become part of them.
I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher
and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I
would not be telling you this tale now.
But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off
with bravery.
One afternoon, curious about the myth of the
Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to
see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar
(Persian: شهريار, “king”) married a new virgin, and then
sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written
and I had read, that by the time he met Scheherazade,
the vizier's daughter, he’d killed one thousand
women.
Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived
in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged
places with Scheherazade – a phenomena that had
never occurred before and that still to this day, I
cannot explain.
Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have
taken on Scheherazade’s life and the only way I can
protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to
protect herself and stay alive.
Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.
And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a
point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.
And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that
he might hear the rest of my dark tale.
As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new
one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before
you now.
Playlist
“Somebody That I Used To Know” by Gotye
“Moanin’ At Midnight” by Howlin’ Wolf
“Let It Go” by James Bay
“Ex-Factor” by Lauryn Hill
“Always On My Mind” by Willie Nelson
“Exile” by Taylor Swift feat Bon Iver
“Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac
“Try” by P!nk
“Chew on My Heart” by James Bay
Chapter One
“No,” said the bodyguard.
“But—”
“Miss, do you have any idea how many people try to get backstage by claiming they have some sort of relationship with Mr. Dillon?” Face a careful blank, the man in the slick black suit stared down at me. He had a point. I’d pushed through a crush of fans, getting my toes stomped on several times, along with taking an elbow to the kidney, just to talk to this guy. God only knew what it took to get near the star of the show.
“I’d imagine a lot,” I yelled back at him. Necessary given the volume of the music filling the space. “The difference here is I’m not lying.”
“But since everyone says that, you can see from my perspective how that’s not actually a point of difference.”
Adam Dillon, rock star extraordinaire, gyrated his slim denim-clad hips like an Alt-Rock Elvis on the nearby stage. He pouted and crooned about the woman who’d done him wrong. Me. That’s right, I was the big bad ex who’d broken him and woke him to the dangers of love. Or so the song said.
The song lied and then some.
According to the lyrics he was currently wailing, I’d ground his heart beneath my five-inch heels before blowing him a kiss goodbye. From memory, there’d been a lot of shouting, but no blowing of kisses. And having just kicked off the flats I wore for work, I’d been barefoot, my legs and back aching. No way had I been strutting around in stilettos. Home from a hard day at the hair salon, I’d returned to find Adam on the couch. The same place he’d been when I’d left for work approximately eleven hours earlier. The same place he’d been for what felt like months as I worked my ass off to pay the rent. That’s when all hell broke loose. However, it wasn’t the only issue that had caused our relationship to bomb. Nothing’s ever simple.
But back to the here and now. I grabbed the slip of paper out of my front pocket, holding it up for his perusal. “My name is Jill Schwartz. How many of those people claiming to know him have one of these?”
His eyes widened as he scanned the name on the check, before widening again at the amount. And fair enough too. I’d had a mild panic attack myself when it had first arrived. When Adam decided to make a statement, he didn’t bother with subtle. If only I could figure out what it all meant. If it meant anything at all, of course. And that question was what had brought me here tonight.
The bodyguard looked me over more carefully this time. His expression remained unimpressed. Understandable, given I didn’t resemble a rock star’s girlfriend, past or present. A bit below average height, sharp chin, pronounced cheekbones, olive skin, and a resting bitch face that was the envy of many. Or so I liked to think. I was basically a squirrel with attitude, who didn’t mind cracking the odd nut or two to get things done.
Meanwhile, Adam with his long dark hair, tattoos, and lanky body had appeared perfectly at home on the cover of Rolling Stone magazine the month before. He’d been sitting cross-legged on a Persian rug, strumming an acoustic guitar. It wasn’t hard to see how the bodyguard might struggle to imagine us as an item worthy of all this musical angst.
“Would you happen to have some ID on you, ma’am?” he asked.
I fished out my wallet from my jeans’ pocket. Not easy to do with the heaving mass of sweaty bodies around me, cramming me in on every angle. I produced my license, and he shone a little flashlight on it. “It’s from last year so my hair was a lot longer,” I explained. “And blue.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, but he gave no other reaction.
Blue hair had been great. From turquoise to indigo and back again. All of my childhood mermaid dreams come to life. Right now, however, it’d been cut to around shoulder blade-length and dyed silver and gray. Very kickass.
Next the security dude pulled out a slick little walkie-talkie and issued a series of orders. Another guy, this one in black jeans and a matching tee, joined him at the
