Fractured Fairy Tales: A SaSS Anthology

by Amy Marie

  A knock on the door draws my attention, and I pull the fluffy terrycloth robe tight around my body as I go to answer it.

  Ezra leans against the door frame, his grey hair curling artfully into his eyes. A sexy half-grin curls his lips as he takes me in from bare feet to messy bun.

  “Get dressed,” he says, stepping into the room.

  I scrunch up my nose. “Why?”

  His nostrils flare as he sniffs the air. Leaning in, he smiles. “Is that coconut?”

  I pull the robe tighter around me, suddenly very aware that I’m naked beneath the plush fabric. I nod.

  “It’s nice. Sweet.”

  I swallow, unable to tear my eyes from his. Instinctively, my body sways toward him. I blink, shaking myself free from the trance his eyes and that smile put me under, and take a step back.

  He shakes his head and runs a thumb along his bottom lip. My eyes immediately follow the path of his thumb, my tongue darting out to wet my own lips. This time, it’s him that seems mesmerized, and he lifts his hand as if to reach for me before dropping it back to his side.

  “Get dressed,” he says again, in a hoarse, strangled voice. “We’re going to a party.”

  “A party?” I ask. “I don’t really have any clothes for a Hollywood party.

  “Relax,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not that kind of party.”

  Chapter 5

  Orelia

  The garage door is open when we walk up the gravel drive. Orelia gnawed at her fingernails the entire drive out of the city. She didn’t talk much, didn’t bury her face in her phone either. It stayed silent in her bag, clutched to her chest. She didn’t trust easily. Although she did get in the car without knowing our destination, so she didn’t not trust me either.

  A couple of guys strumming acoustics nod to us as we pass. Mitch’s wife would have his ass if he pissed off the homeowner’s association again, so the electric stuff stays in the basement, which is thankfully soundproof.

  I reach back and offer her my hand before opening the door to the house. She eyes me for a moment before she takes it and lets me lead her into the fray.

  We step into a kitchen were guests mill about drinking beer or wine. A few gather around the pool table just beyond the breakfast bar.

  I pull Orelia behind me as I make my way around the marble island, snatching a celery stick from a vegetable tray as I pass.

  Sarah is talking animatedly with a woman in a bright orange caftan, who laughs as whatever story she’s listening to comes to a climax.

  “There she is,” I say, dropping Orelia’s hand as I step toward Sarah. She turns at the sound of my voice, her smile brightening as she throws her arms around me. I lift her off her feet and swing her in a circle, planting a kiss on her cheek as I set her down.

  She lays a hand on my cheek and gives me a pinch. “Where have you been?”

  “Taking care of business. You know how it is.”

  “Starting trouble is more like it,” she quips.

  I shrug. “Can’t believe everything you read in the paper.”

  “Especially if it comes from a reliable source.” She chuckles and looks past me. I glance over my shoulder, where Orelia stands, awkwardly hugging herself as she takes in the kitchen. “Who’s this?” Sarah asks.

  I step toward Orelia, nudging her forward with a hand on her lower back. “Orelia Carlisle, meet Sarah—.”

  “Mitchell,” Orelia gasps.

  Sarah nods with a polite smile and reaches for her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Orelia.”

  She goes stiff beside me as she stares wide-eyed. “I’m sorry,” she manages to choke out. “I’m a really big fan.” She laughs. “Cavernous was the first album I ever bought. I saved my allowance for weeks to get it on vinyl.”

  “Well, thank you, Sugar.” Sarah giggles and turns to her friend. “Jesus, Clara, are we really that old?”

  “You are,” the caftan woman replies into her wine glass as she takes a long sip.

  Sarah flicks her the middle finger and reaches for her beer.

  Orelia stammers. “I’m—I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

  Sarah laughs and lays a hand on her arm. “Oh, honey, I’m kidding.”

  I bite my lip to keep from laughing as some of the tension begins to ease from Orelia’s body.

  Tucking Sarah under my arm, I pull her close to me and press a kiss to her temple. “You are timeless, woman. You know that.”

  She pushes me away. “Timeless, my ass.”

  I make a show of checking out her ass and smile. “That’s pretty nice too.” She swats at me, and if I’m not mistaken, I can swear I see the hint of a smile on Orelia’s lips.

  “Where’s the old man?” I ask.

  She tips her head toward the basement stairs. “Where else?”

  I give her another peck on the cheek and reach for Orelia’s hand.

  Sarah smiles. “Don’t be such a stranger,” she says. “It was nice meeting you, Orelia.”

  “You too,” she calls out as I lead her toward the stairs.

  As soon as we are out of earshot, she squeals. “Oh, my god! Do you know who that was?” she asks. I stop on the second step and turn back to her, raising a brow. “Right. Of course, you do.”

  I continue down the stairs as she starts to gush. “I worshiped Sarah Mitchell when I was a kid. I taught myself to play Break Me on my guitar when I was nine.”

  Music swells from below us as we descend into the studio. We reach a glass door, and I pull it open, spilling the wail of an electric guitar into the hallway.

  Mitch jumps up from behind the board, beer in hand, and drops into a low bow. “You’re majesty.”

  Several guys follow suit, bending over as a chorus of “Your Majesty” fills the studio.

  I give them all the one-finger salute and make my way over to Mitch. He pulls me into a tight hug with lots of backslapping and laughter. Jim and Hank slap my hand, and a few others nod their hellos.

  My smile is wide as I turn back to Orelia, who stands wide-eyed by the door. I reach for her hand and pull her toward the center of the room. “Guys, I’d like to introduce you to Orelia Carlisle.” I ramble off names as I point across the room. She looks like a deer caught in the headlights once I get to the aging metalheads that are Jim and Hank. Those guys were legends in the days of big hair and lycra.

  “And this ugly S.O.B is Mitch Reynolds,” I say, gesturing to my mentor and oldest friend.

  “Who you callin’ ugly?” Mitch grumbles, offering Orelia his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, darlin’.”

  She laughs and shakes his hand. “You too.”

  He gives me a nod. “You say hello to the wife?” he asks.

  “Yeah, saw her on the way in.”

  “Good, she’s been up my ass about you since that bullshit with the popstar went viral.”

  I wince, and a couple of the guys chuckle.

  “Can we give it a rest tonight?”

  “Relax, kid, I’m just busting your balls.” He claps me on the shoulder.

  I turn back to Orelia, who is hanging on our every word. “You want a beer?” I ask her.

  “Water?” she asks.

  I nod and head toward the fridge behind the bar.

  “So,” Mitch says, “how’d you get mixed up with this prick?” He nods his head at me, and I roll my eyes.

  “He said he was some big music producer and could make me a star,” she says coyly. “Is that not true?”

  Mitch laughs. “You got to watch out for pretty boys spouting that shit in this town, sweetheart.”

  I hand her the water bottle, and she twists off the cap, taking a deep swig. “Really?” she asks as I tip a beer to my lips. “So, I guess the blow job on the ride up here was a mistake.”

  Beer sprays from my nose, and Mitch’s eyes go wide as I cough and wipe the foam from my chin. He looks at me with a raised brow, and I frown.

  “She’s fucking with you, man. You know me better than that.”


  Mitch turns back to her as her lip curls into a devious grin. “Oh, I like you,” he says, dropping an arm around her shoulders and leading her toward the center of the room.

  “So, what’s your poison? Got a little bit of everything down here. Electric, bass, acoustic, keyboard. Got a cello in the back, but it’s probably missing a string.

  “How do you know I play?” she asks.

  He shrugs. “I can always spot a musician.” He looks around, picking up a vintage Telecaster and offering it to her. Her eyes go wide as saucers as she takes it from him, running the pads of her fingers over the pearl finish. The wonder in her eyes is humbling as she strums the g string.

  “Show us what you got, sweetheart,” he says, plugging the cord into the amp at her feet and standing back as she slips the strap over her head, positioning her fingers on the neck.

  Her smile is bright as she begins the opening notes to Barracuda by Heart. Mitch elbows me as a few of the guys whistle and rush to join in. Jim jumps behind the drum kit, falling into rhythm with her effortlessly. A few other guys jump in, and someone sets a mic stand in front of her as she steps up and lets the first few words of the song loose from her lips.

  Jaws drop, and Mitch bobs his head as people circle around, trying to get closer as she belts out the notes like she’s Ann Wilson herself. The joy and passion flies from her fingertips as she plays, putting seasoned musicians through their paces.

  The place is nothing but smiles as people groove to her music. No phones are out recording, and there’s no worry about anything being leaked to the press, not in Mitch’s studio. Those are the rules. If you don’t like it, then you can get the fuck out.

  Here, it’s not about the fame or money. The music recorded here won’t go platinum or end up number one on iTunes. No, the music played here is for the soul. It’s a release, a chance to chase the high the strings and keys give as they weave the fabric of a melody.

  In this place, music is sacred, it’s transcendent, and the look on her face when she strums the final cord tells me she feels it too.

  The instruments go quiet for a moment before the room erupts into a cacophony of cheers and whistles. Orelia’s smile is incandescent as she ducks her head and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

  I can’t take my eyes off her. She beams as the crowd swarms her, offering praise and admiration. She walked into the lion’s den and dominated with the flick of her fingers. I knew she was special, but this is something completely different.

  Mitch chuckles, and I nudge him, still unable to look away from Orelia. “What?” I ask.

  He claps me on the shoulder. “You are so completely fucked.”

  Orelia is in her element. Her joy is infectious. I can’t take my eyes off her, and I’m not the only one. The vultures are beginning to circle, and I catch sight of more than a few guys and a couple girls checking her out. Just knowing they are there watching her, wanting her, makes my chest tight.

  I rub circles into the center of my chest, trying to ease some of the tension, when I feel a tap on my shoulder. “Mr. King?”

  The kid stares up at me with a nervous smile. “I don’t know if you remember me—” he says.

  “Brayden, right?”

  His grin goes wide, and he nods. “Yeah, I just want to thank you, sir.”

  I shake my head and take a sip of my beer. “Don’t thank me yet, kid. Chris is gonna put you through the wringer.”

  He looks over at his boss with a grin. “Yeah,” he sighs. She turns to look at us as if she can feel his stare. Christine Wright, five feet nothing, full of hostility and hard work. She’s beautiful, fucking gorgeous actually, but god help the man or woman who tries to tell her so. She’s been known to take a man to his knees for looking at her funny. She runs a tight ship, and as a result, her tours run flawlessly. For those who survive.

  I nod in greeting, which she returns before rolling those big brown eyes at Brayden. Her full lips twist in a hateful scowl, but the kid is undeterred.

  “All right then, Romeo,” I chuckle.

  “She’s incredible,” he says, almost involuntarily.

  I glance over to Orelia, who’s talking to a young guy with dark hair and that pretty boy kind of face I immediately want to rearrange. “Tell me about it.”

  Brayden frowns.

  “So, you settling in?” I ask, changing the subject.

  He tucks his hands into his front pockets and shrugs. “Yeah, the guys are great.”

  I clap him on the shoulder and give it a squeeze. “Hang in there, kid. You’ll get there. Look around; you’re living music history right now. Live it, learn from it, and if it’s meant to be, it will be.”

  He nods. “Thanks, Mr. King.”

  “Call me Ezra.”

  “Thanks, Ezra.”

  I tip my head toward where Orelia and pretty boy are talking closely and leaning against the bar. “Hey, kid, who’s that?”

  “Who?” he turns.

  “Dark hair near the bar. Talking to the gorgeous brunette.”

  “You mean Jamie Durant?” He hooks a thumb toward the guy, and I shrug. “He was on the last season of American Icon. He opened for Redeemer on their tour that just finished. Rumor has it he’s headlining next year’s City Limits.”

  Recognition hits as I watch him lean into Orelia, whispering something in her ear. She throws her head back and laughs. It’s a beautiful sound that cuts right through me.

  “Excuse me,” I say, heading toward the bar.

  Jamie reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear when I approach, clearing my throat. “Having fun?” I ask.

  “Maybe a little too much,” she giggles. Jamie just smiles at her. He turns, finally noticing me standing there and offers me his hand. “Jamie Durant.”

  I shake his hand, my grip a little tighter than usual. “Ezra King.”

  “I know,” he says. “I’m a big fan. We met last year at the Icon wrap party.” He smiles at Orelia. “I sang a duet with his girlfriend for the finale.”

  “Ex-girlfriend,” I correct.

  “Right,” he says, “sorry.”

  This punk is walking a thin fucking line, and the smug look on his face says he knows it too.

  I turn to Orelia. “You ready to head out?” I ask, more for pretty boy’s benefit than anything.

  She groans, looking up at me beneath impossibly long lashes. “We probably should. Tomorrow is kind of a big day.”

  “Let me see your phone,” he says. She unlocks her phone, grinning from ear to ear, then hands it to him. He takes it, his thumbs flying over the screen, then removes his own, flashing her the screen.

  “Now, you can text me and tell me all about it.”

  Give me a break.

  She giggles, and I clench my fist at my side. This guy is a tool.

  “I’m sure she will,” I grumble. “Nice meeting you, Jerry.”

  “It’s Jamie,” he corrects.

  “Right.”

  “I’ll talk to you soon, Orelia. Congratulations.”

  A deep blush creeps across her cheeks as she beams up at him. I really don’t like this guy.

  Tugging her toward the exit, we say good-bye to Mitch and Sarah and head down the drive toward my Audi parked on the street. Pulling out my keys, I hit the button to unlock the car and pull open the passenger side door for her.

  She stops, resting a hand on the roof of the car, and turns to face me. She leans forward and presses a quick kiss to my cheek. My eyes go wide as the feel of her warm, soft lips lingers on my skin. “Thank you, Ezra.”

  “Y—You’re welcome,” I choke out.

  She smiles and slides into the seat, tucking her legs inside. I close the door behind her and stand there a little dazed.

  Shaking my head, I snap out of it and make my way around to the driver’s side. This girl is under my skin, and she doesn’t even know it. I’ve been down this road before and was left with a diamond and a broken heart. I’m not a man who makes the same mista
ke twice.

  Chapter 6

  Orelia

  Walking into the studio, I have absolutely no idea what to expect. Jeanne greets me with a warm cup of my favorite peach tea and a muffin.

  I give her a nervous smile and stare into the cup, trying not to think too hard about how she knew my breakfast of choice.

  “This way,” she says, turning on her heel and heading down the hall.

  I follow behind her, clutching my cup as she weaves through the maze of corridors, stopping at a set of glass doors that lead into a conference room.

  An hour later, my tea sits cold on the glass tabletop beside the pen I’d used to sign my name on a document that could change the course of my entire life. It amazes me the power such a seemingly unimportant object can hold. It’s just a pen, and yet, it has transformed me from a bartender to a recording artist with just a few curls of ink.

  “Orelia?”

  My eyes snap to Cole’s grinning face.

  “Do you have any questions?” he asks.

  I shake my head, my dry throat trying to form the word. “No.”

  “Good.” He gets to his feet and offers me his hand. I give him a small smile and a handshake.

  “What happens now?” I ask.

  His grin widens. “Now, the real fun begins.” With a wink, he gathers up the contracts and heads for the door. I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should follow as Jeanne begins to clear away his empty coffee mug and the napkins.

  She reaches for the pen. “Wait,” I say a little too loudly. She freezes, and I offer her a polite smile. “May I?” I ask, reaching for the pen. She looks down, her brows drawn as she picks it up. With a shrug, she hands me the pen and clears the rest of the table.

  Clutching my trophy tightly in my hand, I gather my bag and await further instruction. Her phone vibrates against the table, and she picks it up, tapping quickly before turning back to me.

  “Follow me,” she says, gathering her things and quickly exiting the room.

  I glance to my now cold tea and then to the door as her figure disappears down the hall. Deciding to leave it behind, I practically sprint to catch up to her. I catch sight of her back as she disappears through a doorway and quicken my pace.