Fractured Fairy Tales: A SaSS Anthology

by Amy Marie

  Knowing she’s hit her target, she slinks toward me, swaying her hips as she closes the distance. “It has nothing to do with your music. It’s because every woman you touch turns to gold on your arm. Suddenly she’s this spectacular, shiny thing coveted by millions, but it’s hot up there in the spotlight, and before too long, she starts to melt down. Then you move on to the next shiny pretty thing that catches your eye.”

  “You self-destructed all on your own, sweetheart.”

  “She will too, the pressure will crush her just like it did me, and just like it did to Amanda.”

  “Don’t you dare say her name,” I order, my teeth clenched tight. I step into her face, but she doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, despite the anger that rolls off me in waves.

  “Face it, Ezra, the moment this girl is connected to you in the press, they will tear her to shreds. Every crack, every secret, every flaw will be headline news for every gossip rag and tabloid nationwide. As long as she’s tied to you, she will be under constant scrutiny. It’s only a matter of time before she cracks and on tour, there are plenty of distractions ready to ease some of that pressure.”

  “She’s not you,” I glare, then turn and duck into my car.

  She crosses her arms and glares at me in challenge. My jaw ticks and I turn the key, never breaking her gaze as I shift into drive and press down on the gas. The car skids out of the drive, spraying gravel at her precious Porche as I speed away, nearly taking out the rose bushes at the end of the drive.

  I smile as the image of her screaming after me fades in the rearview.

  Pressing the handsfree call button on the steering wheel, I bark at the computerized voice to call Cole. His voicemail picks up immediately. I slam my fist down on the wheel, disconnecting the call before pressing the button again. “Call Jeanne,” I say.

  She picks up after four rings. “Hello?”

  “Where is he?”

  “He’s in the studio.”

  “Put him on the phone.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Tell him I’m on my way.”

  I hit end on the touch screen and press my foot on the gas. Cole is a dead man.

  Chapter 8

  Orelia

  This is a disaster. My toes went numb about twenty minutes ago, which is a pleasant change from the screaming pain that started the moment I put on these crystal-studded torture heels.

  “Just run through the chorus.”

  I stare down at the lyrics of the song I’d been given about an hour ago. After squeezing me into a fucking corset and that pleasant little run-in with the pop diva from hell in the ladies, they ushered me into a rehearsal room where a bored looking songwriter dubbed my lyric journal as cute. It was then that they handed me a sheet of lyrics with the word baby written no less than twenty-seven times and shoved me into the studio. No rehearsal, no argument.

  It’s freezing in the glass box they stuck me in. I can see them in the control room. Cole sipping his iced mocha, chatting with a younger man with thick dreads. Heather, the songwriter with an apparent affection for the word baby, is typing away at her phone, seemingly uninterested in hearing her masterpiece come to life.

  Cole’s voice fills my ears. “No need to be perfect, love. We just want to hear it.”

  I take a deep breath. Well, as deep as this fucking vice gripping my ribcage will allow. The music starts, a bubbly pop beat, and my soul dies a little as I open my mouth to sing the first painful note.

  The door flies open, and Ezra storms in. His eyes are murderous, and his hands fly in silent fury as he barks at Cole. I can’t hear what he’s saying as he storms through the room, but papers fly, and Heather looks freaked. He moves to the board, his voice booming through my headphones, “Get in here.”

  Cole’s objections are cut off as Ezra releases the talkback. He gets in Cole’s face, and I take my headphones off, resting them on the edge of the music stand and moving cautiously toward the door.

  His voice is barely audible in the soundproof room, but the anger comes through crystal clear when I push open the door.

  All eyes land on me when I enter, but all I see is him. Blue-grey eyes are a storm of rage as he looks me over, groaning and running a hand down his pained face. “Is this some kind of joke? Jesus Christ, she looks like a fucking disco ball. What were you thinking?”

  His words are directed at Cole, but I feel every one like a bullet to the chest. Tears well in my eyes as I wrap my arms around my middle.

  “This is not happening,” he roars, stomping toward me. I step back until my back hits the cold wood door. “Go wash that shit off your face.”

  Reaching behind me, I fumble for the door handle and nearly stumble into the hallway. His ranting quiets only slightly as the door closes. My ankle caves, and I slap a hand to the wall to catch myself before I face plant into the carpet.

  The pain shooting up my leg is the last straw. I kick out of the shoes and leave them where they land, heading for the ladies’ room and locking the door behind me.

  I sink to the floor. The boning of my corset cuts into my skin, but I don’t care. There on the bathroom floor, I let it all go. Tears flow in rivers down my cheeks, lavender strands clinging to my cheeks as I sob.

  My phone slides from the pocket of my too-tight jeans, clattering to the floor. Immediately, it starts buzzing with an incoming call, and Dad’s stoic face fills the screen. I consider denying the call, but life on the rig can be hectic. He doesn’t always have time to check in. We made a deal a long time ago that no matter what, we make time for each other.

  I take a shuttering breath and quickly wipe beneath my eyes before answering, “Hey, Daddy.”

  “Cher? Is that you, girl?”

  My eyes dart to the thumbnail picture displaying my ruined face and lopsided wig. I tear the thing from my head and toss it onto the counter before running a hand over the wig cap. “Ugh, yeah. What’s up?”

  He leans into the screen. “What is all over your face? Glitter?”

  I suck my bottom lip into my mouth, cringing when I remember the crystals but not before dislodging a few and nearly swallowing them.

  “Just trying something new.”

  He hmms his disapproval.

  “It’s part of the process, Daddy. Branding, you know.”

  His silence speaks volumes.

  “This is what you want?” he eventually asks.

  I start to bite my lip again, then think better of it and sigh. “I want to make music. This is my opportunity to do that.”

  “I know, Cher, and you know I’ll support you no matter what. I just want you to be happy.”

  “I am, Dad,” I lie, picking at a string on my knee.

  “Then let me see that smile.” I laugh as tears well in my eyes. “Come on, let me see it.”

  I curl my lips, showing him my teeth. He laughs, bringing on a genuine but sad smile. “There she is,” he croons.

  The door at my back vibrates with a knock, and I glance behind me.

  “Orelia?” Ezra’s voice is muffled through the wood.

  I glance back at my phone. My father’s brow furrows, and his eyes are narrow. Another knock sounds, and I push to my feet.

  “Orelia? You in there?”

  “Just a minute,” I respond, looking back to Dad’s worried expression.

  “I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Okay, Cher. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Daddy.”

  His crooked grin is the last thing I see before the screen goes blank.

  I take a breath and wipe the last of the tears from my cheeks before flipping the lock and cracking the door. Ezra is hesitant, sticking his head inside and glancing around before coming in and shutting the door behind him.

  His eyes meet mine in the mirror for a moment before he drops his head and braces his hands on his hips. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” I mutter, focusing back on my refection. I’m a train wreck, but I can’t
let it get to me.

  “No,” he says. “None of this is okay.”

  “What?” I ask, turning to face him.

  He gestures up and down my body from my bare feet to my rhinestone tipped lashes. “This.” He reaches for the wig on the counter, shaking the lavender mop. “This.” He points to my chest. “That. It’s all wrong.”

  “Tawny said—”

  He groans. “I don’t give a fuck what Tawny said. This is not what I wanted for you.”

  I swallow, blinking as he steps forward. “What you wanted for me? What about what I want?”

  “Exactly.” I blink, then narrow my eyes as he continues. “This isn’t you.”

  I prop a hand on my hip and turn on him. “How is it exactly that you think you know who I am? We’ve known each other for what, a day? To be honest, I’m not even sure who I am.” I turn back to the mirror, fingering the discarded purple wig.

  I can feel his heat at my back. “You are the girl who belted Barracuda in a room full of rock legends. The soulful artist that blew me away from the first note she sang on stage. There are thousands of girls out there with the pretty voice and the face to go with it, but you—” He steps closer. “You are special. You are so much more than some cookie-cutter pop star.”

  I look up, meeting his eyes in the mirror. He is serious. Is that how really how he sees me?

  He frowned. “You okay?”

  A tear slides from my cheek. I nod, then hiccup, fighting back the impending sob.

  He steps forward. “Shit. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  I laugh, and his frown deepens.

  “I’m not upset.” I hiccup again. He raises a brow. “Grate—” hiccup “—ful.”

  His eyes drop to my chest. The glittery corset rises and falls as I fight for breath. “Jesus,” he mutters, “can you even breathe in that thing?”

  I shake my head as another fit of hiccups takes over.

  “Fuck,” he says, turning my hips roughly, so I’m facing the mirror with him at my back. My balance falters, and I grip the edge of the counter to remain upright. I feel his fingers tug at the laces as the vice on my ribs begins to loosen.

  For the first time in three hours, I take a full breath. He continues working to free me from the crystal-covered prison.

  I glace at him in the mirror. His face is twisted in concentration as he tugs and pulls at the ribbons. Looking back at my own reflection, I notice my chest and gasp, slapping a hand over my breasts before they spill out.

  He snaps his eyes up to meet mine in the mirror. I move to the side, adjusting the loose garment to cover as much as possible.

  His gaze moves down my body. His breathing accelerates, my skin tingling in response. In this moment, I wish for the power to read minds, just to see if he is as turned on by looking as I am watching him look.

  Snapping out of it, he steps back, his voice hoarse as he asks, “Better?”

  “Much.”

  He nods and rubs at the back of his neck. “Listen, wash your face, change your clothes, and meet me in the studio, then we’ll try this again. What do you say?”

  I giggle and nod. My lips curling in a shy smile.

  He gives me a quick nod then heads for the door. He tugs it open, and I call out. “Ezra?”

  He stops, glancing back at me over his shoulder. “Thank you,” I tell him.

  He winks. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  Chapter 9

  Ezra

  Cole glances up from his phone when I drop into the chair in front of the board. “Everything alright?” he asks, his tone proper and unconcerned.

  I give him a side-eye then shake my head, staring into the empty studio beyond the soundproof window.

  “What?” His shoulder pulls up to his ears. “I did you a favor.”

  “A favor? Are you crazy? You turned her into a Hannah clone.”

  He smiles. “The gorgeous, and might I add exceptionally talented popstar, Hannah Miles.”

  “Fuck her, and fuck you.” I stab a finger toward the door. “That girl can sing circles around her. You know it, and I know it. What the hell were you thinking, pulling a stunt like that?” He just sits there with the stupid grin on his face. I turn my chair to face him, ticking his mistakes off on my fingers one by one. “You brought in Hannah’s stylist and her songwriter. Fuck, I’m half expecting Phoebe to come waltzing…”

  It hits me. “You limey fuck. You played her.”

  He shifts in his chair. “Of course, I did. Little minx thinks she’s got us by the balls. I thought I would teach her a lesson. Everyone can be replaced.”

  I run my hand over my face, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes. This day has already gone to shit, and it is barely noon.

  “Why?”

  “Because like it or not, we need her to get it together. We’ve invested millions in the little disaster. We need to straighten her out and get her to focus on the music.”

  I sink back in my chair. “Jesus,” I exhale.

  “As always, I have a plan.”

  “A plan?” I ask as a sliver of hope creeps in. “What kind of plan?”

  “Not to worry. I’ve got everything under control. You just do your thing, and see if you can squeeze a hit or ten out of your girl there.”

  “She’s not my girl,” I counter.

  He smiles. “Isn’t she, though?”

  “Knock it off. It’s not like that.”

  He smiles. “Not yet, you mean.” He sits forward in his chair. “She’s quite pretty. I’ll wager that you end up balls deep in that girl before the album is even finished.”

  “What?” I scoff. “Unlike you, my friend, I don’t bed every starlet that catches my attention.”

  “But you admit she’s caught your fancy?”

  “She’s beautiful without question, but I’m only interested in her voice.”

  “Sure,” he nods. “So, that’s why you busted in here like a pissed off grizzly protecting his mate.”

  I hold up a finger. “I was simply protecting my artist. There is a difference.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen you that protective over any other artist you’ve worked with. What do you say you put your money where your mouth is?”

  “You’re insane,” I chuckle.

  “Or am I right?” He arches a brow.

  I watch him as that smug grin splits his face. “Fine, for the sake of argument, what do I get when I win?”

  “If you win,” he says, the emphasis on if, “I’ll forgo my Armani for those awful things you keep insisting on wearing.”

  “You mean jeans?”

  “For one month,” he says, holding up one finger. “And if you lose, then you, my friend, will hand over your most prized possession.”

  I tuck my hand in my pocket, my fingers sliding over the smooth plastic tucked safely inside. “No deal.”

  “Then you admit you won’t be able to keep your hands off her.”

  “Fuck you. That’s not a fair bet.”

  “I beg to differ,” he smirks, “Besides, if you are so sure you can keep your distance, then you have nothing to lose.”

  Groaning, I offer him my hand to shake. “Fine.” His smile is nearly blinding, and I hate that he thinks he’s pulled one over on me.

  The door opens, and Orelia slides inside, sticking close to the exit, looking ready to bolt at any moment. Her face is splotchy but clear of the three tons of make-up they’d caked on her. Some of it has remained, her lashes are still long and thick with mascara, framing those deep brown eyes.

  She tugs at the sleeve of her green and black plaid button-down shirt and sucks her full bottom lip into her mouth.

  I turn toward her with a grin, as Cole shoots to his feet. “There’s our girl,” he says, arms open wide. “I like this look much better for you.” He pulls her in for an awkward hug. There is terror in her eyes as she looks at me over his shoulder. When he releases her, she gives him a tight smile but doesn’t reply.

  “
Out,” I tell him, taking pity on her.

  “Yes, your majesty,” he jokes with a regal bow.

  “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, adjusting a few more dials on the mixing board.

  “My lady,” he says to her and heads for the door

  I hear the soft click of the door as it closes behind him, followed closely by a long exhale. I turn to face Orelia, who slumps against the wall.

  “You okay?”

  “He just—makes me nervous, I guess,” she says.

  “He’s harmless and a good guy once you get the suit off.” She raises a brow, and I laugh. “That came out wrong.”

  “You sure?” she teases. “I mean, you guys seem pretty close.”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “Let’s just say I saved his life, and now I can’t seem to shake him.”

  Surprise is written all over her face. “You saved his life?”

  I shrug. “In a manner of speaking. I was working as a roadie for Flint Mason’s Widowmaker tour.”

  “Really?” she asks. “I loved that album. Surrender was like my anthem in high school.”

  A smile curls my lip as I continue. “I was loading a truck after the show when some douche bag in what looked like his daddy’s suit comes stumbling down the hall with a blonde under each arm. They disappeared into one of the dressing rooms, and I kept loading the truck.”

  “You saved him from a shitty lay?”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “No. A few minutes later, the girls come out clutching their tops and take off down the hallway. I didn’t think much of it at the time and kept working, but I heard this godawful retching sound, so I went to check it out, and he was passed out face down in his own puke. He was completely unresponsive; his pupils were pinpricks. So, I picked his dumbass up and hauled him off to the emergency room.”

  “I was all of eighteen at the time, and so was he. Turns out I was right about his daddy’s suit. They pumped his stomach and one wicked hangover later, he was good. I stayed to make sure he was okay. It was a good thing, too, because the moment he came to, he started freaking out about his parents finding out.”