A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) (6 page)

At home, I find several emails with audio files from Delia, and I put on headphones and sit down to listen. The songs are all pop, which I suppose is fitting, and all the tracks are peppy, bouncy, and very-youthful sounding. They aren’t much different from what I sang as Veronica.

Most people my age want to break out of their typecast. Actresses who stick to a young typecast often run out of work by the time they reach their mid-twenties. But does the same apply to my music?

I’m used to people telling me how it’s going to work, and then when I do what they say and it’s a massive hit. The people who helped me hit it big as Veronica Pryce, though, are now looking for the next Veronica. I’m on my own.

I pick up my phone and dial my mother. It’s early morning in Australia, one day ahead of where we’re at in Orange County.

“Hello, Lizzie,” she answers. “How are things on your new show?”

“On hold. Listen, I—”

“What d’you mean, on hold?”

“There’s another series that’s really similar so they’re rewriting the scripts and—”

“Why didn’t you know about this?”

I shut my eyes and rub my temples. “Another series hired Vicki Hanson as a new lead to take over from their old one and they just aired their season premiere—”

“What? Now? It’s the middle of the summer.”

It’s late summer, but I don’t want to argue. “So, anyway—”

“Clearly they perceive you as a threat if they did that. You shouldn’t have to change your show.”

“I really doubt that’s how it worked. But listen—”

“I don’t like the sound of this ‘on hold’ business. Who do I need to call?”

“Mom, I’m not calling about that. Will you listen to me please?”

“I can’t imagine anything’s more important.”

“Delia wants me to cut an album. I’m listening to some potential tracks for it right now, and I just wanted your input.”

“It sounds like she’s trying to distract you while your show falls apart.”

Right
, I think,
because my music agent is
totally
in league with the producers of
Blood Ritual. My mother may have worked in the business, but every day, I’m learning more and more about what she doesn’t know. “Mom, I want to work on this album right now. Can you help me—”

“You can’t run from your problems.”

“They’re just rewriting some scripts, okay? I’m still under contract. The show isn’t canceled. The network spent a lot of money advertising me as the lead, so that’s still going to happen.”

“But you can’t just sit around—”

“I’m not
sitting around
. I’ve been up since four this morning, and yesterday, I was driving all over LA to meet with Julian and Delia and Angie—”

“Whose Julian?”

This is the kind of conversation that ‘facepalm’ was invented for. “My manager.”

“And what’s he like?”

“He was Jason Vanderholt’s manager.”

“So how’d he get fired?”

“He kind of specializes in transitioning child stars into adult careers.”

“I was reading up the other day on another manager who’s supposed to be very good at that. Name’s Gwen Reynolds. Have you talked to her?”

“Can we please talk about my album?”

“Listen, you’re an adult now. You have to make these decisions for yourself.”

“Mom, I am making these decisions. I’m looking for advice—”

“You know I’m not there anymore to take care of you, and maybe that’s scary, but you can do this.”

My mother hasn’t lived in the United States for over three years, and even before that, it wasn’t like she took care of me anyway. I fight the urge to just hang up on her or burst into tears and explain to her (in my imagination I would do this in a clear, calm voice while crying at the same time) that I do take care of myself and I just wanted a second opinion.

“You think you’re all right now?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say.

“All right. You take care.” She hangs up before I respond.

I set my phone aside and stare again at all the tracks I’ve got open on my laptop. None of them really speak to me as a song I must record, and I don’t feel like I’ve got an ear for what will or won’t be a hit.

I rub my face and tick through my short list of friends. I can’t get Zach to help because he’s all uptight about his own music career. And because, whenever I spend time with Zach these days, I have to ignore my feelings for him. I could try to get Kyra’s opinion, but that might hurt Zach’s feelings too. He might wonder why I didn’t consult him.

And that’s it. That’s my list of friends.

The next morning at the gym, Mr. Gorgeous and his attitude are in the hallway outside the changing room, and when I walk past, I hear a loud
SNAP
and feel a sting on my thigh.

I startle and turn to find him smirking at me, the towel he usually keeps around his neck in his hands, still twisted and ready to snap me again.

Part of me wants to play submissive and see if that activates the nice Devon again. Part of me wants to fight back so that he’ll stop pushing me around whenever he thinks he can get away with it. The part of me that wins out, though, is the part that has too much on her mind to deal with him.

I turn and keep walking.

After I change into my gym clothes, I clip my cell phone to the waist of my yoga pants and tuck my earbuds into my ears. I’ve listened to these songs fifty times, but here goes fifty-one.

In the warm-up area, I get moving and shake the stiffness out of my muscles. I twist to my left and my spine pops. I twist to my right and find Devon there, standing with his arms folded and a mock scowl on his face.

“What are you listening to?” he asks. “Funeral music?”

I sigh and pull an earbud out of my ear. “Songs for me to sing.”

“Oh yeah? You cutting another album?”

“I don’t know. That’s the plan.”

“You don’t write your own music?”

I shake my head.

“Well what’s wrong with the songs? They all terrible?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t really connect with any of them, but it doesn’t mean they aren’t any good. Life’s been stressful.” I catch myself. Why do I keep giving him so much information about myself? While I
wish
Devon were someone I could open up to, he isn’t. He’s an obnoxious, chauvinistic jerk.

“Can I listen?” he asks.

“They’re probably not your kind of thing. They’re kinda bubblegum.”

“I’m a fitness instructor, Lizzie.” His hand is still extended.

This is weird. I tug the other earbud out of my ear, and he reaches into his pocket and produces his own set of earphones. I really shouldn’t hand my smartphone, with my email and bank logins, to someone like Devon, but he steps forward to take it from me and my fingers release automatically.

He plugs in his earphones and looks at the screen. “How do I make it start over? Oh, yeah, here. Okay. Thanks.”

I watch him stride off, fitting his earphones into his ears and tucking my pink phone into his pocket.

I continue my warm-up while he picks a place over by the wall to stand and listen, his eyes half shut. Every now and then he pulls out my phone and taps it to prevent the lock screen from coming up.

When I head over to the elliptical machine, I see him pull a scrap of paper and a nub of pencil out of his pocket and note something down. Then he taps at the screen of my phone, and shuts his eyes again, listening. This time, he raises an eyebrow, inclines his head, and makes more notes on his paper, nodding in time to the music.

This is more distracting than the television they have mounted on the wall. I check the clock and see that I’ve been running for almost five minutes.

Devon stays parked by the wall for my entire time on the elliptical and through most of my weights workout. Only when I’m on my last set does he move towards me, unplugging his earphones from my phone as he goes.

“So,” he says, “I liked these five.” He holds out his scrap of paper, which turns out to be a receipt with the numbers of the songs scrawled on the back. “Especially the second song. That’s a great song.”

I let go of the handles of the weight machine and get to my feet. My heart soars at a second opportunity to talk to him in public, but I’m guarded too. I just don’t know him well enough to know whether or not he’ll turn this around into another moment of mockery.

“I’m not an expert in this stuff,” he admits. “But that’s just what I think.”

“Okay.” I take my phone from him. “Do you actually listen to this kind of music?”

He shrugs. “I dunno. I’m not one of those people who thinks one kind of music is better than another. Maybe that just means I have no taste.”

I let myself smile. “That would make two of us.”

“This the kind of music you listen to?” he asks.

“I just listen to whatever’s charting. And classical music.”

“I’m not cultured enough for that,” he says. “Anyway, hope that helps.”

“It does.”

He looks me in the eye with a gaze that steadies me. There’s no amusement in his expression. In that moment, we’re just two friends having a conversation.

“See you around, Veronica,” he says with another heart-melting smile. Then he leaves, and the moment is over.

I look at the receipt in my hand. Though I expect it to be from a strip club or bar, I find that it’s from a grocery store and the items on it are soymilk, frozen fruit, and flax seeds. I turn it over and look at the songs he chose. Grateful as I am for this, I need the opinion of someone other than a guy who’s in his mid-twenties at the youngest. He’s not the target audience.

When I arrive home, I find Kyra seated at the kitchen counter, eating breakfast in her flannel, purple-cow pajamas. Her spoon clinks softly against the porcelain bowl.

“I know, I know,” she says. “I should have gotten up to work out. I just can’t keep your schedule, girl. I don’t know how you do it every day.”

“Do you want to listen to some songs and help me pick ones for my next album?” I ask. “You don’t have to. I know you’re not listening to this kind of stuff right now because-”

“Mmm, sure.” She nudges the stool next to her, inviting me to sit down.

I get out my phone and tap the screen to play the first song.

She listens and scrunches her face. “No.”

I hit the second one.

“Mmm…dunno. I say nuh-uh.”

I nod and note that down then play the next one.

She gives a yes or no to each, and while her answers don’t exactly match up to Devon’s, there is some overlap. She only liked three songs—Devon also gave them a positive rating.

“So you excited to do more music stuff?” she asks.

“I don’t even know if I can get these songs,” I say. “Some other star with more clout will probably claim them. I don’t know if this is all just a pointless exercise, like something my agent had me do just to keep me busy.”

“Sure.” Kyra nods.

“And I’m not sure if these songs mature my image or whatever. That’s what I need to do, mature my image.”

“They aren’t all raunchy, so maybe not.” She smiles as she says this though, her eyes twinkling.

“Sex appeal is not my thing,” I say.

“Well…right. Thank you, by the way, for not making that generic move so many former child stars make.”

“It’s working for Ben.”

“Who?” She blinks as if she doesn’t know who I’m talking about. Zach’s former band mate’s name is mud around here right now.

My phone rings and I answer.

“Lizzie,” the male voice barks. “It’s Chuck.”

“Oh, hi,” I say. Chuck is an executive producer of
Clues
.

“Meeting tomorrow to discuss the new direction for the show? We need our leading lady there.”

“You got it. Just tell me when.”

I give Kyra a thumbs-up. The words “leading lady” bring a flood of relief down on me. I just hope he isn’t being polite on the phone while he prepares to fire me in person.