want to make sure the chemistry is there, so they want you to write a song with Vero first,” Micah repeated her earlier pitch.
Billie sighed, finishing off her cup of coffee. Vero De Luca was a pop star, recently departed from one of the most popular girl groups du jour, UltraViolet. She was always in the tabloids with new boyfriends, bad breakups, and stories of drama that could only happen to a pop star with a million paparazzi following her every move.
In short, she wasn’t the voice that Billie imagined singing her songs.
“I don’t think we’ll be a good fit,” Billie explained.
“Just try it out,” Micah said. “What's the worst that could happen?”
Billie snorted. “That's what people say in the part right before something terrible happens in the movies.”
Micah scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “You’ll consider it, right?” She said.
Billie softened. “I’ll consider it,” she acquiesced. What she meant was: I’ll be nice now so I can say no later.
They paid for the coffees and parted ways. Billie walked to her car, taking in the LA sunshine and hint of ocean breeze. She had just shut the door when her phone started ringing Domino’s tone. She answered it over the car speaker and buckled in.
“So you’re writing for Vero De Luca, hmm?” Dom’s voice sing-songed in a tease.
“Did Micah call you already?” Billie asked, surprised.
“No, she texted. She wants me to try to convince you,” Domino said.
“Should I do this or not?” Billie asked, her knuckles tightening on the steering wheel. She valued her sister’s opinion, but she really only wanted Dom to agree with her.
Domino yawned, pausing before she spoke. "What's the harm in it? You're an incredible songwriter. Way better than me,” she said finally.
Billie rolled her eyes. “I’m a better songwriter when I have you with me. I've never written with anyone else,” she admitted.
“Aw, Billo, that’s very touching, and I think I’m a better songwriter when I’m with you, too. But you’re going to do fine. You’ve been writing songs without me for a while now,” Domino said.
“Yeah, but working with you, working alone, and working with Vero De Luca are three very, very different things,” Billie said.
“Maybe you’ll get to meet her dad,” Domino suggested, her mood brightening.
“What? Who’s her dad?” Billie admittedly didn't know much about Vero De Luca, besides the fact that she was a dramatic pop star.
“Are you fucking kidding me? Her dad is Felix Lucas. I thought everyone knew that,” Domino said, laughing.
Billie gasped, staring at the car stereo as if she couldn't believe those words had just come out of it. “The Felix Lucas?”
“Theone and only,” Domino said, her tone much lighter. “You must be living under a rock. The news only broke a few months ago, but now it’s even on her Wikipedia page.”
Felix Lucas was the lead singer of Fangs, one of the most important bands of the late 70s. They had completely changed the game for what rock could sound like, and they were an all-around well-loved band. They hadn’t put out an album for a decade or so now, but they had never sold-out and ruined their reputation. Billie had grown up on Fangs albums, listening to them in the car with her parents, then buying them herself when she was old enough. Fangs was a huge inspiration for The Shrikes, and she had even mentioned Felix Lucas among her heroes in a recent interview.
Her heart pounded in her chest. “Do you think Vero De Luca saw that I fan-girled over her dad in that Rolling Stones interview?”
Domino laughed. “Maybe that's why she had the label reach out to you. She can rope you in with genetic bribery,” she joked.
“Do you still have that Wikipedia page pulled up?” Billie asked, pulling into their neighborhood. She and Domino each owned houses on the same block — though, admittedly, Billie had been in Hermosa Beach first.
“Uh yeah, why?” Domino asked, sounding suspicious.
Billie pulled into her sister’s driveway, facing the backside of the large three-story home. “Because I want proof. I don't believe that someone as talented as Felix Lucas produced Vero De Luca. And why wouldn’t Vero ride those coattails? What’s with the last name change?”
Domino opened the back door, hanging up the phone. “Alright, Nancy Drew, get in here,” she called out, leaning against the doorframe.
An hour later, they had Meg and Zoey at the dining table, pouring over articles about Vero De Luca.
“Oh, here's something,” Zoey exclaimed, pointing to an article on NYLON and pushing her unruly curls away from her face.
The headline read: “Vero De Luca Is Impossible To Label” and read about how Vero had mentioned being fluid in her sexual preferences. “I don’t think it's a big deal," she was quoted as saying. “It's 2019. Let’s date who we want to date."
“Damn,” Meg said, popping a chip into her mouth. “That's pretty cool."
“Or it could be kind of like how a lot of stars claim to be queer, but you never see them dating anyone but the opposite sex," Domino said, arching a brow.
“There’s a lot you don't see. You know that," Zoey chided.
“She’s very pretty,” Meg said, winking.
“Oh, stop that," Billie said, raising her eyebrows. “She's not even my type."
“Yeah, we all know Billie’s type is… no one," Domino joked. “Since she never dates.”
“Not fair," Zoey interrupted. “She went on a date with my friend Julia…” She paused, staring up at the ceiling in silence. "Like eight months ago."
Billie’s mouth gaped. “Thanks for coming to my rescue with that one, Zo.”
Domino laughed. “Wait, wasn't Julia the date where Billie called us from the bathroom to fake a band emergency?”
Zoey pressed her mouth into a thin line.
“I believe I faked a broken arm for that one," Meg said, holding up her wrist. “It was a real Pete Best tragedy."
“Wait, Meg, you're thinking of the movie That Thing You Do,” Zoey corrected. “Not the actual Beatles."
“No, I'm pretty sure that's how Ringo got in,” Meg said, tilting her head as she considered it.
"That's how Guy Patterson got in the Oneders—” Zoey said, exasperated.
“Back on topic," Billie interrupted, putting a hand down on the table. Zoey and Meg both looked at her with wide eyes. “Are you guys sure you're okay with me writing with Vero? It's two weeks. I think it's only one song, but it'd be cool if we clicked and wrote more," Billie said.
“I think it's awesome,” Meg said, grinning.
“Yeah, you've been wanting to stretch your wings for awhile. We're all busy right now, anyway," Zoey added with a sidelong glance at Domino. “Well, most of us are busy."
“Oh, very funny, pick on the one with writer's block,” Domino said, her eyes narrowed. Billie wondered for a second if she was going to have to mediate an argument, but the grin on Domino's face revealed she was taking the jest with good humor.
“You’re sure?" Billie said. She had always felt the strong need to make sure everyone was in agreement.
“Billie, you sweet, baby angel. Go do something without the band,” Domino said, clapping her on the back. “Just don’t get any solo ideas, because none of us can sing.”
Meg shrugged. “It's true. Where would we be without our fearless leader, standing in front of the crowd in a crop top, melting the hearts of all genders everywhere?” she teased.
Billie rolled her eyes, snorting. “Laying it on a little thick there,” she laughed. "I’m coming back, y’all.”
The other three nodded solemnly, as if they knew something she didn’t.
“Well, if Vero sucks, just come home,” Domino said, as if it was that easy.
Chapter Two
&
nbsp; Vero
Vero stretched languidly on the couch. Besides the bird songs outside, the world was quiet. For once. For once, she could just be a regular woman, lying on the couch, reading a book and dozing in the sunlight coming through the windows.
Heaven.
She loved being home in the mountains of Colorado, where she had grown up. No cameras, no paparazzi, just normal life. She could finally relax. She especially loved Colorado in the early autumn, and how the air smelled of aging leaves and pine this time of year.
She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt and running shorts, with her hair down and unruly. No makeup. No fuss. No tabloids seeing bags under her eyes and wondering if she was using again.
“What do you want for lunch?” Elena asked, walking in from the back porch.
“I’m not hungry,” Vero lied. In truth, she just still felt strange asking Elena to make her food, even if that was part of the job description.
