My Pretties

by Jeff Strand

  MY PRETTIES

  A novel by Jeff Strand

  My Pretties copyright 2019 by Jeff Strand

  Cover design by Lynne Hansen http://www.LynneHansenArt.com

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  For more information about the author, visit http://www.JeffStrand.com

  Subscribe to Jeff Strand's free monthly newsletter (which includes a brand-new original short story in every issue) at

  http://eepurl.com/bpv5br

  CHAPTER ONE

  Olivia didn't tell the audience it was her final show. It was a small crowd that wasn't here to see her and they wouldn't care. She'd simply try to give her best performance ever, put all of her passion into these final six songs, and then leave the stage to focus on other areas of her life.

  There was a time when she couldn't imagine giving up on her dream. That time was before ten years of performing in tiny, often crappy, sticky-floored venues for little or no money and less than adoring crowds. Not hostile crowds—she'd managed to make it a decade without anybody flinging a beer bottle at her head—but frequently lethargic ones. She helped pass the time until the headliner showed up.

  Olivia loved music more than anything. She was also finally starting to accept that she might not be very good at it.

  She wasn't a talentless hack. People didn't flee the venue with their hands over their ears. But they also didn't rush over to her merch table to buy stickers or CDs. People occasionally told her that they'd enjoyed her set, yet she hadn't really accumulated much of a fan base. It was rare that anybody showed up specifically because of her. She certainly didn't have any groupies, and she even would have been happy with a creepy, stalkerish one.

  The realization that she might be average at best came after she, against her better judgment, took a day job that she suspected she might not hate. And she'd been correct. It was a decent-paying, satisfying job with friendly co-workers—the worst possible thing for her artistic soul. She still wanted to be a successful musician, but she was no longer hungry for it. Though Olivia craved the adoration of an audience, she also really liked medical and dental benefits.

  She'd toyed with the decision of quitting music for a while. What clinched it was when she decided not to tell any of her co-workers about tonight's performance, because she was worried that they might have to tell a little white lie when they praised her.

  So this was it.

  The manager gave her the signal, and she walked up on stage with her acoustic guitar and played her heart out.

  She'd thought she might cry when her set was over, which would be awkward for the audience since they didn't know this was the end of an era, but she felt strangely calm when it was over, as if it wasn't real. She felt almost happy. Relieved.

  Olivia walked off stage to a smattering of applause. She got a beer and leaned against the back wall, collecting her thoughts.

  A man walked over to her. He looked a few years older than her, maybe mid-thirties. He wore tinted glasses and had one of those gigantic hipster beards. He had a small bandage on his neck. "Great set," he said.

  "Thank you."

  He switched his own bottle of beer from his right hand to his left before reaching out to her. "Greg."

  She shook his hand. "Olivia."

  "Really impressive stuff up there."

  "Thanks. Hey, I'm not trying to be bitchy, but I need to decompress a little, and I'm not looking to get hit on right now."

  Greg held up his left hand and tapped his wedding ring. "Not my intention."

  "And being married would stop you?"

  "I swear I'm not trying to bang you. All I want is sixty seconds of your time. Who's your manager?"

  "I don't have one."

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  "Then I'm glad I came over to talk to you. I'm not sure where you're looking to go with your career, but I'll bet you have higher aspirations than playing at this place."

  Olivia shrugged. Though Greg seemed nice enough, he was one performance too late.

  He reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, and withdrew a business card. It said Gregory Coffer – Artist Representation with a phone number and website. There were a couple of musical notes in the upper right corner. He tucked his wallet back into his pocket while Olivia stared at the card.

  "You handle musicians?" she asked.

  "Yep."

  She handed the card back to him. "Thanks. I've been through this before. No offense, but I've had managers promise me the world."

  "I'm not promising you the world. I'm not saying I can get you into Madison Square Garden. I'm saying that I can get you way better gigs than this one. You write all of your own songs, right?"

  Olivia nodded.

  "I can tell. There's a certain energy when a performer does her own material, songs that she created, that she's passionate about. You've got too much talent to be playing to a dozen people who are too busy checking their phones to experience what you have to offer. You should be opening for bigger acts at better venues. And then other people should be opening for you. It'll be done in baby steps, and it'll be a lot of hard work, but you've got something special. I can help you."

  Olivia laughed. She couldn't help herself.

  Greg raised an eyebrow. "I don't get the joke."

  "I quit," she said. "Tonight was my farewell performance. I'm done with this business."

  "Oh. Well, that breaks my heart. I'm honored that I could be here for it. Wish I'd met you sooner. I feel like I could've changed things."

  "Maybe."

  "Can I at least buy a signed CD from you?"

  "I didn't set up a merch table this time."

  "Well, shit. I spend every night going around trying to find undiscovered talent like yours, and I got here too damn late. If I'm lucky, in a year or so I'll see you playing somewhere and find out that you changed your mind." He extended his hand. "Good luck to you, Olivia."

  She sighed. Then she took a long swig of her beer, finishing off the bottle. "I need another drink," she said. "How about you buy me one and we'll talk?"

  "That would make me very happy."

  "I'll almost definitely say no. But I'll listen to what you have to say."

  "Fantastic." He pointed to the bottle. "Same kind?"

  "Yes."

  "Be right back."

  Olivia watched Greg carefully as he walked over to the bar. He seemed like a genuinely nice guy, but that didn't mean he wouldn't try to slip something into her drink.

  She couldn't believe this was happening. She'd spent long sleepless nights thinking about this decision. She'd cried in the bathroom at work over it. And now that she'd made peace with it, now that she felt better about her life, Greg was here to possibly make an offer that might cause her to forever wonder what might have been if she turned it down.

  But she should turn it down. She should absolutely, positively, without question turn it down. Why go through all of the frustration again?

  The bartender popped the bottles open and Greg brought them back to their table. He set hers in front of her, then held his up. "Cheers."

  "Cheers." They clinked their bottles together.

  "So let me be very blunt," said Greg. "If you've been struggling, it's not due to lack of musical talent, it's due to lack of stage presence."

  Olivia grinned. "Are you saying I'm boring?"

  "Not at all. You just put a
ll of your focus on the songs and none on the talk. There should be anecdotes that go with each song. Jokes. Stuff to make the audience feel like they're your friend."

  "I tried that. I was terrible at it."

  "I can work with you. I swear, Olivia, I can take you to the next level. I'm not saying I can take you up here," he said, holding his hand high into the air, "but I promise I can take you here." He held up his hand at chest-level.

  "Starting from where?"

  Greg lowered his hand an inch. Then he chuckled. "Sorry, I don't want to undersell myself, but I don't want to move my hand too low and insult you. That was a no-win hand movement for me. All I'm saying is that I can help."

  "I don't know."

  "I like hearing that doubt in your voice. We're getting somewhere."

  A woman, visibly drunk, stumbled into the booth, almost knocking over their beers. She looked directly at Olivia with unfocused eyes. "That. Was. Awesome."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  The woman pointed to the empty stage. "That. When you were up there. Those fuckin' songs. Didn't you see me grooving on you?"

  "The way the lights are it's hard to see the people in the crowd, but I appreciate that. Thank you."

  "No, thank you. Anyway, I wasn't trying to interrupt your date. Bye." The woman staggered away.

  "Looks like I'm not the only one with fine musical taste," said Greg.

  "That was weird. This doesn't happen to me. If it did, I never would've quit." Granted, the woman would probably be passed out in the restroom three minutes from now, but Olivia didn't mind if praise came from people too drunk to know what they were saying.

  "I've never seen you before, but maybe thinking this was your last performance let you relax on stage."

  "I wasn't relaxed."

  "More relaxed than usual, though?"

  "Nope. More stressed out. But I did try to go out with a bang. I don't know, what if I've been holding back all this time?"

  Greg took a drink of his beer. "It's possible."

  "Or it could be pure coincidence," Olivia said. "Fate trying to mess with me. The world putting a bunch of 'What if's?' into my brain just when I thought I figured everything out."

  "But what's the risk? I'm not asking for any money. I work on commission. I'm asking for a little bit of your time. Time to let me fine-tune your performance, and time to play the better gigs I'm going to set up for you. I'm asking for a month. One month. One month for you to say, 'Oh, my career is going slightly better than it was a month ago.' No contract. Walk away whenever you want."

  Olivia started to tell him no. She took a long drink of beer instead. "I'll have to think about it."

  "That is totally fair. I'm not here to pressure you. All I ask is that you not throw away my card. You might go home and decide that you're not the least bit interested, and that's fine, but in a year, two years, if you have second thoughts, give me a call. I'm not lying when I say that I almost never see talent like yours. I wouldn't just say that. I mean, hell, it cost me an overpriced beer."

  Olivia laughed and took another drink. "This has been a very strange night."

  She finished the beer and started to lose track of their conversation. Greg offered to walk her out to her car, and she thought that it might be a good idea since he was very nice, so she let him guide her out of the club, and she couldn't remember if she'd already put her guitar back into her car, but she supposed it didn't matter because she doubted she'd ever play it again, though she should sell it instead of just leaving it there, but she might have put it in her car, there was no way to know for sure, and Greg wasn't really walking her in the direction of her car, which seemed bad at first but less bad when she decided that she shouldn't be driving anyway, because that would be reckless and irresponsible, and Greg was very nice to be taking care of her like this, and she felt bad that she didn't want to play music again, and he was so nice that he fastened her seat belt for her, just like she was his daughter, Olivia wished she had a daughter, just one, no need to get carried away, oh that was funny but she couldn't make her mouth laugh, she wanted to close her eyes and sleep forever but that would be rude but it was too late she'd already closed her eyes and she couldn't open them and she didn't want to open them and Greg sure was nice to her.

  * * *

  Olivia opened her eyes.

  She was swaying back and forth.

  Not from being drugged. She was in a cage suspended several feet above a cement floor, with her legs dangling free. There was almost no room to move—at her heaviest weight a few years ago, she probably wouldn't have fit in here. The top of the cage pressed against the top of her head. Her shoulders touched the sides.

  She could turn her head. When she did, she saw that the windowless room contained a dozen cages, four rows of three, hanging by thick chains from the ceiling. More than half of the cages were occupied.

  A wooden chair and a stepladder were in the far corner, next to a door.

  The woman in the cage next to her was pale. Emaciated. Her eyes were open and she was looking at Olivia, but it was unclear if she was actually seeing her.

  The other women—and they were all women—appeared to be dead. Three of them were dead without question. The other two might have been unconscious, but probably weren't. All of them were nightmarishly thin. Almost skeletal. One was literally skeletal.

  The smell of rot was so overpowering that she had a coughing fit that lasted for almost a minute.

  When she stopped coughing, Olivia screamed and screamed.

  Then she forced herself to shut the hell up and take stock of the situation. Greg wasn't in the room. She could escape. Her mind was still fuzzy, but there had to be way out of this. One that all of those other doomed women had overlooked.

  "Don't," said the woman in the cage next to her. Her voice was a weak rasp.

  "Don't what?"

  The woman blinked twice, hard, as if to focus. "Scream. It hurts my ears."

  "Where are we?"

  "Does it matter? Wait it out. It's not as bad once you stop feeling anything."

  Olivia began to swing her feet. The cage rocked along with her.

  "We've tried that. Tried all of that. Tried everything."

  "Well, I'm not going to just sit here."

  "Yes, you will. That's all you'll do. Sit here. He'll give you water. But no food. Never any food. Soon we'll be like the others."

  "They all starved to death?"

  "I think he got mad at the first one. That's what I heard. I wasn't here yet. The rest starved."

  "We can escape," Olivia insisted. "If we work together, we can get out of this. There has to be a way."

  The woman smiled. "You're cute."

  "I'm not giving up."

  "You will."

  "When will he be back?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "When?"

  "Nobody knows."

  Olivia's cage swung back and forth, missing the woman's by inches. They'd probably been specifically spaced out so that they wouldn't collide. And she couldn't imagine that the setup would be so flimsy that she could yank the cage out of the ceiling by swinging it, but she had to try something. She couldn't just sit here and die.

  The cage did not pop free from the ceiling.

  After a while she quit swinging.

  Then she went back to screaming.

  Of course the room was soundproofed. The other women would've thought to shout for help. She was wasting energy.

  Her legs were dangling free. When Greg returned, she could lure him close to her, then kick him in the face. Break his nose.

  That wouldn't do any good, though. She'd still be trapped in the cage.

  She could talk to him. Reason with him. Convince him that she'd never tell anybody, not a soul. She didn't know what the other women had said to him. Maybe she could say something different. Something that would change his mind.

  She screamed some more.

  "You're hurting my ears," said the other woman, when Ol
ivia finally stopped.

  "There has to be a way out of this."

  "You'll stop believing that. When he comes back, he'll sit in a chair and watch us. Just watch us. Quietly watch us starve."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Aw, shit, thought Charlene as she walked into the back room and saw the new girl leaning against the wall, crying. Was she going to have to ask what was wrong? Try to console her? Should she just quietly step out of the room and hope she hadn't been seen?

  The new girl immediately noticed the intrusion and quickly dabbed at her eyes. "Sorry. I'm sorry."

  Charlene was pretty sure the new girl had said her name was Gertie. When introducing herself she'd said, "Yes, like Drew Barrymore in E.T.," so if Drew played somebody named Gertie in that movie, that was the new girl's name. Charlene had never seen E.T. and would not have thought to make that reference. An incredibly inappropriate alien comment had popped into her mind, but Charlene a) was at work, and b) had just met Gertie, so she'd used her filter and left the hilariously gross alien comment unsaid.

  She was proud of this. Many things made it past her filter on any given day. Many, many things.

  Gertie was attractive, though not Charlene's type. She doubted Gertie had even a single tattoo. Charlene liked to be the corrupted and not the corrupter (though by now, at age twenty-six, it was difficult to find scenarios where she could say, "Goodness gracious, I've never done that before!"). Gertie looked wholesome. Not virginal, but not somebody who would let lovers choke her. Average height but extremely thin—not in an anorexic way, but still skinny as shit. She was probably fresh out of college and her tears were from the realization that her four-year degree had earned her a job as a server at a mediocre Italian restaurant.

  "Everything okay?" Charlene asked. "I mean, obviously not, dumb question. What I mean is, is there anything I can do?"

  "No. I just needed a minute to myself and somebody was already in the restroom."

  "You sure?" Charlene didn't know why she'd asked if Gertie was sure. She'd been given a free pass to politely leave—why hadn't she taken it?