Finding Sadie (Los Rancheros #0.5) Read online

  Finding Sadie: A Prequel © Copyright 2014 by Brandace Morrow

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, printed, transmitted, downloaded, distributed, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, without the express permission of the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy in any capacity of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to any person, living or dead, or any events, occurrences, places, or business establishments is purely coincidental. The characters and story line are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Editing by Jenny Sims, Editing4Indies

  www.editing4indies.com

  Cover Design by Najla Qamber Designs

  www.najlaqamberdesigns.com

  Interior design by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  www.inkstainformatting.com

  Summary

  At fifteen, I took on the role of Popper out of necessity, forgetting the person I was. That's when I became the lead singer of a grunge metal band.

  Now at twenty-one I'm cocky, a pessimist, and violent. My shrink is even fed up with me, suggesting I try something radical to appreciate the value of life.

  She gives me a card that leads me to him, and ultimately I find . . . me.

  The Los Rancheros Series

  Fan Girl

  Fate’s Mistake

  Finding Sadie

  “If you touch my boob again, I’m gonna kick you in the nuts so hard you’ll have to start a new band. As a soprano. You get me?” I warn my drummer, Maury, who is currently playing Santa for this photo shoot. I’m on his knee in a ridiculous costume that’s itching like a freaking hair coat.

  “Chin up. Head tilted. Other side. Eyes wider. Squint a little bit. More glare. Shoulders back. Arch your back a little bit more. Open your mouth. No, close it. Now give me some teeth.”

  At this point I look like a freaking chicken on speed. “Alright. I’m out,” I say, dropping the pose, and walk off the set in a pair of platform elf shoes, toe curl and all.

  “Wait, wait! We didn’t get the shot!”

  “Who fucking ordered this stupid set-up anyway? I thought we were doing Rolling Stones.” My reputation precedes me. These people are looking at me like I’m unpredictable. But when you’ve been in an all-male band since you were fifteen years old, you learn to throw a punch like a dude real quick.

  My publicist, Tammy, sets about trying to keep up with me and soothes my feathers as I stalk to my trailer. Very few people can walk in platform heels as well as I can. Yup, it’s just Lady Gaga, me, and strippers across the world.

  “Popper, this is for Moorehead Cosmetics and Costumes. I don’t know where you got Rolling Stones,” she titters, her eyes scanning the vicinity. The whole crew, about twenty five people, has stopped working to watch my tantrum. Sorry folks, I think as I pull the latch on the RV door and stomp up the rickety folding steps. As soon as I’m inside the claustrophobic space, I start stripping. The lime green polyester outfit gets thrown into Tammy’s face. Then I advance on her.

  “You told me this was a big shoot. You told me this would be everywhere. You said Rolling Stones,” I seethe an inch from her face. From here I can smell her high class perfume, see the nose job my money paid for. I also see the fear. She knows I don’t give a shit and would crush her perfect nose without much provocation at all.

  “I said Moorehead. You must have misunderstood.” Misunderstood is her little code for drunk or high.

  “You’re a fucking liar, Tammy. Get out,” I growl before moving around her to sit on the rock hard couch and take off my white six inches heels, leaving me in a pair of frilly bloomers and striped knee highs.

  “We have to finish this shoot, Pops. We have a contract,” she says in her I’m serious voice. Too bad I’m not a little girl or that might have worked. Yeah, probably not.

  “We are Chimera. We are grunge metal. We are not some KISS cover band who needs to put their faces on Halloween costumes. Now get the fuck out before I kick you out.” I manage to not raise my voice until that last sentence. Good job, Popper.

  Tammy shakes her head, her eyes tired. Yeah, well, I’m fucking tired too. I’m twenty-one going on goddamned sixty. Finally she leaves and I pick my clothes up from the floor—fishnets, black leather shorts, a lacy bra, and a tank top with arm holes too big to cover anything. I zip up my high heel ankle boots, slip on my shades, and grab my keys. Passing the mirror, I have to back up for a second. Holy shit. I rip the lime green mini Santa hat off of my head, pulling several strands of my bleach blond hair out by the roots.

  The door slams open and I force myself to look bored and nonchalant as I turn around. My manager, Brian.

  “What the fuck, Popper?” he says between clenched teeth.

  “I’m out. We aren’t putting our name on something this hokey. It’s bullshit.” I try to maneuver around him, but he grabs my arm tightly. God, he’s such a cliché. Gold chains, bald head and all.

  “Do you need some oxy or something? I’ve got some stuff if you need it to get through.”

  “Nah. You’ve got two seconds to move your sausage fingers off of me before I beat your fat ass.” I look down at him. My heels make me taller by almost a head, though he has at least a hundred pounds on me, and is definitely going to leave bruises on my arm. He gives an extra squeeze before shoving me away, but I just use it to propel myself down the stairs.

  My shoes echo off of the back lot. Looking around, I realize I should have known this was a small job. Yes, we’re on an actual set with trailers, but I spot props pushed into shadowy alcoves that look like the movie that’s rumored to have lost their backing. At least the costume company was fast on their feet. But not as fast as me. I hit the key fob, and my car door starts to lift.

  “Hey bitch!” I hear from behind me, but I keep going until I’m sliding in and slamming the door down again. Once I get the engine sounding good and mad, I let it die down to about the equivalent of an angry bear and put my hand to my ear.

  Damen isn’t high or stupid enough to touch my car. He knows I would probably run his ass over. I shoot the car into drive and peel out.

  On the way home, I stop at In-N-Out for dinner before turning to the beach. By the time I get to my house on stilts, the sun is setting. The unlocking of the door echoes through the silent house. My boots ring out on the hardwood floors as I make my way to the ultramodern kitchen. I toss the fast food bag, and it slides down the white marble island. Next my shoes come off, clattering loudly. I strip my clothes on the way up the stairs and head to take a hot shower. As always, I take great pleasure in washing out the grease that makes my hair look dirty. I use creams and butters on my body to get the makeup from the photo shoot off.

  When I step out of the shower, I eye my form in the huge mirrors opposite me and towel off slowly. My hair is almost white, it’s so bleached. But, other than that, I may have been a model. My fast metabolism makes me the envy of “normal” women. What they don’t realize is that it’s hell to find jeans that are long enough; I barely have any ass and definitely no boobs. God, I would kill for some boobs. As it is, I don’t need a bra and risk giving myself a heart attack by eating fattening foods just to keep my ribs from showing. I brush my hair for a long time, relishing the feel of it before forcing myself to put the brush down.

  Slipping into a camisole and panties, I head straight downstairs to the back deck, having already opened the glass wall from an app on my phone. On my favorite lounge chair, I stuff my face, watching the sky change colors, a
nd listen to the waves. I watch until the horizon is ink black with a few stars twinkling.

  The ocean breeze blows my hair every which way, drying it in snarly knots. Who needs sea spray in a bottle when you have the real thing? I’ve found it’s the easiest way to get the look of a grunge band’s lead singer. Reaching behind me, I pull the throw blanket off of the back of the chair and around my shoulders. I watch a couple jogging with their dog down the beach. As they go past, their laughter floats up to me on my perch. They never notice me.

  I know when to put on a show and when to become invisible. I’m good at it. I’ve had to be. This business is about image and perception. I know when Maury has had too much blow to make like wallpaper and fade into the scenery. I know when I leave my house most days, no matter where I go in this town, I’ll be spotted, recorded, judged. That’s when I have to be on. Here, where I’m alone, where I can think and breathe the salty air, is when I lose Popper. This is the only place I’m me.

  “Sadie. Congratulations, you’re only . . . twenty-eight minutes late this time. I hope you didn’t run over any pedestrians on the way.”

  My eyes glare at that smirking face. Her black curls look extra perky today, and it makes me even grumpier. I breeze past her, tossing my keys on her wood table, getting the reaction I want when she winces. Throwing myself on her couch, I stack my pointy knee high boots on top of the arm, and drape my hand over my eyes. I know my hair is dragging the floor. I know my hand is smudging the dark black kohl around my eyes.

  I hear her sigh and turn my eyes, my leather jacket creaking as I move my head.

  “You aren’t going to talk to me until I call you Popper?” she asks, resigned.

  “Ding, ding, ding!” I yell out as I move my hand and open my eyes. I straighten out my necklaces so they aren’t choking me as they fall off the couch too. “You know, I thought I was hard to teach, but man. After almost a year, you’ve finally got it.”

  “It’s your name.”

  “I don’t even know who that is. Who is she? Not me, that’s who.”

  “And is Popper so great? Is her life all roses and sunshine?”

  I look at her and roll my eyes. “You’ve got a doctorate. It doesn’t take all that to see my life sucks big fat donkey balls.”

  She shivers. “So elegant you are, Popper.”

  “Now you’re getting it, doc. I’m not supposed to be elegant. I’m dirty, and nasty, and rough.” I rub my nose with my hand and catch her writing something on her yellow legal pad. For the millionth time I think, who writes on paper anymore? Where’s the Ipad?

  “And do you think that your attitude facilitates your state of mind?” I blink at her slowly and she falls for it. “Do you think your outlook on life is why you are unhappy?”

  “You mean if I go to Niemen Marcus and buy a pant suit, I’ll walk with poise and class? You think people will actually like me?” I ask in a little girl voice.

  “You have no friends, Popper. None. When you aren’t working, you’re sitting alone at your house. Is that really what you want to do forever? That’s another thing. You know you can’t do this forever. What are you going to do when this is done?” She asks it casually, but my body reacts like she just said there’s a bomb under my seat. My hands shake enough for me to clutch the bulky pendants hanging from my neck. My body breaks out in a cold sweat. I look up and lock eyes with her honest ones. Fuck.

  “Have you met with your record label yet?”

  I look away.

  I’m twenty-one years old and sound like a fifty-year-old with a pack a day smoking habit. People who scream at the top of their lungs for a living usually have to have multiple surgeries by now. I’ve been lucky, but I know it’s coming.

  “I’ll take that as a no. How’s your plant doing?”

  I sit up and cross my arms across my chest insolently. “It fucking died.”

  “And you haven’t gotten a pet?” I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. She looks down to write something down again. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “I don’t need to kill a goldfish or have some dog shitting on my floors. I’m barely ever home anyway.”

  “You need to connect with someone. Something. You have isolated yourself to the point of losing commonsense, Sadie.” At my scowl, she sighs and holds up a hand. “Popper. Sorry.”

  “I’m not getting a dog just to put it in a cage at some kennel for most of its life.”

  “Can I suggest something else then? Something that requires little investment from you?”

  “Please. Why didn’t you start with that from the beginning?”

  Instead of smirking like I thought she would, she looks nervous. I study this new tell and how I got it from her, but I don’t know exactly what brought it on, so I wait her out.

  “There are . . . people less fortunate than you. There are children who have it worse than you did. Maybe if you see that life is finite, you might try to improve your way of living.”

  “I have a eight million dollar house on the beach. Doctor,” I point out shortly.

  She leans forward and stares at me hard as she makes her point, using her pen to puncture the air. “You have a cave, where you go to bury yourself every chance you get. You’re a loner who wears a decorative shell like a hermit crab in a pet store wearing a football helmet. This life is not everlasting, Sadie. Most people that survive an overdose come out of it knowing that fact. But you somehow think that you’re invincible now.” She swallows and stands up, straightening her blazer before walking around her feminine desk and grabbing a card. She studies me like she doesn’t know if she wants to give it over. Finally her hand comes out quickly to offer it to me.

  “Go to this address. Talk to this woman. Open your eyes.”

  I take it from her warily. It says Los Angeles County Hospital on the top. My eyes shoot back to hers.

  “You may want to lose Popper and bring back Sadie.”

  “Why?”

  “Because despite how much you think of yourself, they may not let you in the door.”

  That night I’m staring at my closet trying to figure out what the fuck I’m supposed to wear. A freaking candy striper outfit? Dr. Pentir’s words are still echoing around in my head, ruining my silence. She’s been my therapist since I got out of rehab. Just one more thing that goes into the image. Drug addict, check. Rehab, check. Therapy for years, check.

  “Goddammit,” I mutter, jerking the hanger on the bar to clang with the rest. I have nothing that doesn’t have holes in it. If I buy a shirt, and it doesn’t already have holes, it’s quickly remedied. My ass is not about to walk into a Niemen’s, and I have no friends to call. “Fuck it.”

  I clatter down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and snatch my keys from the kitchen. In the car I let the windows down and wind my ass-length hair in a long braid over my shoulder. With a beanie over that and aviator sunglasses covering my eyes, I blast Nine Inch Nails so loud my heart vibrates with the beat. Then I go somewhere I’ve never been in my whole life. The mall.

  Studying the massive building an hour later, I walk back and forth a few times before getting the balls to walk toward it. I make the long trek, not about to park anywhere near the front. I know this is the place that teenagers are most likely to be, and while they may be my target demographic for my music, they can’t drive for shit.

  I enter through the food court and my mind gets blown in two seconds. It’s the mecca of fattening food. I officially love the mall. I grab a salted pretzel, a gooey cookie, and a milkshake then make my way slowly through the place. I don’t know when most malls close, but this is L.A. Nothing closes until midnight, at least.

  Even though Halloween was just last week, it looks like Christmas got drunk and puked everywhere. There are department stores, preppy stores that make me itch just looking at them, and a fucking Moorehead costume shop. Then I see it. “Jackpot,” I mutter, dropping my wrappers into a trashcan without slowing down.

  Not being used to such low prices,
I wind up going a little nuts. Sixty dollars for a pair of jeans? Insane. It doesn’t take long for an associate to notice me.

  “You want to try this stuff on? Or I can put it behind the counter for you?” she asks. I look her up and down, digging her style, and thrust my haul at her.

  “Put that behind the counter. I want to look at these shoes.”

  “Which ones?”

  “All of them.”

  Does a body need twenty different colors of Chuck Taylors? No idea, but I do. I end up shutting down the store and have to have two of the workers help me out to the car. “Thanks a lot guys,” I say as we stuff my trunk. The dude who helped out Laurel, my trendy employee of the month, isn’t much help. He just fondles my car with his eyes and hands over the bags.

  As soon as her hands are empty Laurel starts heading back toward the mall with a little wave. I turn to the guy, but he looks like he’s about to come on my Mercedes. “Hey, dude. Are you going to walk with her? It’s fuckin’ L.A.” All I get is a blank look and slow blink. I knew it. No sooner do I say it when I hear the snickers and chuckles in the distance. I grab something from my trunk, before slamming it hard, making the guy flinch.

  He watches me walk toward him with wide eyes. Finally, someone’s home in there. I don’t detour. I shoulder check him as hard as I can, making him stagger to the side slightly. Not nearly as hard as I wish. I’m a fucking skinny bitch. “Douchebag.”

  “What did I do?” he asks incredulously. I extend my arm to point out the three guys heading straight for little Laurel. She’s got her hands in her hoodie, head down, walking as fast as she can. Not fast enough. I’m about twenty feet away when they circle her, forcing her to stop in her tracks.

  They don’t get a word out before I’m screeching across the distance, “Hey!” Of course they leave her for me. I’m showing a lot more skin. I look like a drug addict. And they can’t see in the dark that I have a black aluminum bat behind my long legs.