Mythbound Trilogy Boxed Set

by Cory Barclay

  “I’m glad you asked,” Bill said, smiling. “Her name is Nersi Magdalin.”

  Steve’s eyebrows jumped up his forehead. “I’ve heard that name,” he said. “She’s like . . . really popular.”

  “Exactly,” Bill said. “We think her music fits nicely with Annabel’s.”

  Annabel seemed a bit apprehensive, fidgeting her fingers and biting her lower lip. Steve put his hand gently on her shoulder and said, “Would you excuse me and Bel—my client—for a moment to discuss?”

  “Absolutely,” Bill said.

  Steve and Annabel got up from the table, leaving Dale alone to fend off against both businessmen.

  Once in the corner of the room, Steve said, “What are your thoughts? No pressure, but I think we should do it.”

  Annabel nodded solemnly. “We don’t even know the terms yet, though.”

  Steve shrugged. “Let’s say they’re favorable. For argument’s sake. Have you heard of Nersi Magdalin?”

  Annabel nodded.

  “She’s famous. If we could open for her . . . The sky’s the limit.”

  “She’s also a siren,” Annabel said.

  Steve tipped his head. “Huh?”

  “Have you ever wondered why her songs—which are so smooth and emotional and sultry—attract so many men? It’s because she’s a siren.”

  Steve sighed. Though that tidbit was shocking, he tried to hide his surprise. “Nonetheless—”

  “You’re right,” Annabel said. “Let’s do it. Screw it. See what happens.”

  “That’a girl.”

  They returned to the table just in time to hear Dale say: “Why can’t Ray Charles see his friends?”

  Bill and John shared an uncomfortable look and shrugged.

  “Because he’s married,” Fats finished. Then he slammed the glass table with the palm of his huge hand, nearly shattering the glass. Shortly after, his bellowing, earthquaking laughter split the room, drawing eyes from all different corners of the building.

  Bill and John fake chuckled at Dale’s joke.

  Steve, still standing, said, “We’d like to see the agreement you have in mind, mull it over for a day, if that’s fine with you. Have our lawyer look at it.” Of course Steve didn’t have a lawyer—he’d never gotten that far in his record-signing days—but he wanted to sound legit. Plus, he knew his AA sponsor, Henry, was a lawyer, he just didn’t know what kind of law he practiced.

  “That would be fine, Steven,” John said.

  “Just remember, this is only a preliminary situation. Depending on how this goes, we’d like to readdress the deal in a couple months,” Bill added.

  “Of course,” Steve agreed.

  “Then I think Johnny here can handle the rest, yes?” Bill stood from his seat and patted John on the back. He was mid-forties and looked busy, and Steve only then realized he was probably the CEO of Imminent Records.

  John tensed for a moment, probably at being called ‘Johnny,’ then said, “Of course, Mister Sizemore.”

  Bill flashed another smile. “Great. Then I’ll look forward to hearing from you all. I’ve got to run.” He shook Steve’s hand from across the table, gave Annabel a knowing nod, muttered “Good luck” to her, and ignored Dale. Then he left the room.

  “All right, Johnny,” Steve smirked. “Let’s see it.”

  John left the room and returned a moment later with the contract; a few stapled sheets of paper. He said, “Please try to return this within forty-eight hours.”

  “Why, does the likelihood of it dying increase by seventy-five percent if not returned in the first forty-eight?” Steve asked, reaching for the contract and smiling.

  John furrowed his substantial brow. “What?”

  “Never mind,” Steve said, waving. John obviously hadn’t ever seen The First 48.

  “Right,” John said, proving he was immune to humor. Steve was convinced he was more Terminator than human.

  Steve, Annabel, and Dale kept their cool while John led them through the lobby to the exit. It was difficult, but they walked with their heads held high and their chests puffed out.

  Then they hit the daylight outside and their cover was blown. They all hooted and jumped up in joy, giving each other high-fives and fist pumps.

  “I can’t believe it!” Steve said, hugging Annabel tightly and shaking her in his arms. “It’s all happening!”

  Annabel was also jubilant, but in a more subdued fashion. She was always more subdued, so even in celebration it came as no surprise she kept her emotions close to the chest. “We need to make sure those men aren’t trying to take advantage of us . . .”

  “Of course, of course,” Steve said, nodding furiously. He quieted down, but then his excitement boiled over again, and he pumped his fists in the air. “We did it!” He looked up at the sky and said, “Take that, Dad!”

  “Guys, guys,” Dale said, drawing Steve and Annabel’s attention. “You know what this means, right?”

  Steve and Annabel shared a confused look.

  “It’s a celebration, bitches! Come on, I’m buying!”

  CHAPTER TEN

  That night Dale took them out to The Shack Bar & Grill in La Jolla, a place Steve used to frequent during his drinking days. He was a bit anxious about going back to his old stomping ground, knowing Henry would be dismayed if he were to find out Steve was within restraining order-distance of a bar. But Steve had a lot of faith in his willpower, and he didn’t want to be a Negative Nelly and shy away from the celebration.

  It was a momentous occasion, after all. They hadn’t even looked over the paperwork, which was highly frowned upon in the industry, or any industry, but the words “We’d like to sign Annabel Lee” were enough of an excuse to party.

  So they took Steve’s car, as usual, because a) Annabel didn’t drive, and b) Dale was already hammered before they’d left Remington Studios.

  The trio arrived in La Jolla by sundown. Walking up the steps to The Shack, Dale had to lean on Steve to make it.

  The Shack was a staple of the La Jolla community, sort of a happy medium between Pacific Beach and La Jolla. It was named after the famous straw hut, aka “the shack,” down the street at Windansea Beach. While the old money stayed home most nights in La Jolla, the youngsters still needed somewhere to go, and The Shack was the place. It was also one of the only bars in the area that stayed open until 2:00 a.m. The drinks were good and cheap, the atmosphere wasn’t threatening. The patrons were mixed between locals and tourists.

  There were two pool tables set up in the center of the place, a newfangled jukebox in the corner that could be controlled by your phone—the nucleus of many disputes: “Who the hell skipped my song?!”—and an outside patio with a fireplace, where smoking was allowed. Flat-screen TVs were set up around the place, both inside and out, and behind the bar.

  Dale immediately went up to the pretty blonde bartender and ordered shots for all three of them, quickly forgetting Steve was sober. When Steve reminded him, Dale just shrugged and said, “More for me.”

  Steve had a shot glass filled with Sprite, so he didn’t feel left out. Then Annabel said, “I’d like to propose a toast,” and looked around the bar. There were five or six people lined up on stools, watching the TVs and trying to hit on the bartender, while two groups in the corners of the room minded their own business. A few people were playing pool. Annabel ignored all the noise and said, “To Mister Steve and Mister Fats, who have made my dreams possible!”

  Steve and Dale looked at each other, then Dale broke into a wicked grin and repeated the phrase. They all shot back their drinks, Dale slamming his empty glass on the bar counter. He said, “Fill us up a pitcher, will you, Miss?” to the pretty bartender.

  The bartender obliged, making sure to keep an eye on Dale as she did. Steve got another Sprite, and within minutes was starting to feel out of place.

  When the beer from the pitcher was doled out into glasses, Dale drained his in one solid gulp, in less than two seconds. Steve and Annab
el just raised their eyebrows at the display.

  It must have been Dale that attracted the attention. Two men came walking up behind Steve, whose back was facing the entrance of the bar.

  “Quick drinking you did there, mate,” the man said.

  Steve recognized the voice. He turned around and realized he was staring into the freckled face of Aiden O’Shaunessy.

  “It’s you,” Steve said.

  Aiden ignored Steve. He gazed up at Dale, who was at least two heads taller than the feisty Irishman, and said, “I’ll bet my friend here can outdrink you.”

  Steve said, “We’re not taking bets, man. We’re just here to celebrate.” He turned to the man beside Aiden, who had bright eyes and a chiseled, handsome face. He had the jawline of a movie star and the kind of casual, messed-up hairdo women were weak for.

  “What’s the celebration for?” Aiden asked, acknowledging Steve’s presence for the first time.

  “A business deal for our friend here,” Steve said, putting his hand on Annabel’s shoulder.

  Aiden squinted his eyes at Steve. “Say . . . I know you from somewhere, aye?”

  Steve frowned and nodded. He could smell the liquor coming from the man’s mouth. It was taboo to mention things outside of the rooms of AA, but he did anyway because he was disappointed to see this man drinking after just seeing him in a meeting the day before. “You saw me at the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting on Cass Street the other day.”

  Aiden’s eyes lit up. “Ah, yes! That sham.”

  What a coincidence, Steve thought, that I should run into this guy here, since I have questions for him . . . Like how and why did he discharge Shannon Barton from the hospital?

  Steve jutted his chin toward Aiden’s half-drunk beer. “Why were you at a meeting if you’re drinking now?”

  Aiden chuckled. “Like so many others, my friend; to appease the courts.” Then Aiden heard someone cheer behind him and spun around, his eyes focusing on the pool table. The eight ball had just gone in one of the pockets and one of the players was gloating, giving high-fives to his friends. Aiden cursed under his breath and reached into his pocket, producing a small wad of cash.

  The winner of the game walked up to Aiden, took his money, and said, “Much obliged,” to which Aiden snorted and waved him off. When he turned around, Steve, Annabel, and Dale were staring at him.

  “Had a bet on that game,” he said, shaking his head. “Figured the best player in the bar would win . . . but I figured wrong.”

  “So, you like to take bets then,” Dale murmured, putting his elbows back and leaning against the bar.

  Aiden nodded. “It’s my blessing and my curse.” He looked up to the TV screen behind the bar and nodded his head. “Had the O.K. City Thunder to win that game, too.”

  Steve faced the TV. A basketball game was on between the Oklahoma City Thunder and the Cleveland Cavaliers. The Thunder were down by ten points with less than a minute left in the game.

  “Looks like you’ll lose that one, too,” Steve pointed out, Captain Obvious-like.

  Aiden shrugged. “Such is the nature of the beast. So, what do you say, big man . . . think you can take my friend in a little friendly drinking?”

  Dale eyed the pretty boy standing next to Aiden. He said, “What’s your name, partner?” with the drawl of a Wild West cowboy.

  Pretty boy said, “Michelangelo.” He wore a leather jacket that perfectly formed to his body, and women in the bar kept looking at him. Then the women would turn around and forget about him.

  Steve found that last bit kind of odd. He hadn’t gotten the “I’m Gonna Fuck You” eyes very often in his life, but he knew what it looked like. And for it to appear and disappear so quickly on these women’s faces was, quite frankly, baffling. What is Leonardo over here doing to turn them off?

  “What’s the game?” Dale asked.

  “Come on, Fats, this is stupid,” Steve said, but Dale ignored him. He was too inebriated to listen to his sober friend.

  “I’ll bet a hundred bucks that Angelo here can Bible Study quicker than you,” Aiden said, reaching into his pocket. He wore dark green pants and a green suede jacket. Personally, Steve thought he looked a bit like the Lucky Charms leprechaun.

  Annabel said, “Bible Study? Why bring God into this?”

  Dale chuckled. “It’s not what it sounds like, Bel. It’s code . . . but my question is how do you know about it, little man?”

  The muscles on Aiden’s neck tightened a bit at Dale’s unintentional slight. “I’ve been around the block a few times, mate.” Steve remembered this guy acting sort of Napoleonic at the AA meeting.

  Annabel turned to Steve. “I don’t understand,” she whispered.

  “It’s stupid slang for a group of people to try to slug beer as fast as they can.”

  Annabel still looked confused. “But why—”

  “To get right with the Lord, missy,” Dale said with a grin. Even with his explanation, Annabel was as confused as ever.

  Dale turned to Michelangelo and Aiden and said, “You’re on, good sir.”

  They filled the glasses with the remaining beer from the pitcher, both of their glasses filled to the brim. The head of Dale’s beer slightly spilled over.

  Dale brought the two beers to a table and put them between him and Michelangelo, as if they were going to arm wrestle. They both gripped their beers and struck a pose.

  “Let us pray together,” Michelangelo said.

  Then their beers clanked together as they cheered each other. They slammed the glasses on the table and both drinks went up to their lips . . .

  Michelangelo drained his fast. But Dale was quicker. He finished with a ring of froth around his lips, then belched in victory, throwing his hands in the air.

  “Dammit, Angelo!” Aiden said, snapping his fingers. He sighed and handed Dale five twenty-dollar bills. His disapproval vanished quickly, replaced with a friendly smile across his face. “You are a true drinksman, mister . . .”

  “Dale . . . Dale Thornton.”

  “Ah,” Aiden said, raising a finger to the sky. “Then I shall call you Thor, because your drinking abilities match those of the Norse Gods in Valhalla.”

  Dale smiled awkwardly. “Okay . . .”

  Aiden patted Dale on the shoulder, then went to the bar to order another pitcher for the table. It seemed he had accustomed himself to the company of Steve and his companions, regardless of what they thought of him.

  When he left, Dale spoke in a low voice, hoping only Steve and Annabel could hear. “Guy looks like a leprechaun.”

  Steve chuckled.

  “That’s because he is,” Michelangelo said, seriously. He must have had pretty good ears to hear Dale’s whisper.

  Steve glanced at Michelangelo, who was nodding.

  When Aiden returned, Steve said, “My friend here tells me you’re a leprechaun. Is that true?”

  Aiden put down the pitcher on the table, cracked his knuckles, and held out his hand. “Aiden O’Shaunessy, leprechaun extraordinaire, at your service.”

  “Extraordinaire?” Dale said while refilling his empty glass. “You seem pretty unlucky to me.”

  Aiden chuckled. “It seems that would be my talent. I have enough gold coins to make the wealthiest real estate agent in La Jolla jealous, but I can’t seem to hold onto it.”

  “So . . . an unlucky leprechaun?” Steve said.

  “Unluckiest, I’d say.” Aiden scratched his chin. “My gambling is not a problem. As long as there are rainbows on the rise, there’s enough money for me.”

  Steve snorted. “You’re saying the myth is true—the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

  Smiling, Aiden winked. “Just have to know where to look.” Then the jovial expression on his face disappeared. “Though it doesn’t help that California’s in such a drought! It’s hurting my bottom line!”

  Steve sighed. “A leprechaun with a gambling problem that chases rainbows across the state. Now I’ve seen everything.”<
br />
  “I daresay you haven’t, mate.” Aiden turned to Michelangelo, patted him on the shoulder, and said, “Come on, show the winner a good time, yeah?” while thrusting his chin toward Dale.

  Michelangelo wandered off to a woman standing next to the nearby pool table. He quickly struck up an intimate-looking conversation with her. Steve and everyone else at his table gawked at the pretty boy and the pretty girl, wondering what would happen. Steve expected he knew what was about to happen . . .

  Then Michelangelo turned around, toward Steve and the group, and pointed a finger at one of them, as if showing the woman the way down a runway. She was a fine brunette with a lot of makeup. As if on command, she sashayed toward their group. Then, when she reached Dale, she smiled up at him and threw herself into his arms.

  Dale’s eyes bulged as he embraced the smaller woman. She was now feeling around his backside, feeling his side-lumps and ass.

  “What the hell is going on?” Dale asked, dumbfounded. Steve and Annabel both stared at what was happening with the same astonishment on their faces.

  Aiden’s smile only grew larger. “Angelo is a cherub—best wingman in town, I reckon.”

  Steve ran a hand through his hair. “You mean like . . . an angel?”

  Aiden nodded. “Of the lesser order. Yes.”

  Steve sighed. He’d seen enough of this ridiculousness . . . What is it about me that attracts these people? Banshees and leprechauns and sirens and cherubs . . . What is going on here?!

  “What are you doing on Terrus, Mister O’Shaunessy?” Annabel asked the leprechaun out of the blue. They had all turned away from Dale and the woman, who were now deep in a passionate kiss—much to the chagrin of the woman’s apparent boyfriend, who was approaching from the pool table.

  Aiden shrugged. “I was Seared into this world many, many moons ago. I’m just trying to make my way, young one.”

  “Your way . . . back home?”

  Steve leaned his head down to speak in Annabel’s ear. “What does ‘Seared’ mean?”

  Abruptly, a man brushed past Steve and Annabel. He elbowed Aiden out of the way and came up to Dale and the woman in his arms. It was the same man from the pool table—the fury and anger on his face clear for all to see.