Once Upon A Sure Thing

by Blakely, Lauren

  * * *

  Two hours later, I’m absolutely dying. I’m literally dead on the table. I am a motherfucking doornail.

  When Campbell strides into the shop, I barely lift my head. He raises one eyebrow and gives me his WTH look before heading to order a cup of joe.

  Nothing comes between my bro and his joe.

  With the cup in hand, he joins me, grabbing a chair and swiveling it around. He pats me on the shoulder. “Do I need to call in the medics to revive you? Have you overdosed on sugar? Is this like that time when we were ten and you decided to test every flavor of Skittles?”

  I snap my gaze up, correcting him. “That was important scientific research. I verified that every flavor does indeed taste different, even if I had to eat five hundred Skittles to prove my hypothesis.”

  “It was hilarious watching you bounce off the walls on a sugar high, but when the sugar crash hit, you tanked on the floor of the kitchen. We had to walk around your body like it was a corpse.”

  “Thanks for taking care of my remains so thoughtfully,” I snort.

  “A sugar corpse.” He leans back in his chair and takes a slug of his coffee. “What’s the story? Wait, don’t tell. I bet you discovered the pure pain of listening to auditions?”

  I sigh heavily. “I made it through seventy-two, and then I turned dead.”

  “You have to kiss a lot of frogs, as they say.” Campbell nods to my computer. “But what did you think you’d find? An embarrassment of riches?”

  My eyes widen. “Yes! I made it very clear in the casting breakdown that I wanted somebody with a voice that would rock my socks off.”

  Campbell bends to look underneath the table. “It appears your socks are still on. Are those squirrels on them?”

  “Don’t judge. They’re my favorite socks. And at the rate this is going, they’ll stay on me forever. How hard can it be to find a decent singer?”

  He scratches his jaw. “Talent is hard to come by. I gave you a few names though.”

  “I know you mentioned Rebecca Crimson. She’s fantastic, but she’s not available. She was just signed, and she’s working on her own album.”

  Campbell points to the computer. “By my math, you have more than one hundred left.” He rolls up his shirtsleeves, brushes his palms against each other, and plugs in his earbuds so we can both listen. “There has to be a diamond in this rough.”

  A couple of hours and several cups of coffee and hot chocolate later, we’ve whittled the samples down to about eight decent auditions. Am I ever glad that Campbell joined me today. I doubt I would’ve had the mental fortitude to soldier through the rest of them alone.

  But then again, that’s sort of how things have always been.

  Campbell is my rock, my partner, my brother in every damn sense of the word. That’s no disrespect to Miles, who’s three years younger than I am. I love that guy like crazy too, but it was Campbell and me who started the Heartbreakers, and he was always the heart and soul of the band. He sang a little more than I did and wrote a few more songs, tipping the balance in his favor. But the thing is, he never held that against me. He carried the ship, and I fucking loved him for it. He made my dreams come true.

  I do understand why he had to quit, though it broke my heart. But I’d have been a total douche if I’d said that to him, or anyone, at the time. Twelve years ago, when his daughter was only two, his wife died, leaving him a single dad. He decided to focus entirely on his kid. I get that. Wise choice, in retrospect, since Samantha is one of the coolest teens I’ve ever known.

  Campbell peers at the screen, cocking his head. “Wait. Did you see this last one?”

  “Which one?”

  He points to the browser. “Looks like it just landed in your inbox.”

  I sigh heavily. “I’m sure it’s crap. We’re fine with the ones we have.”

  He shakes his head, tsking me. “Let’s listen to . . .” He stares at the screen, peering at the name next to the track. “Honey Lavender.”

  We both put earphones in, and with a name like that, I wait for some kind of hipster, ukulele-playing Zooey Deschanel–wannabe voice.

  But that’s not what happens.

  When I hear the first words of a pretty love song about yearning, I zoom in on the voice, a spark igniting in my chest. Her voice sounds familiar, but different too, and I can’t place it. So I just enjoy it.

  It’s pure and pretty, but like a good wine, it has afternotes. I can taste it, a little husky, a little smoky. It’s like a sweet angel drank a glass of whiskey and laughed as she purred in my ear.

  As she slides into the chorus about being tangled up all night long, I’m moving my shoulders, getting into the groove.

  Campbell is too, tapping out a rhythm on the wooden table.

  I point to the screen, mouthing to my brother, “This shit is good. She’s the best for sure.”

  When the song ends, we’re both grinning.

  “She’s like a supper club singer. You need to get her to submit a video. And the others too, just to be sure,” he says.

  I gesture to Campbell like he’s a genius because he fucking is. “See? What would I do without you? You know exactly what to do . . . with everything. And you found this Jessica Rabbit gem.”

  He rolls his eyes. “You'd have found it too. You just had to get through all the others first.”

  “But that’s what you’re so good at. Well, including singing.”

  “So are you.”

  I bat my eyes. “Does that mean you ‘Love Me Like Crazy’?” I ask, naming one of our greatest hits.

  Campbell smiles. “Would you believe I heard that in a coffee shop the other day? I started humming a few lines while I was waiting for my drink.”

  I wiggle my eyebrows and sing in a low voice, gliding into the tune. “Even though you’re gone, I still love you like crazy.”

  As if he’s helpless against the power of the song, he chimes in, “All I want is to find you again, even if that’s crazy.”

  I drum my palms on the table a little louder. “Tell me, tell me, I haven’t lost you.”

  He points at me, nodding in time to the music we’re making. “Tell me I’m not crazy.”

  Then we’re both singing, crooning the chorus that made us millions. “Tell me you love me like crazy. Tell me you want me like crazy. Because, girl, you make me crazy.”

  It’s like we’re flying downhill, the wind at our backs, the sun beating down.

  This is magic.

  This is my true love.

  I finish with a powerful flurry of my fingers across the air keyboard, and he slashes the chords on his unseen guitar.

  Applause and cheers startle me, and I jerk my gaze around. Holy shit.

  We just performed an unexpected set at a coffee shop for Tommy and a twenty-something blonde in a maroon knit cap. She’s standing a few feet away, holding her phone and beaming a full-wattage grin. “That was amazing. I love you guys so much. I hope you don’t mind that I recorded it. It’s just for me. I want to watch it over and over.”

  “We like to do impromptu private shows now and then for our biggest fans,” Campbell quips.

  Her hand flies to her heart. I do believe Campbell has just made her day.

  “Thank you again. So much.” She heads to a chair in the corner with her beverage.

  “Sing ‘Hit the Road.’”

  I turn to the counter where Tommy is goading us on, smirking from behind his big beard.

  Campbell waves him off. “One tune is enough for a Friday afternoon.”

  “Come in tonight and play a whole set, then,” he says, needling Campbell more.

  I’d be game. I’d happily dive into that number with him, or any of our songs for that matter. I loved nothing more than playing with him, and later with Miles when he joined us. My heart winces with longing to have that again. That’s honestly what I miss most about performing. The companionship with my brothers. The camaraderie. I’m a social creature. I want to have a good tim
e, make some music, and play with family.

  But family isn’t an option. Even so, I’d like to find that kind of musical and business chemistry with another musician. Someone who’s invested, who wants to work hard at making music. Maybe I can have that same sort of we’re-a-team vibe with a new singer.

  Campbell clamps a hand on my shoulder, smiling. “That was fun singing together.”

  “It’s always fun,” I say, a little wistful, wishing coffee-shop improv was a regular item on our schedules.

  “Truer words.” Campbell hitches his thumb toward the door. “And now I need to hit the road. I’m heading to a violin lesson with Kyle, then dinner with Samantha and Mackenzie.”

  “Try not to have such a perfect life, will ya?”

  “What can I say? I’m a happy clam.” He taps the computer. “Get moving on the next phase. You want to make sure they have stage presence. You need videos, especially from Honey Lavender. Damn, with a voice like that, I wonder if she looks like Jessica Rabbit.”

  “Let’s hope so.” I shake my head. “Wait, I didn’t say that.”

  He points at me. “You be good this time.”

  As a former rocker, I had my fair share of women wanting to score, thanks to my mic and keyboard, and honestly, my teen idol face. I didn’t sleep around when I was sixteen. That would have been gross. But we still played when we were in college, and man, those were some fine years.

  The years that came after were too, and the rock star mystique never hurt.

  Trouble was, I once got involved with a drummer I played with when I went solo for a few years. She was a session musician, Tiffany Turner, and she was fiery on the drums. Fiery in bed. Fiery out of bed.

  And fiery as fuck when we broke up. She stomped over to my apartment and tossed my laptop out the window. She tossed my TV and my Xbox too, sending them all crashing to an electronic graveyard of her making on East Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue. All because I said, “I like you, but I don’t want to get serious.”

  Eventually, I found a new drummer. But I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t mix business with pleasure.

  That means it doesn’t matter if Honey Lavender is sexy or not. What matters most is whether she can sing well with me.

  Screw asking for a video audition.

  I’m ready to meet all of the top nine, because why waste time with a video when the kind of magic I’m looking for, the kind I just experienced with Campbell, is best discovered in person?

  I write to the top picks, and then to Honey, asking if she can come in to do a song with me in person.

  Chapter 5

  Ally

  Breathe.

  Just breathe. Air comes in, air goes out.

  But as I take a break from the world of night magic and rogue teen witches battling armies of spirit clones to check my email, I seem to have forgotten the basic mechanics of respiration—because of this email.

  I close my eyes, will my jackrabbiting pulse to settle, and finally take a breath. I open my eyes and reread the email from my best friend. The subject line is Blown away.

  Thought your song was fantastic! Can you meet me on Monday at ten forty-five to sing?

  Then there’s an address for a studio Miller likes to use.

  Mine.

  He must have booked the time with one of my colleagues.

  I fan my face and try to collect my thoughts as excitement zigzags through me.

  He thought I was amazing. He thought I was great.

  I’m so screwed.

  There’s no way I can pull this off.

  How am I going to walk into my studio, say surprise, and then knock out a song with my best guy friend as my newly created, sexier, smokier alter ego?

  I mean, obviously, I knew this was a possibility. I’d hoped for this possibility.

  I wanted him to pick me because he loves my voice, and if he’s calling me in, it means my vocal gymnastics worked.

  The key is to keep blowing him away as Honey, and Honey has some naughty in her. She has a dose of sultry, a dash of cinnamon, and a whole lot of spice.

  I can’t walk in there looking like Ally Zimmerman, the a cappella queen. I need to jettison the whole look and character I mastered when I was half of the family-centric brother-and-sister duo. No ponytails, no collared polo shirts, and no bouncy Keds shoes.

  I won’t be the soprano princess with a voice like a bell, the kind of woman who lights YouTube on fire singing “Amazing Grace” mashed up with “The Four Seasons.” Or “Only Fools Fall in Love” mingled with “Hallelujah.” The Zimmerman duo has nothing in common vocally with Miller’s pop-rock style of big anthems and powerful songs designed to be played in arenas.

  But I can do that stuff.

  I simply need to look the part.

  I reach into my purse to freshen up my lip gloss, my fingers rubbing against the stack of bills I need to pay.

  Chloe’s school bill.

  Chloe’s therapist.

  Not to mention the rent.

  Maybe if I sang with Miller, I wouldn’t have to worry about hustling so hard for every book, every contract, and every deal.

  Later, I finish fending off today’s tribe of spirit invaders, and I head home. As Chloe and I plan our outfits for the Christmas party at Campbell’s house tomorrow, I start to formulate my plans.

  I call my friend Macy and tell her I need a little night magic.

  * * *

  I grew up in New Paltz, New York, the youngest of three kids to a literature professor and a dentist. My parents were and still are regular churchgoers, and that’s how my brother and I started singing. Sundays, Easter, Christmas . . . those were my favorites—since our church was more casual, we sang “I’ll be Home for Christmas” right along with “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”

  I parlayed that love of singing into chorus in high school then an all-girls a cappella group in college.

  Our sister, Lindsay, laughed at her lack of musical talent and pursued a college degree in environmental science, nabbing a great job in her field shortly after graduation. At just twenty-three, she became pregnant after a one-night stand who told her he never wanted to be a father. Determined to do it all, Lindsay managed to raise her kid on her own and juggle a career for the first six years of Chloe’s life.

  Until she drove to a friend’s house one snowy evening in March, lost control of the car on a patch of ice, and lost her life when a truck rammed into her.

  The seatbelts in the back seat did their job. Somehow, miraculously, Chloe only broke an arm.

  I say only, but she lost so much more.

  My parents are older and retired, and they offered to raise her. Trouble was, their health was on the decline. Besides, Lindsay had asked me one Christmas, as we were setting gifts under the tree, the blue and white lights twinkling in her living room.

  “Will you take care of my girl if anything happens to me?”

  I stared at her as if she’d sprouted a unicorn horn. “Nothing is going to happen to you. You’re healthy and safe.”

  “You never know.” Lindsay grabbed my arm, held it tightly, forcing me to look into her brown eyes. They were sad but determined. “Will you raise her? Make sure she’s happy and healthy and knows right from wrong? Make sure she has fun and does all her homework too? I want you to be her guardian if something happens to me.”

  “Are you sick?” I’d asked, fear thick in my voice.

  “No. Just trying to be smart. You never know what a day has in store for you.”

  “Of course. But stop talking such nonsense on Christmas.”

  Three months later, fate had the worst in store. Lindsay died on impact, and Chloe became mine.

  Kirby and his wife, Macy, have helped over the years, taking care of her often, pitching in with bills. My parents spend many weekends with her. But at the end of the day, my house is her home. I’m the one who signs her permission slips, who’s listed as the emergency contact, and who’s her guardian.

  Without a roadmap, I’ve don
e my best to give her stability and love. It hasn’t always been easy, and Chloe was, understandably, devastated when her mom died. She was shy and withdrawn for a few years, and that’s why I sent her to a therapist. She’s resilient though, a tough little cookie who’s learning how to adapt.

  I love my niece like crazy, and I want to give her the best chance a kid can possibly have. That’s why I pay to send her to a school where she’s finally thriving, and to do fun activities she enjoys, like photography and art classes, and why I do everything I can to be there for her. That’s why the last guy I dated was history after only one month. That was more than a year ago, and Jake didn’t understand why Chloe was my priority. “She’s not even yours,” he’d said. “I wish you’d make time for me the way you do for her.”

  “Not even a minute, Jake. You won’t even get another second.”

  And Chloe is also why Miller’s audition appeals to me. This new band could be a little extra on the side.

  * * *

  I’m humming to myself in Campbell’s kitchen the next day.

  He and Miller are picking up last-minute items for the Christmas party. Even though it’s early in December, Campbell’s daughter, Samantha, loves the holiday so much she’s insisted on having two parties—one early and one later.

  Plus, Miller’s younger brother, Miles, is in town for a couple weeks, during a break between his tour in Australia and a short European leg, where he’ll spend the rest of the month.

  Chloe and I grab stools at the kitchen counter.

  Samantha loves to bake, and she’s enlisted me in the not-terribly-complex-but-terribly-tempting task of sprinkling powdered sugar on top of the Nutella bread pudding.

  Chloe leans close and stage-whispers out of the corner of her mouth, “Want to sneak out with this one? I’ll guard the door while you make a run for it.”

  I laugh. “I’m one hundred percent in support of this plan.”

  “I heard you,” Samantha cuts in, in what has to be her sternest voice possible. “No one is making off with the Christmas goodies.”

  As she scoops chocolate peanut butter balls from a tray, Mackenzie nods quickly, seconding our plan. “I’ll just stuff these peanut butter balls in my bra right now, and then we’ll make our escape.”