Fractured Fairy Tales: A SaSS Anthology

by Amy Marie

  When the last note fades, I open my eyes. A few hopefuls clap out of obligation, and Sean whistles from behind the bar. Cole jumps to his feet, clapping loudly. My gaze drifts to Ezra, whose face is unreadable, but his eyes follow me as I leave the stage and head behind the bar.

  I put away my guitar and smile at Sean, who pats my shoulder before calling the next name on the list.

  Cole pushes away from the bar and taps his friend on the back, then heads for the door. Ezra pulls a couple bills from his wallet and drops them on the bar, heading toward me.

  “You’re good,” he tells me as I take my place behind the bar, cleaning up a few empties and scooping tips into the bucket beside the register.

  “Thanks.”

  “Really good.”

  I smile and head down the bar, and he follows, the worn wood acting like a barrier between us. “You write your own stuff?” he asks.

  “Yep.” I keep my words clipped as he appraises me.

  He holds out his hand. “I’m Ezra.”

  I glance up at him. “So you said.”

  He tilts his head, then chuckles. “Right, sorry. It’s been one hell of a day.”

  “Sorry to hear that. You want another?” I nod at his empty glass, but his gaze remains fixed on me. Here it comes.

  “I have a proposition for you,” he says.

  And there it is. “Not interested,” I tell him, heading back the other way.

  He follows. “Don’t you want to hear what it is?”

  “Let me guess, you know someone, a friend of a friend in the music biz that could make me a star.”

  He laughs. “Something like that, but yeah. Your voice is—”

  I hold up a hand. “Look, I’ve heard that line before.”

  “It’s not a line,” he says. “I’m serious. I think you could be big.”

  “And the road to stardom begins on my knees, right?”

  His brows raise, and his eyes go wide. He shakes his head and reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a pen and what looks like a business card. He scribbles something on the back and slides it across the bar to me.

  “Look, I’m only in town for tonight. There’s a private jet leaving for L.A. at ten A.M. tomorrow morning. If you want a real chance at taking the next step in your career, be at this address by takeoff.”

  I scoff and slide the card back to him. He chuckles and brushes a thumb over his bottom lip. “You know, most people don’t make me work this hard.”

  I shrug. “I’m not most people.”

  His lips curl in a devilish smile that warms me all over. “Don’t I know it. I’m being serious here. Look me up, then pack a bag, and meet me at ten A.M. tomorrow morning at this address.” He slides the card back to me.

  “Right,” I chuckle.

  His smile never fades as he heads for the door.

  If I had a hundred bucks for every douche bag who offered to “take my career to the next level,” I’d be able to afford a private jet of my own.

  Liam swipes the card from the bar, hair mussed, and clothes rumpled. “What’s this?” he asks.

  “Just another jackass with connections in the Biz.” I twitch my fingers in quotation marks around my face, then grab a rag and wiping down the top.

  “Ezra King,” he reads. I freeze, eyes going wide. “What?”

  “Give me that.” I snatch the card from his hand. “Oh, my god.”

  “What?”

  “Oh my God, Oh my God!” I squeal, jumping up and down, my mouth gaping like a fish. “Do you know who that was?”

  “Ugh, Ezra King,” he says, unsure of my reaction.

  “As in the Grammy award-winning producer, Ezra King.” My throat goes dry, and I’m rooted to the floor. I stare down at the embossed gold letters. My body goes cold. Oh, my God. What did I say to him?

  “What does he want?”

  “He wants to fly me to L.A.,” I tell him. “Tomorrow.”

  “As in twenty-four hours from now?”

  “Ten A.M. so more like twelve,” I say, my head spinning.

  “Holy shit!” he exclaims. “You’re going, right?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I can’t just go to L.A.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I have a shift tomorrow for starters. I have rent and student loans to pay. I can’t just jump on a plane to a city where I know no one. Where would I stay? What if I get there, and they hate me?” What if—?”

  Liam steps forward, gripping my shoulder and holding my gaze firmly with his own. “What if a sinkhole opens up, and we all are sucked into the upside-down like Stranger Things?”

  My frown deepens, and he laughs. “You can play the what-if game until you are blue in the face, but you know as well as I do that if you don’t take this chance, you will regret it for the rest of your life.”

  “But what about my apartment? Hell, my job? Karen quit, remember? You haven’t even started interviewing replacements. I can’t leave now.”

  “Yes, you can. Gwen and I will manage.”

  “Manage what?” Gwen asks, stepping up beside him.

  Liam folds his arms over his chest and smiles. “Orelia’s going to L.A.”

  “What?” she squeals. “When?”

  “Tomorrow. Ten A.M.,” he tells her.

  Gwen scrunches her nose. “Wait, what?”

  He snatches the card from my hand. “Some big-time producer wants to sign her.” He hands her the card, and she scans it before scoffing at her husband. “He’s just looking to get laid,” she retorts as she twists her hands and begins to tear it in half.

  Liam and I dive for it at the same time, but I’m quicker, snatching it from her grasp before too much damage is done.

  “What?” Gwen asks. “This happens all the time. It’s a bullshit line, Orelia.”

  Liam pulls his phone from his back pocket and hands it to her. “Google him.” She frowns but takes the device from his hands, reluctantly typing the name into the search engine. Her thumb scrolls through the articles, eyes growing wider with every pass. Eventually, she looks up at me, her eyes blazing with excitement. “Orelia,” she says, “I say this out of love…but you’re fired.”

  Chapter 3

  Ezra

  The King’s Wrath

  The gossip mills are churning tonight after a blowup last night in Boston between Hannah Miles and her former flame, producer Ezra King. Insiders described a violent scene backstage after Miles’ concert. Sources say King trashed the star’s dressing room in a fit of rage before dragging the singer back to their hotel. Could this mean the tumultuous pair is back together, or has the King gone mad?

  I sip my coffee and try to drown out Cole’s voice as he reads the article aloud. I glance at my watch. Nine forty-six

  “Well,” he says, finally looking up from his phone, “there’s no such thing as bad press, ay?” He arches a brow and raises his cup.

  “Fuck off,” I groan.

  “Look at it this way, mate. It will do wonders for your street cred.”

  “You’re a dick,” I say, setting my now empty coffee cup on the table between us.

  “Think about it. You can finally break out of this bubble gum pop bollocks and produce that badass gangster rap album you’ve always wanted.”

  I narrow my eyes, glaring at him. “This has Phoebe written all over it.”

  “The publicist?” he asks.

  “She a fucking shark.”

  “Like attracts like,” he mumbles into his coffee, the sound barely audible. “The woman is bloody awful.”

  “Phoebe?”

  He groans. “No. Well, yes, Phoebe is a nightmare, but I was referring to the dreaded ex.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “Start what? I’m not going to say I told you so—”

  “Aren’t you, though?” I raise an eyebrow at him while signaling the flight attendant for another cup.

  “Perhaps.” He smiles, and I resist the urge to throw something at him.

  Maggi
e, the flight attendant, approaches, and I give her a tight smile as she sets a fresh cup of coffee down in front of me. “Thanks.” She smiles and makes her way toward the galley.

  Tires screech outside, and I can hear Hannah’s shrill voice demanding someone grab that and hold this. I don’t get up, don’t move to greet her. I refuse to cater to her diva bullshit.

  The energy shifts the moment she steps on the plane. She’s wearing a Sex Pistols tour shirt tied up under her boobs, an expensive-looking camel-colored men’s overcoat draped over her shoulders and a pair of baggy sweats with some sort of mystery stain by the knee. Her hair is stringy and unwashed, pushed away from her fully made-up face by her sunglasses. The finishing touch to her look is the spiked Louboutin’s on her feet.

  She’s just as much of a mess on the outside as she is on the inside. She slides the coat from her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and sashays her way down the aisle toward Cole and me, followed closely behind by none other than Phoebe the snake along with her stylist, Stu, no last name, and her makeup artist, Mariana.

  The three of them step over the coat, Phoebe barking orders into her phone, while the others appraise the cabin, noses scrunched in distaste as if the walls of the luxury G-5 are coated with lime green shag carpet.

  Maggie hurries, scooping the discarded jacket from the floor and moves to hang it in the closet near the front of the plane.

  “Careful with that,” Hannah snaps.

  I grip the armrests and grind my teeth together as Maggie carefully tucks the coat away.

  “Cole,” Hannah squeals, leaning down to kiss him on both cheeks. “I’m so sorry we’re late. Getting out of the hotel was a complete nightmare. Thanks for waiting.”

  Cole glances down at his watch and frowns. “Take off is scheduled for ten.”

  She turns, glaring at me, with a hand on her hip. “You told me nine.”

  “And yet, you are still almost an hour late.” I lift my coffee cup to my lips.

  She gapes at me, eyes wide as her painted red lips thin into a scowl. She stomps past me, toward the back, and I smile to myself. Phoebe and the rest of her entourage move to follow, and I throw a leg up on the couch across the aisle to stop them.

  Without missing a beat, Phoebe tries to nudge past me, but I’m not budging. Instead, I swivel my chair, kick my other leg up, and cross my ankles. Her eyes move from me to my thick black boots then up to Hannah for assistance, but she has already settled into her seat and isn’t paying attention.

  “Let me call you back,” she says into the phone, then turns to me with a saccharine smile. “Ezra. How wonderful to see you again.”

  “Out,” I point.

  She clasps her hands in front of her. “Oh, I have missed that charming sense of humor.”

  “Do I look like I’m joking?” I ask.

  She scoffs. “You can’t be serious.”

  I push to my feet, all six feet three inches of me now blocking her path. “You’ve lost your goddamn mind if you think I’m letting you on this plane. Now turn around and take Flotsam and Jetsam with you.”

  Phoebe doesn’t back down. “This about the article on Gabber this morning? I was just doing my job. You’re the one who barged in last night and caused a scene. Do you have any idea what kind of damage you caused?”

  “Oh, honey, you haven’t even begun to see the wrath of the King. Now, turn around and march your little ass back down the stairs.”

  “Jesus,” Hannah groans, “let them through, Ezra. Stop acting like a child.”

  “I can, and I will destroy you. You forget, Ezra, but I know all your dirty little secrets.” Phoebe sneers.

  “Oh, well, in that case…You’re fired.”

  “What?” Hannah barks at my back. “Have you completely lost your mind?”

  Cole watches the exchange, amused as I continue. “Now, get off my plane before I call security and have your escorted off.”

  “You’ll be hearing from my attorney,” Phoebe says, turning on her heels and immediately raising her phone to her ear.”

  Stu and Mariana look around me to Hannah. “Go,” I roar. “Now.” They scurry down the stairs and onto the tarmac.

  I turn back toward my seat and run smack into Hannah. “You have no right to do that,” she yells, her voice echoing through the metal tube.

  “Cut the shit, Hannah, and sit the fuck down. We are going back to L.A. to figure out a way to save your pitiful excuse for a career. That woman is just perpetuating the problem.”

  “Who, the fuck, do you think you are?” She looks to Cole. “Are you going to let him speak to me like that?”

  He doesn’t even lift his head to look at her. “I would’ve told you to sit your fat ass down. Sounds to me like he held back.”

  She scoffs and lifts her phone to her face. “I’m calling Malcom.”

  I pluck the phone from her fingers and toss it behind me. It lands with a thud on the couch. “Who do you think sent me?”

  Her eyes go wide, and it’s like someone flips a switch inside her. She steps closer, sliding her hands up my chest and pressing her boobs against me. “Come on, baby,” she coos, “don’t be mad at Phoebe, she was just looking out for me. You know how the press can be.”

  Over her shoulder, I see a yellow cab pull up. Phoebe works fast if she got a ride that quickly. Then again, if anyone could make it happen, it would be a shark.

  The sound of footsteps racing up the stairs draws all of our attention toward the door. Orelia appears, flushed and breathless but still completely stunning as a smile lights her face. “You said ten A.M., right? Am I late?”

  I glance down at my watch. Nine fifty-nine, and I can’t hold back the smile on my face. I lock in on a pair of big brown eyes framed in long dark lashes. Her teeth sink into her full bottom lip, and I can’t help but stare. She is undeniably beautiful. Not flashy or over the top, but a classic, subtle kind of beauty that can turn any man to a bumbling fool with just a glance.

  I can feel Cole’s eyes boring into me. “Is that the bartender from last night?”

  Ignoring his question, I grin. Her eyes move to Hannah still pressed against me, and I quickly step away. “You’re here,” I say.

  “Yes, but before we leave, I have questions.”

  My brows sink, and my smile fades immediately. “Okay.”

  “Well, for starters, where am I supposed to stay? I have some money saved but not move to California money.”

  My smile returns. Fuck, she’s cute. “Jeanne will have everything settled by the time we get there, hotel accommodations and a car service to take you where you need to go.”

  She sighs in relief. “Okay, but what does this mean exactly? You’re a producer. You’re not really in a position to offer contracts.”

  “I think I can be of service in that respect,” Cole says, rising to his feet. He tucks his phone inside his jacket pocket and offers her his hand. “Cole Silenus, Dionysus Records.”

  Her eyes widen as the recognition hits. “Um, okay, wow. Hi, it’s nice to see you again.”

  “Likewise. How’s Floyd’s stool?”

  She blushes. “Sorry about that,” she says. “It’s house rules.”

  “No harm done. I found it rather charming, actually. Although you should do something about the selection of scotch.”

  “I’ll be sure to let Liam know.”

  “Excuse me,” Hannah sneers, “does someone want to tell me what the hell is going on here?”

  The three of us turn to Hannah, but her glare is fixed on Orelia.

  “Right,” I say, mentally slapping myself. “Sorry. This is Hannah Miles,” I introduce, gesturing to her. Hannah doesn’t even try to hide her disgust. “Hannah, meet Orelia…I trail off as her last name escapes me. Did I even ask her for it last night?

  “Carlisle. Orelia Carlisle.”

  “What are you, a secret agent or something? Bond, James Bond.” Hannah cackles. My hands fist at my side.

  Orelia takes the offense in str
ide and gives Hannah a tight-lipped smile. “If I tell you, then I’d have to kill you.”

  Laughter burst from my throat in an embarrassing snort. Hannah glowers, and Orelia joins in with my fit. She shifts her bag on her shoulder, and I move toward her. “Here, let me take that for you.” I slide the bag from her shoulder and hand it off to Maggie. She smiles and heads for the front of the cabin.

  Orelia looks around the cabin, taking in the plush seats, clutching a battered guitar case close to her.

  The pilot comes out of the cabin. “We all set?” he asks me.

  I give him a nod and gesture for Orelia to take a seat.

  The pilot claps his hands together. “Alright. Buckle up, everyone. We’ll be on our way in just a few.”

  I take my seat and nod for Orelia to do the same. She settles on the couch, her delicate fingers searching for the seat belt. I lean forward, my arms caging her in as I find the ends and clasp them together in her lap, then tug on the end to tighten the strap. I glance up and meet her big brown eyes. We’re only inches apart, and this close, I can the ring of gold around the pupils. My breath catches in my throat, and I move back, my hands trembling with the need to touch her.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  Hannah drops into the seat beside Cole and snaps her belt in place, the scowl never leaving her face. If she’s not careful, the wrinkle in her brows with be permanent.

  Maggie secures the door and takes her seat as the pilot taxis toward the runway. His voice fills the cabin through the speakers as he details the flight time and our approximate time of arrival.

  My eyes never leave Orelia as she fidgets with the guitar case, picking nervously at the seam and staring out the window.

  Before we know it, we’ve reached cruising altitude and the captain signals it’s safe to move around. Maggie makes her rounds, asking if we need anything.

  “Vodka,” Hannah states, not as a request but rather a demand.

  “She’ll have tea, hot, with lemon,” I tell Maggie. I can feel Hannah’s eyes like needles jabbing into my skin, but I could care less as I turn to Orelia.