Page 8 of Savage Guardian

He was right; she had no one to blame but herself.

Despite it having been five months since she’d met Jimmy and packed up her life in Olsen to move to Vegas, she could still remember the conversation that had started it all.

Jimmy Rains sat across from her at her rinky-dink kitchenette table and poured another finger of the Finvarra Whisky he’d brought with him.

It burned going down, but after the first few sips, she wasn’t feeling much of anything anymore. Couldn’t even put one thought in front of the other, really. Which was probably a problem.

Jimmy’s gaze slid over her, from the top of her messy bun to the bottom of her toenails with the chipped pink polish.

Somewhat numb from the booze, she knew she should have felt something about the way he was staring at her with a lip curled in distaste.

Finally, he sat back and tipped his head to the side, as if pondering her. What was there to ponder? She was simple. A loner. A nothing. Aoibheal was everything to her. And if what Jimmy was offering meant that Aoibheal would have a future outside of her tiny bedroom studio, she would listen.

“What would you say about having someone…say…your step-sister act as a stand in for…public appearances?”

She furrowed her brow in confusion. Public appearances? Aoibheal was strictly an online thing; it was part of her appeal. People loved the mystery and mystique she offered, and it sold more songs.

“Public appearances? What are you talking about?”

“No one knows what you look like, right? You hide behind your PhotoShopped images and never actually get on camera. So, what if she took your place as the face of Aoibheal?”

“You mean take credit for my music?”

“Well, not really. You’d still be the one making the music, singing the songs, she’d just be the one lip syncing in the videos, getting her picture taken for social media…. I have a possible gig coming up in Las Vegas. And there is a studio there I’ve used before for a couple of my acts.”

“But you’re talking about live performances.” She was suddenly sober. “In Las Vegas.” She blinked at him, dumbfounded. Did he not get how serious that was? “She’d stand there and what—lip sync to a live audience? Have you learned nothing from Ashlee Simpson and Milli-Vanilli? That’s l-like a l-live cra-crash and ba-burn waiting to-to ha-happen.”

The stutter made her cheeks burn. Frustration and humiliation flaming through her neck and face. God, why couldn’t she be normal?

He smirked. “Hey, chill out,” he said condescendingly. “I didn’t mean to get you heated.”

She pinched her lips together, forcing down the bile rising in to her throat. This guy couldn’t be serious.

“But what happens when you get in front of the camera during a live interview and you can’t answer a simple question because the lights are in your eyes, the pressure is on, and you have to be perfection itself to sell your music?” He paused, flicking his gaze over her flushed face, a sneer curling his lips. “Can you do that? Can you face the pressure without cracking? Without puking or shutting down? I’ve heard about your little issue at the school talent show.” He shrugged. “And just now…” he didn’t finish, letting her self-flagellating mind complete the thought.

“You just sounded like Porky Pig…and you look like him, too!”

She shuddered, the memory like sandpaper against her tender flesh.

“That was a long time ago. It’s been six years since then.”

Jimmy heaved a sigh, suddenly looking world weary. “Look, the bottom line is that for whatever reason, you cannot physically be Aoibheal. You don’t have what it takes to make that next step to get your name, your brand, your music out there. Be honest, Fae…you can have your cake and eat it, too. Or you can remain in obscurity forever, living off the scraps you get from streaming royalties.”

It didn’t take long to get from the studio to the hotel suite at the Royal Garden, where Jimmy had set them up with accommodations. A large, better equipped recording studio wasn’t in the budget, but apparently, a suite at a ritzy boutique hotel and unlimited room service were. While she was working her fingers to the bone writing and producing music for an album Jimmy wanted her to complete in less than three months, Carrie, her step-sister, was living it up, lounging away her days sipping cocktails by the pool.

Being Aoibheal without actuallybeingAoibheal. And now, apparently, Aoibheal-not-Aoibheal, was getting a bodyguard.

God, what a freaking mess.

Taking the elevator up to the sixth floor of the ten-floor hotel, Fae dragged herself to the third door along the corridor on the left. From her bedroom window, she could see the mountains in the distance, and every night since coming to Vegas, she’d sit in the cushy chair by the window and watch as the sky fell into slumber and the city jerked awake.

Right now, though, she just wanted to get inside the suite, take off her shoes, play “assistant” for Carrie and whomever from the security company, and then take a long, hot shower before demolishing a plate of nachos courtesy of DoorDash. Because screw expensive room service. Carrie was eating up enough of the budget with her new Richie Rich palate, her need for manicured claws and boutique clothes and carts full of Sephora. All that money Fae hadn’t even earned yet, already mostly gone.

By the time she was done making the album, she’d end up owing thousands of dollars.

So, she ate nachos delivered by greasy-haired pot heads, wore clothes she bought from the clearance rack at Marshalls, and didn’t bother plastering her face in chemicals and colors that would just make her break out.

She was Scottish. Her skin was sensitive…and as fair as bleached paper.

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