Alex in Wonderland (Twisted Fairytales #1)

by Max Monroe

  To: Alex Little

  From: Princess Party Productions, LA

  Subject: Re: Re: Alex’s Magical Princess Schedule

  Greetings and Salutations, Alex,

  You will get paid 500 Princess Dollars for the magical party on Saturday!

  Isn’t that wonderful?

  Please feel free to send me another magical email if you have any other curious questions!

  Sincerely,

  Princess Mindy <3

  To: Princess Party Productions, LA

  From: Alex Little

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Alex’s Magical Princess Schedule!

  One more question.

  What’s the exchange rate for Princess Dollars?

  Is that like a 1 to 1 thing with USD?

  -Alex

  To: Alex Little

  From: Princess Party Productions, LA

  Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: Alex’s Magical Princess Schedule!

  Oh, Alex! You are so silly. You make me smile. :)

  Princess Dollars are USD.

  But isn’t it just way more fun to call them Princess Dollars? ;)

  <3 Princess Mindy

  I call bullshit, Princess Prozac. And I’ll stick with calling it money, you know, like normal human beings.

  Unfortunately for me, I needed five hundred bucks more than Princess Mindy needed a reality check. And she needed one badly. Yesterday, when I’d dropped by the offices to grab my costume, she’d greeted me in a fluffy pink dress with a fucking tiara.

  But five hundred dollars, remember?

  I glanced at the clock and realized it was already 11:15 a.m. If I didn’t get my ass out the door in the next minute, I’d be late for my very important date with mortification. With a quick tap to my phone screen, I locked it and slid my giant rabbit gloves back onto my hands and grabbed my purse.

  All right, Alex. It’s time to hit rock bottom.

  After roaming the streets of Laurel Canyon—without any help from Google Maps because of my shitty cell service—since I’d gotten off the bus fifteen minutes ago, I decided to wave the white flag. It was time to ask for help. A girl could only walk up and down steep hills in eighty-degree weather inside the hot constraints of a rabbit costume for so long before she fainted.

  Thank God I’d decided to just wear my bra and panties underneath. Otherwise, my life expectancy inside of Sprinkles would be looking quite grim.

  “Excuse me! Sir!” I shouted toward a man running my way in neon green shorts and gym shoes. “Can you help me?”

  With sweat dripping down his forehead, he stopped in his tracks and stared at me with confused, wide eyes.

  “I’m trying to find 1865 Folly Lane. Am I close?”

  “You’re Sprinkles the Rabbit,” he said.

  Thank you, Captain Obvious.

  “Yeah…uh…I am,” I responded and tried my hardest to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “Can you help me? Am I close to Folly Lane?”

  He gestured toward his ear. “I can’t understand anything you’re saying.”

  Oh, right. Big fucking head in the way.

  I took off the rabbit head and tucked it between my arm and side. “Am I close to 1865 Folly Lane?”

  “You’re not supposed to know how to talk, and you’re definitely not supposed to take off your head.”

  But…didn’t you just…? Fucking hell. People, man.

  “Uh…” I squinted my eyes and searched awkwardly for a response.

  “Hold on! You’re Sprinkles!” he exclaimed. “Can you stay right here? My daughter loves your show! Let me go get her real quick! She really wants to meet you!”

  “Uh…I don’t really have time for—”

  “Wow! She’s going to be so excited! Just put your head back on, and I’ll be right back!” he shouted and sprinted in the opposite direction before I could stop him.

  Seriously? What is happening right now?

  Dumbly, I stood frozen in my fluffy white feet. I was all for making kids happy, but fucking hell, I didn’t have time to do the Sprinkles song and dance for this guy’s kid. I was already late for the first kid I was supposed to make a fool out of myself for.

  Please, let Google Maps work this time, I offered up a silent prayer and slipped off a furry white glove to use my phone. One tap to the app and a quick search of the address—and a little help from the god of cell service—and I was in business. I was literally only 800 feet from their house.

  I put my rabbit head back in place and continued, up the rest of the hill and to the right, the numbers 1865 shone like a beacon from a mailbox at the end of a long driveway.

  “Thank fuck,” I muttered to myself and headed up the driveway on my already aching muscles and tired feet.

  Laurel Canyon was gorgeous, but it was a bitch to navigate on foot. And considering I’d been attempting to navigate it by furry foot since I’d gotten off the bus twenty minutes ago, I just wanted to sit down and take off this ridiculous costume.

  After finishing the death climb up their freaking Mount Everest style driveway, I realized my physical fitness might be a little lacking. I’d put signing up for a gym membership on the bottom of my to-do list. Just below pay for apartment and try not to die of malnourishment.

  When I finally caught my breath, my eyes popped wide, and I blinked several times. Holy hell. The house went on for what felt like miles. The driveway circled around a monstrosity of a marble fountain with water that sparkled and shone beneath the rays of the summer sun. Jaguars, Audis, and other luxury cars surrounded it.

  Who are these people?

  I felt like I’d stepped into a completely different world.

  Not to mention, I’m stepping into this world while wearing the world’s most ridiculous costume. But let’s try to avoid thinking about that, okay?

  Three knocks to the door and a woman dressed in a fitted white maxi dress and nude stilettos opened the nine foot wooden monstrosity with a scowl. I had the instant feeling of familiarity when I saw her face, but I couldn’t quite place the connection.

  “You’re late,” she spat. “You were supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. Where in the hell have you been?”

  Listen, lady, I’ve been roaming these fucking hills since I got off the bus. Nothing will happen to your kid because Sprinkles is a little late, but I might die from heat exhaustion, and think about how that’d mess up your decor…

  I bit my tongue in the name of a paycheck.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologized. “I had a hard time finding your house. Laurel Canyon is a little hard to navigate.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What?”

  “I said, I’m sorry—”

  “I can’t understand a word you’re saying underneath that thing.” She waved a quick, indifferent hand toward my costume.

  I sighed and removed the rabbit head. “I said, I’m sorry. Your house was hard to find, and Laurel Canyon is a bit hard to navigate.”

  “And your point?”

  Wow. You’re a bitch, huh?

  “I’m really sorry,” I apologized again.

  “I’m calling your boss and complaining. There’s no way we’re going to pay you the full amount when you’ve basically missed half of the party,” she declared with a flip of her long, blond hair off her shoulder.

  It was that exact movement that helped me connect the dots.

  Her name was Kitty Devlin, and she was an up-and-coming actress who’d just starred in a big blockbuster—ironically called Heat Stroke. And her husband, Franklin Devlin, was the producer.

  Although I felt like throwing the rabbit head directly at her face and blowing this rich popsicle stand, I slowed my irrational roll and offered a simple nod instead. I was late, and this was a paid gig. Any argument I might conjure would only have a rocky foundation. “Okay.”

  Her cat eyes scrutinized my face closely before peeking into the top of my suit and down at my body. “Put that head back on,” she demanded, her face morphing into a scowl. “And don’t even think abo
ut taking it off for the rest of the day. This might be a party filled with only the most exclusive people in LA, but it is not a place for you to try to get a modeling gig or acting job or whatever. We’re paying you to be Sprinkles. Not network.”

  Modeling gig? Acting job? What was this woman talking about? I was here to earn an easy paycheck, not sleaze my way into Hollywood. And it wasn’t like I had my tits on display. I was a giant white rabbit, for fuck’s sake.

  “You got it,” I said and put the god-awful rabbit head back over my face.

  “The kids are waiting outside on the terrace to get their picture with you,” she tossed out with another flip of her long, blond locks before striding back into the house on her red-soled, nude stilettos.

  Of course she’s wearing Louboutins. At least if I drool, the rabbit head will conceal it.

  I swallowed my pride and followed her lead, the feet of my costume thumping softly across the marble floor of the entryway. The house was a shameless display of wealth—gold embellishments along the walls, a giant, two-sided staircase leading toward the upstairs, and enough expensive furniture and décor to make a child feel as if they were in a museum instead of a home.

  Rich people, man. It was the complete opposite of my reality—and always had been. Growing up, I’d spent my youth living with my only remaining relative, my aunt Delores, inside of her two-bedroom bungalow on the outskirts of San Diego. There was no air conditioning in the summer, and an old, beat-up sofa from the fifties was the front porch’s only seating accommodation.

  But if my aunt hadn’t taken me in as a baby, I would’ve ended up in foster care.

  I didn’t know much about my birth parents, but I knew enough to understand that they weren’t fit parents. Both of them lived a rough life.

  My world was on the opposite end of the spectrum from Kitty Devlin’s, but at least I had something of my own and a place I considered home. That was enough.

  High-pitched squeals and screams pounded against my eardrums as we stepped out onto the terrace.

  Jesus Christ, youthful excitement is intense.

  “Lemon!” Kitty announced as a mob of small, bouncing, smiling children surrounded us. “Are you ready to get your picture taken with Sprinkles?”

  I almost forgot her name is Lemon…

  What was it with rich people naming their kids after things like fruit or rocket ships or moonbeams? If a kid would’ve been named Lemon in my childhood neighborhood, no doubt they would’ve gotten their ass kicked.

  “Sprinkles!” a little girl in a frilly pink dress screamed at the top of her lungs. She skipped toward me and wrapped her tiny arms around my furry waist. “I love you, Sprinkles!”

  For lack of anything better to do, I patted the top of her head.

  “Look toward Consuela,” Kitty instructed. “And smile for Mommy!”

  Lemon clutched me tighter and turned her little face toward the Spanish woman holding the camera. Three quick flashes filled the air, and the rest of the kids started to demand their turn for a picture while the adults looked on apathetically from the outskirts of the spacious terrace with champagne flutes and rocks glasses in their hands.

  Most of their faces were familiar as well. Famous actors, professional athletes, even popular musicians made up the crowd.

  God, this was weird. It was like I’d literally fallen down the rabbit hole into an alternate universe of rich and crazy.

  A little boy wearing a sports coat and tie stepped in front of me. I looked down at him and was thankful my facial expression was hidden behind the rabbit head. I didn’t generally like to judge people, especially kids, but my gut instinct screamed he was a little asshole.

  “Are you the real Sprinkles?” he asked, and I nodded.

  “I think you’re a liar.” He pointed an accusatory finger toward my face. “I think you’re not even a bunny. I think you’re an old man inside of a costume.”

  Since Sprinkles wasn’t supposed to talk, I did the only thing I could do in that moment—I tap-danced. Most likely incompetently, but it wasn’t like the giant feet were helping my movements.

  Truthfully, I didn’t have a clue if Sprinkles tap-danced, but I didn’t have much to work with either.

  “Does this hurt?” the little boy asked before landing the hardest kick his little suede loafers could manage. Impact was successful, his little foot cracking directly into my shin.

  I bit my lip to stop myself from screaming at him. Fucking hell. It took all of my strength not to kick the little asshole back.

  “No, Nolan.” Consuela moved between us. “No kick. Only picture with Sprinkles.”

  “Whatever.” Nolan shrugged and wrapped his little jerk arms around my waist. “Take my picture now,” he demanded, and Consuela, a mere servant like me, jumped to do his bidding.

  And the party continued like that for the next hour.

  Underneath the scorching rays of the California sun, I stood behind the giant smiling head of my stupid rabbit costume and took pictures with every kid in attendance. By the end of it, I’d received no less than fifty kicks to the shins and had internally flipped off every child and adult.

  It had to be the worst job I’d ever had.

  Mentally, I made a note never to respond to an ad that had the words quick and easy money in it. Once I received my paycheck from Princess Party Productions, I’d be resigning from my position as Sprinkles, the fucking birthday bunny. Princess Prozac and her Princess Dollars could hop on a magical carpet ride to Fuck Off Lane.

  Sure, I needed money and I was behind on rent, but a human being could only tolerate so much, especially when it came to little assholes like Nolan.

  “Lemon! It’s time for cake,” Kitty announced with a slight smile on her Botox-injected face.

  Every child at the party screamed at the top of their lungs, and thankfully, ran in the opposite direction of me as Consuela wheeled out a giant pink and gold cake filled with candles onto the terrace.

  As they started to sing happy birthday, I made a beeline to the side of the house, outside of the fray, where they had some more furniture and a staircase to the yard below. It was mostly empty, besides a few men dressed in sleek suits standing in a small group underneath a trellis near the stairs. They appeared to be deep in discussion and unaware of everything around them—including my presence and the fact that most of the party was currently watching the little birthday fruit blow out her candles.

  Their voices were too muffled to actually hear what they were saying, but one could only assume they were talking about something boring like stocks or yachts or retirement investments. Isn’t that what people with money talked about?

  And I could not have cared less what their conversation was about. I was focused solely on getting out of my rabbit costume before I became rabbit stew.

  Fuck, this costume is hot as balls.

  As the party moved inside of the house to eat cake, I sighed in relief. A girl could only take so many kicks to the shins from kids before she started to get jumpy at the mere sight of them.

  But that reprieve only lasted so long, as the group of men didn’t move. Fuck. What now? Droplets of sweat dripped down my forehead and bare back. If I didn’t find amnesty from the rabbit sauna soon, Sprinkles was going to pass the fuck out.

  I’m sure that won’t give the kids any nightmares.

  While surveying the group for a casual way around them, I spotted a pack of cigs peeking out from the back pocket of the tallest guy. Those look good. Sure, I’d never smoked in my life, but right now, in the middle of this birthday party from Hades, it seemed like it might be an appropriate time to start.

  Good thing I’d learned a few pickpocketing tricks back in my teenage days…

  “DID I SAY YOU COULD put that down here?” Kitty Devlin shrieked, loud enough to draw the attention of the whole party. She was a drama queen, much like many of the women in her financial position were, but it was mostly harmless. Probably not to the young waiter who shook visibly as he pic
ked up the tray he’d apparently placed in the wrong spot, but to me and my crowd, a little temper tantrum was nothing to get excited about.

  “Good Christ,” Harrison March muttered under his breath before taking a swig of his beer. “If Jackson didn’t have the hots for Lemon, I would have skipped this shit.”

  I shook my head with a smile as he scratched at his trim, blondish beard and closed his green eyes in irritation. “They’re both seven.”

  Hare shrugged, and Damien Dormuss chuckled outright. “Yeah, but he’s my kid. He’s pumped full of testosterone.”

  Hare and Damien had been with me for twelve and ten years respectively. I’d been searching for someone to count on after my father died of a heart attack fifteen years ago and left everything Wonderland encompassed to me, but no one had had the head for it prior to Hare. He was smart and fast, and while a little impulsive, he had the loyalty and intensity I really needed. Damien was much smaller in stature than Hare, almost meek to the naked eye, but underneath his small, olive-skinned frame, he was full of quiet power.

  “You wish,” Damien teased.

  As much as Hare might not be enjoying Lemon’s party, attendance wasn’t really an option. Kitty and Franklin Devlin were longtime acquaintances of Wonderland, Inc., and while a kid’s party wasn’t our most frequent scene, it was all about the show.

  Hiding money, backing Franklin on his debts when necessary, and whatever else they got themselves into, we were there when they needed us, just how we were for all of the other members of our insanely large, global organization. And for our trouble, they paid us a tremendous amount of money, which we carefully allocated and hid in the layers of complicated events—like this party—further extending the reach of our power. On the surface, we’d been paid our standard organizational fee as well as individual vendor fees for each facet of the party—the caterers, magician, Sprinkles the Rabbit—but there were also a few other carefully placed line items that had no actual purpose other than moving money. Parking fees, maintenance fees, location fees, you name it—anything that would blend all too easily on our books.