Fractured Fairy Tales: A SaSS Anthology

by Amy Marie

  “She owes me a favor.” I shrug and turn my attention to the kid, clasping his shoulder, “Let me ask you a question. Do you want to be famous, or do you want to be a musician?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  I wrap my arm around his shoulders and lean into him. “Any idiot can be famous. The right video, posted at the right time, can launch you straight into the stratosphere, but fame like that burns hot and fades just as quickly.”

  Defeat fills his eyes as I go on. “You want a career as a musician, you need to surround yourself with musicians; learn from them. The people on this crew have seen it all, they can teach you everything you need to know about what it takes to make it in this business. This isn’t just a job, it’s an opportunity. You can take it or leave it.”

  “Take it,” he says, eyes wide. “I’ll take it, absolutely.”

  “Good. Paul will show you where to go.”

  “Thank you, Mr. King.”

  “It’s Ezra.”

  “Thanks, Ezra.”

  Paul nods for the kid to follow him, and they head down the hallway.

  “Brayden,” I call out, and he spins on his heel. “Good luck with Chris. She really is a dick.”

  He gives me a half-smile and a nod as he jogs the last few steps to catch up with Paul.

  I grin to myself as I head toward the dressing rooms. A few people try to stop me along the way. I just nod and politely excuse myself.

  The closer I get to her dressing room, the black cloud of doom hanging over my head grows until it swallows me whole.

  My mood is dark by the time I reach the hallway that leads to the headliners’ dressing rooms. Simon stands sentinel outside, eyeing anyone who gets too close for his liking. His attention to detail is one of the many reasons I hired him years ago when Hannah’s safety was my biggest concern.

  “Simon,” I nod in greeting.

  He stops me with a hand to my shoulder. “You don’t want to go in there.”

  Brushing his hand away, I nod. “You’re right, but trust me, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  I reach for the knob as the door swings inward. A young guy, maybe twenty, comes out, no shirt, eyeing me as he zips up his fly. He smirks and disappears down the hall.

  My jaw ticks, and my muscles tighten as I step inside. Bright blue eyes blink up at me from where she’s sprawled across the couch. Her long hair, dyed a sweet bubble gum pink, is mussed, her lips red and swollen. She’s wrapped in a white silk robe that’s practically see through, her nipples visible behind the thin fabric.

  My eyes roam over the room. Half-empty bottles of champagne and pills litter nearly every available surface. A pair of scantily clad women are draped over an older man in an expensive suit. Movement catches my eyes as I spot a third girl on her knees in front of him, head bobbing. Moaning sounds come from the bathroom, and two more guys are separating what looks like coke with a razor on the counter beneath the lighted mirror.

  “Fuck,” I grumble, heading for the bathroom first, pounding my fist on the door. “Get out the fuck out of there, now.”

  My outburst disturbs the rest of the hangers-on as they glance up at me with disgust. “Out,” I growl. “All of you. Get the fuck out. Now!”

  No one moves. They just look at each other with bewildered expressions.

  Reaching for the nearest bottle, I grab the neck and fling it against the wall. It shatters, sending shards of glass shrapnel and foam everywhere. Someone shrieks, and I glare as they take the hint and head for the door.

  The bathroom door opens, and two men emerge with a woman who looks barely eighteen, which means she is most likely a minor. Each of them is high as a fucking kite. The buttons on their shirts are out of place, and their belts are undone and loose around their hips. I reach for the girl, who squeaks in protest, but the men she was just with don’t make a move to help her as I drag her toward Simon, who looks on with wide eyes.

  Thrusting the girl at him, I growl. “Make sure she gets home, and under no circumstances is she allowed back here. Are we clear?”

  I turn back as the room continues to empty, and my eyes fix on Hannah, who wobbles as she pushes to her feet. “Ezra,” she purrs. “Baby, I’ve missed you.”

  “The fuck is wrong with you, Hannah?”

  “Don’t be mad. We were just having a little bit of fun. Here,” she offers, thrusting another bottle into my hand. “Have a drink with me.”

  The bottle joins its friend in pieces on the floor. Hannah frowns, her robe slipping, exposing a pink-tipped nipple I used to salivate over. Looking at her now, I’m having trouble understanding what it was about her that made me think I could spend my life with this woman. She’s a goddamn disaster. Her stage make-up is still caked on her face, glitter coating her chest and arms, lipstick smeared across her cheek.

  “Enough, Hannah,” I growl. “Get your shit. I’m taking you back to the hotel.”

  “No,” she whines “Let’s go home. Take me home, please, daddy.” My stomach rolls as she presses her chest against me.

  I stare down at her with disgust. The sweet doe-eyed girl I met all those years ago is completely gone, leaving this soulless shell of the woman I loved. “What happened to you?” I ask, not really looking for the answer.

  She laughs, her head rolling back. “You should know, King Midas,” she sneers. “You made me this way.”

  Chapter 2

  Orelia

  “Hey, there’s my girl.” The rich sound of his voice instantly brings a smile to my face.

  “Hey, Pop. How’s it hanging?”

  “A little to the left.” His wide toothy grin fills the screen.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Ew. TMI, old man.”

  He chuckles. “How’s life?”

  I shrug. “Same ole, same ole. Just working like crazy. Karen quit last week, so I’ve been pulling double duty behind the bar and serving.”

  “Double the work means double the tips, right?”

  “You would think that, but nope.” I sigh and roll my neck. “Liam is looking for a replacement, but pickings are slim.”

  “What happened to all those starving art students waiting tables to make ends meet?”

  “They’re either busy with classes or rehearsal. You remember what it’s like.”

  He rubs the back of his neck, and the screen glitches, freezing the frame as his voice continues. “Yeah.”

  Ignoring the disappointment in his voice, I focus in on the frozen picture that still hasn’t reset. Worry settles deep in my gut. “Is the weather bad out there?”

  “Just a little thunder,” he replies. The picture glitches again and then rights itself as my father’s weary oil-smeared face comes into view.

  He has a habit of downplaying the severity of the storms he faces out on the rig. Just a little thunder usually comes with dangerous winds, fifteen-foot waves, and a hell of a lot of lightning.

  I worry about him out there in the middle of the ocean, somewhere off the coast of Texas, with me two thousand miles away in Boston. If something happens out there—. I can’t even finish the thought.

  “Stop,” he scolds me.

  “Stop what?” I ask, dropping my head.

  “I can see the creases in your forehead, Orelia. It’s just a storm. It will pass. I’m fine.”

  Fighting back tears, I sniff and give him a small smile. “I know.”

  Gwen pushes open the door to the tiny office. Her smile fades when she sees my face, and she immediately moves toward me.

  “Hey, Dad. Say hi to Gwen.” I turn the screen toward her, taking a moment to wipe my eyes.

  “Hey, Mr. C,” she greets. “How’s life on the rig?”

  Dad laughs. “Doing good, Gwendolyn. You lookin’ out for my girl?”

  She smiles and wraps an arm around my shoulder. “You know it. She helps me keep Liam in check.”

  “Who keeps who in check?” Liam asks from the doorway. I chuckle at my boss as he squeezes into the small space.

&nb
sp; “Hey, Hey, Mr. C,” he says, waving at my father. “How’s it hanging?”

  I hold up a hand. “Don’t go there. Not again.”

  Dad chuckles, and Gwen swats at Liam’s arm. “What?”

  “You coming out to see us?” Liam asks.

  Dad smiles, nodding. “Soon as I get leave.”

  “Good. You got to see our girl perform.” He gives my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “She’s packing them in every night.”

  I roll my eyes. “Hardly. They come for the fish and chips.”

  “Nah, they come to see her and stay for Sam’s fish and chips.”

  “You tell Sam to whip me up some of that crawfish etouffee, and I’ll swim up there if I have too.”

  “Will do,” Liam chuckles. “Princess,” he says, turning to his wife, “you see Milo’s truck round here? Drew called; Alex is tearing the house apart looking for it. I could hear the little guy screaming in the background.”

  “Jesus,” she groans. “We are never having kids.”

  She moves past him, and he catches her around the waist, pulling her against his chest. “Never say never, Princess. You can’t keep your hands off me, and birth control isn’t foolproof.”

  Gwen slaps a hand on his chest. “Liam Sinclair, if you even think about knocking me up, I will cut off your balls and feed them to the cat.”

  He laughs, turning back to me with a wink as he follows his wife to their loft above the bar. I giggle as I watch him grab for her ass then chase her up the stairs, the thud of their footsteps echoing through the kitchen before the door slams shut.

  “I’m glad you have them, Cher,” Dad says, and I glance down to see a sad smile on his face. “Makes me worry less about you being up there all by yourself.”

  “I’m fine, Daddy, I promise.”

  “I know,” he nods, “but I’m your father; it’s my job to worry.”

  His age is beginning to show. Granted, forty-nine isn’t all that old, but twenty years on an oil rig takes its toll. He’s got a bad back and has put off surgery for far too long to put me through school. Guilt turns in my stomach when I think about everything he’s sacrificed for a dream that died before it ever got started.

  I moved to Boston six years ago to attend Berklee College of Music right after high school. Here I am, two years after graduation, bartending and singing at open mic nights when I can. My music career has come to a screeching halt, but that hasn’t stopped the student loan bills from showing up every month like clockwork.

  Sean, Liam’s brother in law, sticks his head in the office. “Where’s Liam?”

  I nod my head to the stairs.

  “Again?” he groans. “Jesus, if those two aren’t careful, they’re going to end up popping out offspring left and right like Millie and Dave.”

  I laugh. “I wouldn’t mention that to Gwen.”

  “Well, since the boss is occupied, you better get out there, sweetheart, it’s getting crowded.”

  “Gotcha,” I nod, then turn back to Dad. “Sorry, Daddy. I’ve got to get back to work. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Cher.”

  Blowing him a kiss, I end the call and push through the kitchen, sliding behind the bar. Thursday is open mic night, which brings out every schmo with a guitar who thinks he’s the next Ed Sheeran.

  A couple of college kids occupy one of the tables in the corner, their laptops open, tapping away, here more for the free WIFI than anything else.

  Sean takes his place near the stage with a clipboard as a line of hopefuls clinging to beat up guitar cases forms for their turn at the mic. I wave to get his attention and give him a nod, signaling him to put me down for my usual spot in the line-up. He gives me a wink and scribbles on his clipboard.

  Heading down the bar, I take orders and refill beers for the regulars. The bell on the door chimes as two men enter. A blond in a tailored gray suit pulls a stool from the end of the bar, listening intently as his friend continues his story. “She’s a goddamn disaster, Cole. I had to practically drag her back to the hotel. I don’t know if I can go through with this.”

  The suit, Cole, I guess his name is, nods and slaps his friend on the shoulder. “Think of this as a means to an end.” He moves to take a seat, but I quickly step in front of him. “You pull this off and you will—”

  “You can’t sit there,” I interrupt.

  His eyes snap to mine, then narrow, his brows pulled low. “Excuse me.”

  I tap the brass plate drilled into the bar top that reads Reserved for Floyd.

  He glances down at the plate then back to me. “And will Floyd be joining us this evening?” he asks in a thick British accent.

  I shake my head.

  He moves to take the seat again. “Then I don’t think he’d mind if I—”

  “He’s dead.”

  His eyes go wide. “He’s…”

  I nod. “He died about a year ago. He sat right there, on that stool, every day for twenty years. He was a crotchety, bitter old man who couldn’t pick a winning team to save his life. He liked that spot because it was close enough to the TV that he could hear the sound, but far enough away from people that no one bothered him. So, if you don’t mind, that seat is taken.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender and moves over one stool.

  I take a dramatic step to my left and paste on a smile. “What can I get for you?”

  “Glenlivet twenty-five,” he replies.

  “No can do,” I tell him.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Did you ban scotch in memory of some distant third cousin, perhaps?”

  I chuckle. “No.”

  “Then what is it?” He’s obviously irritated, which only makes this exchange that much more fun.

  “Look around,” I say, holding my arms open wide. “Does this look like the kind of place that carries a four-hundred-dollar bottle of scotch?”

  A snicker catches my attention, and I turn to his friend, who’s been enjoying the show immensely.

  I suck in a deep breath as I take him in for the first time. Thick gray hair styled in that effortless messy way and falls into his eyes. He’s young, well, younger than the gray hair suggests. Maybe, mid-thirties. A crisp leather jacket frames broad, muscular shoulders. His hands are nice too, thick with clean, trim nails.

  “Bushmills, neat,” he says, then holds up two fingers. His eyes hold mine for a beat too long, and his smile widens. I can feel the heat as it crawls up my neck and spreads over my cheeks. I blink and shake myself out of my trance.

  “Yeah,” I choke. “Coming right up.”

  I can feel his eyes on me as I move to the shelf behind me.

  “So where is she now?” Cole asks. Silence. “Ezra?” he prods.

  Ezra. His name is Ezra. It’s a proud, stately name. It fits him. I peek over my shoulder and meet his eyes for a moment, then Cole nudges him.

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Where is she?”

  “Who?”

  “The Queen,” he scoffs. “You know who. The bane of our very existence.”

  Ezra straightens and reaches for a toothpick from a jar at the edge of the bar. “At the hotel,” he says.

  I pour two glasses and set the bottle back on the shelf, trying unsuccessfully to not listen in on their conversation. I set a drink in front of each of them and clean up around the cooler a bit, lingering longer than I should.

  “You left her alone?” Cole asks, reaching for his drink.

  “Simon’s there with strict instructions. No one in or out.”

  “Jesus,” Cole groans, shaking his head as he drains his glass. I raise a brow. He responds with a nod, flicking the glass toward me for a refill. I oblige.

  “Fuck, this is a nightmare,” Ezra groans and runs a hand over his face

  “If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.” Cole shrugs and takes a sip of his drink, turning his attention once again to me. “What’s your name, love?” I look up to see two sets of eyes on me.

  “Does it matter?�
�� I ask, arching my brow.

  He chuckles. “It does now.” He leans over the bar, offering me a hand. “Cole.”

  Reluctantly, I take it. “Orelia.”

  He smiles at me. “This is my mate, Ezra,” he says, gripping his shoulders and shaking him from side to side. “Say hello, Ezra.”

  “Hello, Ezra,” his friend repeats, shrugging off his arm and downing the rest of his drink. He flicks the empty glass in my direction and tips his chin.

  “You two might want to switch to coffee soon,” I suggest.

  Ezra shakes his head. “We’re fine.”

  “Orelia.” Cole repeats, “Not a name you hear every day.”

  I nod. “It means golden. My father said when I was born, he felt as if his life had been touched with gold.”

  “That’s sweet.” He smiles. “So, what’s your story then. Are you a student?”

  “Nope,” I respond, popping the p.

  “Leave her alone, man,” Ezra says, draining the glass once again.

  “I’m just making conversation.”

  Sean calls my name, and I turn to the end of the bar. “You’re up.” He tips his head toward the stage.

  I grab the bottle of Bushmills and refill Ezra’s glass, earning myself a nod of approval. “That’s my queue,” I say, making my way around the bar, I grab my guitar from the storage closet near the back and head for the stage

  I catch sight of Cole, nudging his friend as I step on the platform. Ezra glances at me over his shoulder, then turns back to his drink, having lost interest.

  Stepping up to the mic, a rush of nerves hits me as my fingers press into the strings. “This one is called Lost in You,” I tell the crowd.

  The first few notes float through the bar as I pick the strings, the music flowing through me. I open my mouth, the lyrics flowing free and easy, surfing the melody as I sing about longing and passion, about loving someone with your whole heart even if they don’t love you back.

  My voice is smooth and rich, the perfect contrast to my speaking voice that I’ve always thought is a bit high pitched.

  I close my eyes, letting the melody take me along for the ride, as the music comes to a crest. I silence the strings, belting out the final phrase before moving into the last chorus.