Ring My Bell: Ever After

By Meredith Spies

Iggy

 

The problem with pop stars is...we have a short shelf life.

 

Since I started in the business a decade ago—as a dewy-eyed pre-teen—a clock has been ticking over my head, counting down the minutes until I faded into obscurity. I thought getting the guidance of Raymond Montaine,hit-maker extraordinaire, would catapult my career into the stratosphere. Instead, he scammed me out of money before moving on to his next target. 

 

I want payback for all he cost me, and there's only one person who can help. The only other artist I know who hates Raymond as much as I do. 

 

Mathis Reisner.

 

Sexy as sin, and a brilliant composer, Mathis could be so much more than he believes himself capable of. While my first goal is ruining Raymond, getting Mathis in front of the audience he deserves is quickly gaining ground.

 

Mathis

 

The problem with pop stars is… we're disposable.

 

I burned bright for a year before the industry threw me out like old trash. Now, I'm a washed-up, former star who can only get work playing piano at a San Francisco tourist trap. I'm scraping to get by, and have Raymond Montaine to blame. He burned all my bridges before casting me aside. 

 

 

When Iggy finds me at Melody's Piano Bar and asks for help exposing Raymond for what he is, I tell him where to stuff it. It doesn't take long before I reconsider. 

 

Why not? I have nothing else to lose. 

 

Smart, funny, and adorable to boot, Iggy fits into my life in ways I never dreamed. With him by my side, we're heading to the Bremen Town Music Festival to expose Raymond to the world. I can't help but hope that along the way Iggy realizes we can make our own beautiful music together. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meredith Spies
• Release date: Jan 14, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215898574

Meredith Spies

When Meredith was in elementary school, they discovered two things: they hated sportsball and they love writing. Thanks to a teacher who decided the ideal punishment for refusing to play sportsball during the hot Texas afternoon was to make Meredith write, they discovered a lifelong love. Meredith lives way too far out west with their kid, partner, and cats who have never forgotten they were once worshipped as gods. They can be found online at: www.facebook.com/meredithspillowfort or www.meredithspies-author.com

Book preview

Chapter One

IGGY

Where’s Raymond?

Vicky and Monty gave me half-hearted shrugs, neither quite meeting my eyes.

Seriously, I pressed. He’s supposed to be here. He told me to meet him for drinks at eight, but Leroy said he had to take some call, so he was still at the office… A little wildly, I glanced around the huge den. My meeting-slash-date with Raymond had been rescheduled three times until I finally put my foot down. (Okay, maybe I whined and possibly, just possibly, pouted.) I was not ashamed to admit I was pissed. He had managed to weasel his way out again. Something as important as my freaking career, and my own freaking manager was missing the freaking meeting?

Okay, so maybe he was more boyfriend than manager some days. However, when it came to the upcoming label meeting with Pink Stone Records and possibly opening for Regina Dora—only the most freaking famous drag queen turned pop star in the history of ever, thank you very much, who loved my song Ring My Bell and told me so in person in the bathroom at Drama-Dairy, this cute little club in WeHo so he needed to put his manager pants on and show up for the meeting!

Vicky, Raymond’s right hand, busily tapped away on her tablet, but she kept darting glances at me like she was waiting for a chance to bolt. Monty, Vicky’s right hand, was already easing back towards the door. Probably hoping to escape to the wing of the house where Raymond’s office and home recording studios (yes, studios, plural—my man was a mogul, or damn close) were tucked away.

Narrowing my eyes, I pointed at him, making him freeze in place. Why are you two acting so sketchy? Did Raymond tell you to put me off or something?

No, Monty drew out. I supposed his expression was meant to look amused but came out constipated. We’re just working.

On a Saturday night. At his house.

With a sniff, Vicky set her tablet aside, folding her arms and legs so she became a beige-silk-clad box of superiority complex and condescension. Mr. Walters is one of the top producers in the industry. I swear, she started every damn conversation like that, Raymond’s very own Greek chorus reminding the audience of his importance. "He doesn’t get weekends off, and neither do we. He doesn’t have time to go on dates with you just because you’re bored and want attention."

Monty made a choked, annoyed sound. His expression, when he thought I wasn’t looking, was of annoyance and concern, brows drawn down and lower lip caught between his teeth. When he noticed me seeing him, he smoothed it out, putting his usual bored mien in place.

"We had a meeting scheduled. Specifically to discuss—why am I telling you? You should already know, I pointed out. You’ve got his calendar memorized. Who could be more important than this?"

This being you? Vicky muttered.

"This being one of his clients he’s been dodging for a month now, I barked. Hearing it out loud made that slimy, greasy, seasick feeling I’d been fighting since my birthday the month before swell in a rising tide in my gut. Tell him I’m here." I marched to the overstuffed armchair furthest from Vicky, closest to the gold-painted door leading to Raymond’s business wing.

Monty and Vicky had an entire conversation in facial expressions alone. Monty nervously peeked at me between his brow-raised head-tilts at Vicky. Vicky’s jaw was set in a grim, determined jut. She glared Monty down until he dropped to sit in a hard-backed chair with a small table beside it. Reluctantly, he picked up his own tablet and stared at the screen, not even bothering to pretend to work. Mr. Walters is in a meeting with a high-priority client. Frost formed in the air between us. You are not high priority.

I have a single sitting at number three on the charts. A burst of pride and sheer terror cut through that gross nausea. "Regina Dora’s team has been trying to reach him for weeks."

Vicky rolled her eyes. Regina Dora is a two-bit attention whore—

Yeah, and? You just described most of the music industry. I huffed, tossing my quilted silk bomber jacket (thrifted, thank you very much—I was cultivating my image on a Savers budget). Look, I waited at Princip’s for an hour, me and my sad little blood orange martini. He didn’t even bother to text, and that’s fucking unprofessional.

Monty made a funny choked noise. When I swung my glare in his direction, he was busily tapping away on his tablet, pointedly ignoring me.

Vicky groaned and finally unfolded from her perch, shoving her tablet into the Balenciaga tote she kept at her side like it was vital to her survival.

How the hell does a PA get Balenciaga money?

I need to talk to Raymond about my percentage…

I need to get a percentage…

The point remains that he is busy, and you’re not. Go home, go clubbing, whatever it is you do with your copious free time. She raked a gimlet glare over me, her glossy lips twisting in a sneer. He’ll call you when he decides he wants you.

Monty made another choked noise.

Oh my god, are you channeling that mouth-breathing pug of Raymond’s or something? I demanded, whirling to face him. "Both of you are being so fucking weird! Look, he missed a meeting, and I’m stuck trying to do his job for me, okay? This is ridiculous. I’m paying him for his time—"

And that’s not, I don’t know, weird to you? Monty murmured.

Vicky hissed at him to shut up, but the damage was done.

Excuse me? I asked.

You’re dating him, but also paying him? Isn’t that kind of a conflict of interests? Monty didn’t meet my gaze, caught instead in Vicky’s tractor beam stare. Maybe, if you’re gonna date the guy, find a different manager?

Monty, Vicky ground out, go to the kitchen. I need a mineral water. With cherries in it.

Cheeks a furious red, he glanced at me again and hurried past into the kitchen. Vicky turned to face me, doing that annoying folded arms while tapping her nails on her elbows thing.  She thought it made her look like one of those tough-as-nails generic business ladies from an 80s movie, and she was super into retro kitsch when it came to her image. I swear, she was this close to changing her name to Halston at one point. "I’ve been exceedingly polite to you, Ignatius. Exceedingly. But you’ve crossed a line coming here tonight. If you don’t leave in the next minute, I’ll have to call the police."

I stared in agog disbelief. "I’m sorry. You’ve been what?"

Raymond has been very understanding of your predicament—

"What predicament?"

She rolled her eyes. The fact you’re obsessed with him. And won’t take no for an answer.

Obsessed? What the actual… "Okay, first things first: whatever you’re smoking, you need to be sharing because it seems like it’s pretty good stuff. And two, this isn’t a case of me stomping my foot and demanding he give me something, but of him blowing off a meeting he scheduled! About a client’s—hello, it’s me!—career and upcoming opportunities. And also, obsessed? Uh, we’re dating, so… Not obsessed but I definitely care, okay?"

Vicky snorted in a very undignified way. "Whatever. You’ve got ten seconds, Iggy."

I narrowed my eyes. Ten seconds to get to the door?

She smirked. Yup.

Time me. I kicked off my heels and bolted not for the front door but for the office corridor. Vicky shrieked, and someone—I’m assuming Monty—dropped something that shattered and splashed.

Vicky clattered after me, slipping in her heels on the slick tile floor (rookie move, not ditching the footwear).

I made it to the door, flinging it wide before she caught me. Raymond! Get out here! I shouted. Raymond!

Call the cops! Vicky ordered Monty, hauling me back as hard as she could.

 A death grip on the doorframe and years of finger-strengthening exercises were only going to help so much. I had seconds before she managed to dislodge me. I know you’re here, asshole!

At the end of the hall, a door opened, and a bright pink head of curls popped out.

Sonny? I demanded, letting go of the doorframe in shock. I thought you were visiting your folks.

Sonny Dublin, my roommate and fellow part-time barista at Cuppa Cuppa (lots of musicians have part time jobs to make ends meet), scowled at me from Raymond’s office doorway. "Gawd, Iggyy! You’re so loud! And all that screeching is not going to help your voice! He glanced back into the office before shooting me a smug, superior look. You’re already too pitchy."

"I’m what? Even Vicky’s tenacious grasp could not have held me back. I all but flew down the corridor. Sonny had the good sense to realize he’d fucked up. I will pitchy your ass out this door if you don’t get out of my way. What the hell are you doing here anyway? I told you not to bother Raymond! Just because I’m your roomie doesn’t mean I’m going to try to get you in with him, and how dare you bother him at home? You made him miss this meeting and—"

Oh my god, Raymond’s low, raspy voice growled from within the office. Shut up, Iggy. Just shut the hell up…

Sonny skittered back, and Raymond came forward from behind his desk.

I blamed my sheer anger and frustration for failing to notice Sonny was mostly naked when he opened the door.

And for taking a solid five seconds to realize what I was seeing.

Raymond, I said calmly. Your dick’s out.

After a moment of flailing, absolutely absurd facial expressions, because he was apparently the smartest man in the room, he decided to just… leave it.

Like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Sonny sauntered past Raymond and retrieved his shirt. My  shirt, rather, because it was the hot-pink crop top with silver rings on the hem I’d been missing for weeks. Sonny shrugged into it in a reverse, slow strip tease, ruffled his hair with his fingers, and moved to stand next to Raymond, leaning against his arm.

This is really sad, Sonny sighed. I mean, Raymond told me you were in denial, but this. He raked a gaze over me and shook his head slowly, frowning. Iggy, you gotta admit it to yourself.

"Admit what, shirt thief? And for the love of god, Raymond, put it away! We’re not fucking wildebeests here!"

Wildebeests? Raymond sputtered. What the hell?

I don’t know, some animal that flops its bits out, trying to assert dominance! Focus, damn it! What do you mean, in denial? I rounded back on Sonny. Vicky said the same thing. What the hell is going on here?

Raymond, finally tucked away and less red-faced, stepped out of Sonny’s grasp towards me. When I jabbed a finger at him threateningly, he stopped in his tracks. Babe… Iggy, he corrected at my snarl, I told you last month, I think you’re too old for this gig, all right? And I can’t afford to keep throwing you at opportunities you’re not gonna take or blow off.

Remember those old cartoons where a character would eat something spicy or get real mad and their entire body would go red, and then the top of their head would pop off?

That was me. In Raymond’s home office. Instead of the top of my head popping off, though, I threw the first thing at hand: a heavy crystal shard, an award from the California Music Makers Association. It bounced off his desk, missing him and Sonny entirely, and I barked a laugh at the plastic clattering sound. "Not even real. Of course it’s plastic. Of course! And you never said that to me, Raymond! You claimed you didn’t think I was a good fit for the Kids’ Choice Awards spot since the other performers were