The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1)

by Shelby Rebecca

  The Stage

  A Phoenix Rising Novel, Book One

  Shelby Rebecca

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.

  All songs and/or quotes are the property of their copyright owners.

  Copyright © 2014 Shelby Rebecca

  Kindle Edition

  Edited by Juli Valenti of Juli’s Elite Editing

  Proof Read by Marlene Engel of Book Mama Blog

  Cover Art by Kari Ayasha at Cover to Cover Designs

  Interior formatting by Paul Salvette at BB eBooks

  ISBN-13: 978-1500225612

  ISBN-10: 1500225614

  Dedication

  For Mitchell. What I wouldn’t do for one more hour with you.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  About the Book

  Book Description

  1: Call Back

  2: Silhouette Auditions

  3: Team Kolton

  4: Call Me Kole

  5: You Want a Challenge?

  6: Midnight Song

  7: Challenge Round

  8: Personal Reasons

  9: Chemistry

  10: Visitor

  11: It Can’t Be Me

  12: Dead Battery

  13: You Have the Controls

  14: House of Royce

  15: Decisions, Decisions

  16: Secrets

  17: Steps Ahead

  18: The Club

  19: The Grass

  20: Slither

  21: Audi 5

  22: Minute to Mistake

  23: Hover

  24: The Phoenix

  25: Permission

  26: Bottom Three

  27: Caught Up

  28: Rooting

  29: The “L” word

  30: Stay

  31: The Finale

  The Tour: Book Two Preview

  Other Books

  About Shelby Rebecca

  Acknowledgments

  About the Book

  Warning: This book is intended for an adult audience 18 + due to adult content, language, and graphic scenes of a sexual nature.

  This is book one in a two book series. There is a preview at the end of The Stage called The Tour Preview. Read it at your own risk. This book does not end in a cliffhanger, but the preview does.

  Book Description

  Mia, the saint.

  Kolton, the sinner.

  Kolton Royce is a tatted, bad boy rock star at the top of his game.

  Mia Phoenix is an overly responsible nineteen-year-old striving for stardom since losing her parents in a house fire.

  When Mia ends up on Kolton’s team for the debut of the new nationwide singing competition, The Stage, she’s not sure if it’s her or her voice that he’s hell-bent to control.

  After he takes special interest in her welfare, they’ve been warned, any contact between them outside of filming is strictly forbidden.

  He has other ideas.

  She’s a phoenix rising from the ashes, the only one who understands the pain that lies beneath the persona. Though he’s not sure if he’s too bad for her, he can’t stay away.

  All sinners have a past. All saints have a future. But does being born in fire make the fissures weak in all the wrong places, or stronger than they’ve ever known?

  CHAPTER ONE

  Call Back

  “Your name?” asks the woman from behind the Call Back check-in table for the new singing competition, The Stage.

  “Phoenix. Mia Phoenix,” I answer with my heart pounding against my chest wall.

  “ID, please,” she says, quickly, so I rummage through my bag. Nothing’s in order since they made me dump everything out during their security check. I hand her my driver’s license.

  “Good name,” she notes idly as she glances at the card. “We can work with that. You’re nineteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, tell me, what’s your story?” she asks impatiently, her foot tapping rapidly under the table.

  “Story?” I ask, genuinely confused.

  “Yeah, you know, like what have you had to overcome in your life? What kind of hardships are you dealing with? What drives you as an artist? We’re looking for contestants who have a story—for the ratings.”

  “Tell ‘em, Mia,” my eager and ever-frustrating best friend Kaya pipes in. I shake my head ‘no’ as she pulls on my sleeve.

  “I just want to sing,” I tell Kaya. “I’m not going to capitalize on what happened just for a chance on this show.”

  “Capitalize on what, Ms. Phoenix? Because we already know you can sing. This is the call back. If you want a chance on the show, you should probably share with us what sets you apart from the others.”

  I glare at Kaya. This is all her fault, convincing me to come after the producer contacted me on YouTube, forcing me to take the bus all the way to The Conference Center in San Francisco, waiting here two hours past my call back time. All of this.

  But the truth is, I know, deep down, I want this. There’s no better way to boost my non-existent career than to get on one of these nation-wide competition shows. And, according to the posters all over the flippin’ place, there’s some big names signed on as coaches: Kolton Royce, resident rock god, Danny McKoy, country artist extraordinaire, Pulse, the R and B soul man, and Selma Ramirez, the sexy Latina with the voice and booty to die for.

  Usually these shows are judged by seasoned, older stars. What’s kind of cool about this competition is the artists aren’t judges. They’re the coaches of their own team of competitors. Plus the artists are on top of the billboard charts and iTunes now, not ten years ago. It seems like a fresh take on the whole singing competition thing, too, because they promise there are no silly contestants in chicken suits, and the way to get on a team is through a silhouette audition.

  The auditions take place with the contestant on stage in the dark until two of the four coaches vote yes. Then the lights turn on and everyone can see what the singer looks like. Not that I look bad, but it forces them to just hear me before making up their minds. It’s kind of liberating—and unique.

  It might be my chance. And I don’t have only myself to think about. There are two of us. Me and Riley. She needs more than I can give her as a struggling college student and part time singer, with a dwindling bank account from the insurance money that’s not going to last long.

  “There was a fire,” I finally say. “Last year. My parents. They both died. I’m raising my nine-year old sister, Riley. Alone.”

  “Were you in the fire, too?” She asks, and, for a second, I smell it, the sharp scent of smoke in my nostrils, like burned wood, furniture, lives turning to ashes. I see the window where my parent’s bedroom was—flames reaching out like arms in the night. I can feel Riley’s soot covered hand in mine as I pull her down into the grass in the front yard. I can feel the burns on my feet like they’re raw and new—stinging from contact with the night-time dew clinging to the skinny blades of grass.

  I nod my head yes.

  “Holy shit!” she says. “Your last name is Phoenix. It’s like the Phoenix rising from the ashes. Like, literally.” And, just like that, I sold my soul to the devil. One little piece, but that’s how it works. I close my eyes a
nd make a promise to myself. After this, you will not use your pain over their deaths to promote yourself—ever again.

  But, I realize, in life we all use each other. They’ll use me for ratings. I’ll use them to get myself out of this mess of a life I’ve inherited. Humans use humans. It’s just the way it is.

  I’ll try to get votes. I’ll get my voice on iTunes. Through it all, I might find a certain type of safety: financial security.

  This is for Riley. I don’t have the luxury of holding on to my dignity, or my values, when I’m running out of money. And, why waste this opportunity? They wrote to me, after all.

  “Here’s your artist pass,” she says, handing me a badge. “Now, follow the green arrows down that hallway. You’re going to sing again, this time on camera, and in front of a panel. She has to stay behind,” she says, nodding to Kaya. I reach for her and she hugs me.

  “You’ve got this, Mia,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I made you tell. I’ll take you to the Stinking Rose after this.”

  “No one’ll be able to stand us on the bus ride home,” I tell her, feeling a little teary-eyed.

  “Who cares? It’s worth the stinky garlic breath,” she says, shrugging. I nod and push back my fears, turn, and walk down the hallway that leads to an open door. It’s simple inside. A camera is pointed toward a folding director’s chair that glows from strategically placed lights in front of a dark blue backdrop. The previous contestant is just finishing up her interview. She’s crying. Shit!

  “Your artist pass,” says a young woman wearing jeans, a blue shirt, and a hat that says, ‘The Stage.’ She’s listening to her headset and reading over my info. There’s a table next to the camera with producers tucked behind laptops.

  “Mia Phoenix,” she says. “Have a seat.”

  We all have to make sacrifices, I think as a lady comes up to me with a make-up cart and begins applying foundation, and then some blush, mascara, and some light gloss.

  “The camera will wash you out,” she explains before pulling her cart back off to the sidelines.

  I feel the camera lens boring into me. It feels hot in here and my eye twitches. The lights burn into my skin. The laptop people don’t talk to me, which makes me even more nervous. I start picking at my nail polish.

  This is for Riley—for our future, I remind myself, and swallow down my nerves, forcing them to go away. Just like I’ve always done on stage. I purposefully bring out the Mia Phoenix who can’t be fazed.

  A lady with frizzy hair talks to me from behind the laptop. “Hi, Mia,” she says. “How would you describe your style?”

  “Kind of Ellie Goulding meets Rhianna, with some KT Tunstall mixed in,” I say, and smile, knowing I’m really smiling at some executive who’ll be watching this video. I run my fingers through my long black hair.

  “Great. We’d like you to sing the song that best showcases your voice so we can share this with our executive producers.”

  As I sing all the way to the hook for Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep,” she raises her hand.

  “Do you have anything else?”

  Shit. “Yeah,” so I move right into Anna Kendrick’s “When I’m Gone.” Singing actually calms me down; although, I know she’s going to ask me about my parents, so I’m on edge. My palms are sweaty.

  “That’s enough,” she says as I sing the last line. “So, Mia, can you tell us a little about your parents and the fire? You’re raising your little sister alone. How much would it mean for you to win the first season of The Stage?”

  Relief. I’m glad she’s not asking for a play-by-play. So I decide to give it to them. I look at the camera and say with all sincerity:

  “It was my parents’ wish to see me sing on a real stage. When I’m up there, it’ll be in honor of them. What I do, the singing, is for my sister Riley. I’d like to be able to give her the life my parents always wanted for her. She deserves some happiness after all that’s happened to her—to us.”

  But what I hadn’t planned on was how saying the words out loud, however true they were, would pinch my heart. Just then, my throat feels like it’s closing up, and a real tear wells in my eye before falling down my cheek, followed by another on the other side.

  I tilt my trembling chin down, but a sick little part of me knows: That was the money shot. And, with that, I hate myself a little more than I already did when I walked in. “Thank you, Mia,” says the frizzy-hair lady. “Once the final decision has been made, you’ll get a call about coming to the silhouette auditions.”

  “So it’s not a ‘no?’”

  “Definitely not. We just need to run you by the executive producers.”

  “Thank you,” I say, feeling giddy, but also like I just sacrificed my first born. Kaya hugs me when I walk back out to the congregating tryouts and their supporting friends and family, yet to find out their fate. “Well?”

  “It’s not a no,” I say, smiling half-heartily.

  “Are you okay?” she asks.

  “I cried,” I say. “Not on purpose.”

  “Of course, not on purpose,” she says. “No one’ll hear your story and think you’re using it to get ahead.”

  “But aren’t I?”

  “No. Stop it. Now, let’s go eat too much garlic. You deserve it.”

  We take the red trolley—because I’ve always wanted to, and walk up to the Stinking Rose, a restaurant Kaya’s been to before. San Francisco is cool, no matter what time of year. Summer, too, like now. Ocean mist infuses the air making it crisp, cool.

  They seat us in the first booth opposite the door. There’s a mirror wall beside us that I keep catching Kaya looking at herself in. I dip the bread in, basically, a raw garlic dip and my mouth bursts with appreciation.

  It’s so bad it’s good. She and I decided to share a pasta dish with whole cloves of garlic, grape tomatoes, and Greek olives—their food is pricey. And, when we leave, the crisp ocean breeze air hits my hot garlic mouth and makes it feel like I’m sucking on ice. Man that garlic is strong.

  Those poor people on the bus with us on the way home didn’t know what hit ‘em. But all I can think about on our long drive back to Sacramento is, will they call me? Did I do enough to make it on the show?

  It won’t be long before I find out the news.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Silhouette Auditions

  I got to bring Riley with me to the filming in LA. They wanted her there for family interviews and to get shots of her cheering me on. I’m just glad I didn’t have to find a sitter for the whole eight days. Still, I can’t help but worry who’s going to look after her while I’m, well, busy trying out and all? Do they have a sitter on staff? In the excitement of finding out I’d got on the show, I’d forgotten to ask.

  They’re letting her stay in the hotel room with me—although I have two other roommates: one from Alabama, and the other from New York. They’re cool, but Riley’s favorite part so far has been the free breakfast she got to order in the hotel dining room. Eggs, bacon, pancakes; she’s tearing it up.

  “Do you know what my favorite Pokémon is?” she asks as I nibble oatmeal from a spoon.

  “Pikachu?”

  “Vaporeon,” she declares, like, hello, don’t you know anything?

  “I thought you like Pikachu?”

  “Vaporeon is my favorite type, a water type. Oh, and it’s blue, aqua blue. Hey, Mia can we paint my room aqua blue?”

  “We can’t paint a rental house, Riles.”

  “But when we get the house back, I mean.”

  “You want to move back there—to our old house?”

  “Yeah,” she says. There’s no doubt in her voice. I don’t want to talk to her about this now. I’d planned on selling it once the rebuild was done. After the insurance company did their investigation, they had to approve the whole house being torn down to the foundation. They’ve been rebuilding it for a few months. Even though it’s going to be new, it’s just wrong to move back, right? We could sell it and keep renting, for the time
being.

  I have an early check-in time for walk-up day, which is when the camera films Riley and I walking to the entrance of the studio. I’ve been told I’ll need to wear the same outfit for the whole four days of filming. So will Riley.

  After the wardrobe people adorn me in a simple, mid-thigh length, dark blue dress and some dangerously high heeled boots that cover the scars on my feet and ankles, Riley comes skipping into the room. Her hair was brushed and she’s wearing a pretty beige dress with Mary Janes and white socks.

  “Riley, you look so pretty,” I tell her before enveloping her in a hug. “You look like a movie star,” she says. I just smile and take it all in, the rushing and panicking around us. I tune it out and wait for our turn. We just have to pretend to walk up to the front of the studio. I already feel nervous, so I don’t have to be prompted to look like I am.

  Once they get their shots, they send us to get some audio. They’ve already scripted what I’m supposed to say. I talk about my parents and that they’d be proud of me now; that they are proud of me from above. I also explain how stepping up my music career will help me provide for Riley so I can give her a better life. After my part, I’m allowed to go back to the hotel.

  It’s about two o’clock as we make our way toward the shuttle and a black car pulls up to the back exit of the studio. I’m wondering who it could be when Kolton Royce, the resident rock god, hops out of the back seat of the car, a smirk on his handsome, dimpled-cheek face, and wearing jeans with a white T-shirt. Fans congregating near the exit scream, jumping up and down, but the sound becomes a hum in the back of my mind.

  I wasn’t expecting to see him in all his tatted, rock god glory, so I just stand here, stunned—my legs don’t work. I’m squeezing Riley’s hand too hard. I know this because she wiggles it.

  “Ouch!” she protests and I let go.

  Her words catch his attention; Kolton Royce turns and looks in our direction. “Sorry,” I say to Riley, and then look back at him.