Fake Lover

Chapter 1

Kelly

My phone rings over the music that oozes from my sound system, and I barely manage to get to it in time. That’s not something I would’ve been able to do in my previous place – a penthouse that spanned so many square feet I can’t even remember.

Not a problem here, though. My new place is small but comfortable and in NYC, sometimes that has to be enough. Penthouses are for the rich and famous, and I’m neither anymore.

“Hello?” I answer, hoping that I didn’t miss whoever seemed so desperate to get a hold of me.

“Kelly? Kelly Carlisle?” comes the reply.

“Hi. Yes, that's me,” I say, not recognizing the voice at the other end.

“Oh, hey. This is Marcus, from Club Cinnamon.”

I don’t recall speaking to this guy, but I instantly recognize the name of the club I’m due to perform at soon. “Hey, Marcus. Is everything okay? I was hoping to speak to you about coming down for a soundcheck sometime soon.”

“Um, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, but the thing is… we won’t be needing you after all,” he says.

My stomach hits the ground. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I can’t say I’m not used to this now. In fact, it’s becoming a regular occurrence.

“Can I ask why?” I reply, trying to keep a lid on my emotions because I could easily tear into this guy right now, and that’s the last thing I need.

“I’m sorry, but we’ve booked somebody else for that date, and we have no other slots to be able to fit you into. We’re booked right up to next year right now.”

I swallow hard and continue my questions, because whoever this is must be worth it. Sure, I might not be at the top of my game right now, but I’m Kelly Carlisle, goddamn it!

“Well, who is it?” My tone is not exactly one that’s likely to get an answer, but I’m pissed off enough that I can’t bring myself to care about niceties.

“Sorry, Kelly. I know this is short notice and must be hard, but we got the chance to book a bigger artist, and we couldn’t let that go. It’s not personal, it’s just business.”

“Who?” I insist.

“You know I can’t give you names. It’s part of the agreement. Anyway, maybe in the future we can sort something out. I’ll call you,” he says before hanging up.

I’ll call you – what is this, LA?

His words continue to ring in my ears like torture. A bigger artist. I don’t even bother asking myself how it’s come to this – how I came to this – because I’ve tossed that question around for too long, and I still haven’t come up with the answer.

I’m Kelly Carlisle, for God’s sake! One-third of music sensation Daughters of Fortune! We topped the charts. Sold out venues. Won MTV awards. How could I be sidelined for a bigger artist?

We were huge, and we made the most of it. A fun, wild ride for a few years. Some might say our star burned too bright to last, and they might be right. Like many in our situation, we fell foul of the industry and the snakes that run it.

Poor management decisions, terrible contracts, and in-fighting. None of that is new, and none of it can sustain a good working relationship and the creative forces that need to come together to make the kind of magic we did.

My thoughts travel to the other members of my group, Desirae Scott and Hannah “Honey” Walker. It’s not unusual for one member of a band to become a superstar in their own right but – and it makes me feel guilty just thinking it – I always assumed it would be me.

But Desirae left first, determined to carve out her own solo career, and there was no way we could or would replace her with anyone else. Daughters of Fortune were no longer fortunate and instead bit the dust. I never gave up, though, even if I’ve had nothing like the success we had with the group.

“Screw Cinnamon, and screw Marcus, whoever Marcus is!” I say to myself as I pad over to the kitchen. I open the fridge and pull out the usual ingredients I need to make my afternoon smoothie, hitting the power button on the blender extra hard and long and letting out a growl of frustration as the sound fills the space.

I can’t let this beat me. I won’t. 

It’s the last thing I need right now, but I told myself I’d go through my finances today, and I can’t back out of it just because of the phone call I’ve had. If anything, this makes it even more imperative. That gig was going to get me out of some scrapes.

The bills never stop piling up, and NYC isn’t exactly the cheapest place to live. Moving from a penthouse to a small apartment has helped, but I find myself having to worry about things that I never did before. I was only twenty when we hit the big-time, so money was never something I had the foresight in those days to think much about.

The records label paid for everything from our clothes to our hotels to our meals. I had money coming in that meant I could afford to live independently. Not only that, but in the lap of luxury, the likes of which most people will never know. Let alone young girls like us.

I take a sip of my smoothie, carrying it with me to the dining table that’s become my office. How things change. Sitting at the dining table with my laptop and papers spread all around me, it seems like another world. I remember a time when things were full and rich and colorful. When I lived for music and performing, friends and fans.

Now it’s just bills and worry and hustling for work. And even when I get the work, there’s nothing to stop it from being ripped out from underneath me. Just like it was today.

Bit by bit, the money has slipped away, just like everything else. What used to be so easy to come by, is now nothing but stress. After Daughters of Fortune disbanded, I sank so much of my cash into launching a solo career – the tour plans, the albums – and none of it worked out.

The magic just up and left, and it doesn’t look likely to return anytime soon. And yet something in me won’t give up, even though it seems like the universe is yelling at me to quit already. Well, I’m almost beat, but I’m not a quitter.

Picking up my phone, I’m determined not to let this latest setback of many get to me. I pull up my manager in my contacts and press call, hoping that she’ll pick up and not decide that someone else is more important than me at this point. Just like most others seem to be doing.

“Amy, it’s me.”

“Hi, Kelly, how’re things on your end?” she asks. I can hear the sound of something in her voice. Resignation, maybe.

“Well, Cinnamon’s just canceled on me,” I inform her.

“What? They didn’t tell me. Why didn’t they call me?” she says, and I’m glad to see she has some fire left in her belly, even if it takes something like this to fan the flames.

“Dunno. Maybe they think I’m so over that I don’t even have a manager anymore.” My tone is harsh, and I don’t mean to be, but I’m just done. “So, what gives? Because I’ve got to do something. This is going to shit pretty damn quick, and I’m all outta ideas over here.”

“Did they say why they canceled on you?” she asks, obviously still brooding.

“Bigger act,” I say, looking up at the ceiling and trying not to cry.

“Those bastards,” she hisses.

“So, I was thinking… is there any chance of getting a tour set up? Doesn’t need to be the big venues. Maybe something small and intimate for the hardcore fans. Or could be bigger. I dunno, I’m grasping at straws.”

“Look, I’m gonna be straight with you. At this stage, it just isn’t viable, Kell. You know how much tours cost, and we just can’t guarantee you’ll pull in the crowds. I hate to say it, but you’re just not a headliner anymore.”

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did. “Yeah,” I reply, hanging up on her. Because I just can’t right now. I know she’s telling me the truth, and yet it’s so hard to hear.

Suddenly, I’m engulfed by so many things – fears and regrets, mixed with memories of what it felt like to be up there on the stage. The electric energy from the crowd. The blood, sweat, and tears that went into performing. Into giving it my all until I had nothing left but a big warm bed to fall into and the excitement of doing it all over again the next night.

But that’s all a world away now. A distant dream that came and went. Now there’s only the reality that Amy just fed to me. All I can do is pick my heart, my career, and my broken dreams up off the floor and try to place them back where they belong.

But I’ve got a feeling that two of those have slipped through my fingers forever.