Read The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1) Online
Authors: Shelby Rebecca
The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1)
A Phoenix Rising Novel, Book One
Shelby Rebecca
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any trademarks mentioned herein are not authorized by the trademark owners and do not in any way mean the work is sponsored by or associated with the trademark owners. Any trademarks used are specifically in a descriptive capacity.
All songs and/or quotes are the property of their copyright owners.
Copyright © 2014 Shelby Rebecca
Kindle Edition
Edited by Juli Valenti of
Juli’s Elite Editing
Proof Read by Marlene Engel of
Book Mama Blog
Cover Art by Kari Ayasha at
Cover to Cover Designs
Interior formatting by Paul Salvette at
BB eBooks
ISBN-13: 978-1500225612
ISBN-10: 1500225614
For Mitchell. What I wouldn’t do for one more hour with you.
Warning: This book is intended for an adult audience 18 + due to adult content, language, and graphic scenes of a sexual nature.
This is book one in a two book series. There is a preview at the end of The Stage called The Tour Preview. Read it at your own risk. This book does not end in a cliffhanger,
but the preview does
.
Mia, the saint.
Kolton, the sinner.
Kolton Royce is a tatted, bad boy rock star at the top of his game.
Mia Phoenix is an overly responsible nineteen-year-old striving for stardom since losing her parents in a house fire.
When Mia ends up on Kolton’s team for the debut of the new nationwide singing competition, The Stage, she’s not sure if it’s her or her voice that he’s hell-bent to control.
After he takes special interest in her welfare, they’ve been warned, any contact between them outside of filming is strictly forbidden.
He has other ideas.
She’s a phoenix rising from the ashes, the only one who understands the pain that lies beneath the persona. Though he’s not sure if he’s too bad for her, he can’t stay away.
All sinners have a past. All saints have a future. But does being born in fire make the fissures weak in all the wrong places, or stronger than they’ve ever known?
Call Back
“Y
our name?” asks the woman from behind the Call Back check-in table for the new singing competition,
The Stage
.
“Phoenix. Mia Phoenix,” I answer with my heart pounding against my chest wall.
“ID, please,” she says, quickly, so I rummage through my bag. Nothing’s in order since they made me dump everything out during their security check. I hand her my driver’s license.
“Good name,” she notes idly as she glances at the card. “We can work with that. You’re nineteen?”
“Yes.”
“So, tell me, what’s your story?” she asks impatiently, her foot tapping rapidly under the table.
“Story?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“Yeah, you know, like what have you had to overcome in your life? What kind of hardships are you dealing with? What drives you as an artist? We’re looking for contestants who have a story—for the ratings.”
“Tell ‘em, Mia,” my eager and ever-frustrating best friend Kaya pipes in. I shake my head ‘no’ as she pulls on my sleeve.
“I just want to sing,” I tell Kaya. “I’m not going to capitalize on what happened just for a chance on this show.”
“Capitalize on what, Ms. Phoenix? Because we already know you can sing. This is the call back. If you want a chance on the show, you should probably share with us what sets you apart from the others.”
I glare at Kaya. This is all her fault, convincing me to come after the producer contacted me on YouTube, forcing me to take the bus all the way to The Conference Center in San Francisco, waiting here two hours past my call back time. All of this.
But the truth is, I know, deep down, I want this. There’s no better way to boost my non-existent career than to get on one of these nation-wide competition shows. And, according to the posters all over the flippin’ place, there’s some big names signed on as coaches: Kolton Royce, resident rock god, Danny McKoy, country artist extraordinaire, Pulse, the R and B soul man, and Selma Ramirez, the sexy Latina with the voice and booty to die for.
Usually these shows are judged by seasoned, older stars. What’s kind of cool about this competition is the artists aren’t judges. They’re the coaches of their own team of competitors. Plus the artists are on top of the billboard charts and iTunes now, not ten years ago. It seems like a fresh take on the whole singing competition thing, too, because they promise there are no silly contestants in chicken suits, and the way to get on a team is through a silhouette audition.
The auditions take place with the contestant on stage in the dark until two of the four coaches vote yes. Then the lights turn on and everyone can see what the singer looks like. Not that I look bad, but it forces them to just hear me before making up their minds. It’s kind of liberating—and unique.
It might be my chance. And I don’t have only myself to think about. There are two of us. Me and Riley. She needs more than I can give her as a struggling college student and part time singer, with a dwindling bank account from the insurance money that’s not going to last long.
“There was a fire,” I finally say. “Last year. My parents. They both died. I’m raising my nine-year old sister, Riley. Alone.”
“Were you in the fire, too?” She asks, and, for a second, I smell it, the sharp scent of smoke in my nostrils, like burned wood, furniture, lives turning to ashes. I see the window where my parent’s bedroom was—flames reaching out like arms in the night. I can feel Riley’s soot covered hand in mine as I pull her down into the grass in the front yard. I can feel the burns on my feet like they’re raw and new—stinging from contact with the night-time dew clinging to the skinny blades of grass.
I nod my head yes.
“Holy shit!” she says. “Your last name is Phoenix. It’s like the Phoenix rising from the ashes. Like, literally.” And, just like that, I sold my soul to the devil. One little piece, but that’s how it works. I close my eyes and make a promise to myself.
After this, you will not use your pain over their deaths to promote yourself—ever again.
But, I realize, in life we all use each other. They’ll use me for ratings. I’ll use them to get myself out of this mess of a life I’ve inherited. Humans use humans. It’s just the way it is.
I’ll try to get votes. I’ll get my voice on iTunes. Through it all, I might find a certain type of safety: financial security.
This is for Riley. I don’t have the luxury of holding on to my dignity, or my values, when I’m running out of money. And, why waste this opportunity? They wrote to
me
, after all.
“Here’s your artist pass,” she says, handing me a badge. “Now, follow the green arrows down that hallway. You’re going to sing again, this time on camera, and in front of a panel. She has to stay behind,” she says, nodding to Kaya. I reach for her and she hugs me.
“You’ve got this, Mia,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I made you tell. I’ll take you to the Stinking Rose after this.”
“No one’ll be able to stand us on the bus ride home,” I tell her, feeling a little teary-eyed.
“Who cares? It’s worth the stinky garlic breath,” she says, shrugging. I nod and push back my fears, turn, and walk down the hallway that leads to an open door. It’s simple inside. A camera is pointed toward a folding director’s chair that glows from strategically placed lights in front of a dark blue backdrop. The previous contestant is just finishing up her interview. She’s crying. Shit!
“Your artist pass,” says a young woman wearing jeans, a blue shirt, and a hat that says, ‘The Stage.’ She’s listening to her headset and reading over my info. There’s a table next to the camera with producers tucked behind laptops.
“Mia Phoenix,” she says. “Have a seat.”
We all have to make sacrifices
, I think as a lady comes up to me with a make-up cart and begins applying foundation, and then some blush, mascara, and some light gloss.
“The camera will wash you out,” she explains before pulling her cart back off to the sidelines.
I feel the camera lens boring into me. It feels hot in here and my eye twitches. The lights burn into my skin. The laptop people don’t talk to me, which makes me even more nervous. I start picking at my nail polish.
This is for Riley—for our future
, I remind myself, and swallow down my nerves, forcing them to go away. Just like I’ve always done on stage. I purposefully bring out the Mia Phoenix who can’t be fazed.
