Falling Angel Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Trigger Warning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  "Queen of the Angels" Lyrics

  Playlist

  Author's Note

  Also By Carmen Richter

  About the Author

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Carmen Richter

  The characters Taylor Elton, Penny Elton, and Alex Robinson are the copyrighted property of Rebekah Vasick and used with her permission.

  The character Elle Franklin is the copyrighted property of K.D. Darling and used with her permission.

  The fictional town of Sienna, Oregon, Transcendent Management, and the characters Mikey Ecosta, Tia Ecosta, Crystal Calvison, and Damon Harper are the copyrighted property of Laura John and used with her permission.

  “Queen of the Angels” lyrics written by Laura John.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review.

  Proofreader: K.D. Darling

  This book contains graphic imagery and scenes that some individuals may find disturbing. Reader discretion is advised.

  The subject of stalking is dealt with at length in this book. While it might seem like something that only happens in fiction, the sad and terrifying truth is that it’s more common than you’d think. If you are a victim of stalking, please know that you are not alone. There are resources and help available for you. Visit http://www.stalkingawareness.org for more information.

  “Daph, on in ten!” my manager, Hugh, said as he barged into my dressing room.

  I gasped and quickly pulled the artfully ripped t-shirt I was going to wear onstage over my head. He was always walking in unannounced. I was half-convinced he checked the door at every show I did, just to see if I’d forgotten to lock it like I had today.

  “God, Hugh, ever heard of knocking?” I snapped.

  “Sorry, doll. I thought you’d be dressed,” he said, pasting a slimy smile on his lips.

  Yeah, I knew better. He was probably hoping I’d be naked, or close to it. I was so glad he wasn’t going to be coming on the whole tour with me. Just tonight. Then he was sending one of the newer managers at his company, Josh, with me for the rest of the tour so he could focus on a new client who had just signed with him. God, I couldn’t wait until I could get out of my contract with him. Note to self: never sign a contract longer than a year ever again.

  “Almost. Sorry. I dozed off after the VIP meet and greet. I literally just got done doing my makeup,” I lied.

  I’d actually been texting with my best friend, Taylor, about the roses I’d gotten in my hotel room this morning, and he’d been trying to calm me down.

  Fans left me gifts all the time. That was nothing new. But the note I’d gotten with the flowers? That was new. And it freaked me out.

  I know you’re in love with me too. One day soon, we’ll be together. I promise. I’m trusting you to behave until I come for you.

  But I couldn’t tell Hugh how much it scared me. I’d gotten weird gifts and messages from fans before, and Hugh always said the same thing: “You’ve got millions of adoring fans, Daph. There’s bound to be a few crazies in the bunch.” And the logical side of me wanted to say that he was right and I was overreacting. But the crazy notes had never been this crazy before, and I just had this weird feeling in my gut.

  “Give me two minutes and I’ll be out there,” I promised.

  “You got it, doll.” Hugh left the room with a wink and shut the door behind him.

  I sighed in relief as he left and then went to lock my dressing room door before changing from my sweats and sneakers into my leather pants and heeled boots. I quickly ran a brush through my shoulder-length blonde hair, then flipped it down and back up. Looking in the mirror, I ran my fingers through it, trying to pull some of my signature pink highlights to the front. I kind of missed being able to change the color of my highlights like I used to in college, but, as Hugh was so fond of reminding me, I wasn’t just a person anymore. I was a brand. And the pink highlights were part of that brand.

  Yep, there she was. Daphne DeVille, chart-topping musician. The new P!nk, they were calling me. I wasn’t so sure about all that, though I was beyond flattered to be compared to her. She was one of my biggest idols and my main inspiration as a musician. And I’d actually gotten my start as her opening act.

  Trying to drum up the excitement I’d been feeling earlier about playing my first show at Madison Square Garden, I headed out of my dressing room, slamming the door a little too hard.

  “Whoa, Daph. You okay?” my photographer, Reagan, asked me.

  I sighed. “Hugh walked in on me changing. Again.”

  She rubbed my shoulder sympathetically. “I can’t wait until you can dump his ass and find someone new. He creeps me out, and I’m not the one who has to deal with him on a daily basis.”

  “Need me to have a little chat with him, Daph?” her boyfriend, Aaron, asked. He was a detective with the Ashview Police Department, and I could tell he was only half-joking.

  “Thanks, Officer Friendly. I’m good,” I chuckled weakly. “Did they get a comfortable chair for you out front, Reag? I made sure to add it to my rider for this show.”

  “Yeah, they did. Taylor and Phoebe are making sure no one tries to steal it until I get there,” she told me as one of her hands drifted to her stomach.

  Reagan was seven months pregnant, but she was one of my best friends and she’d insisted on being here to take pictures of my first show at Madison Square Garden. But, after everything that had happened in her life recently, Aaron had insisted on accompanying her, so I’d gotten him a backstage pass and a VIP ticket too. He promised he’d stay out of the way and let her do her job. But I figured the least I could do for her was make sure she had a comfy chair to sit in for the show.

  I smiled. “Thanks for being here. It means a lot to me.”

  “I wouldn’t miss something this huge for the world,” she said, grinning. “You know how proud everyone is of you, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Cutting it kind of close, doll,” Hugh scolded as he walked up to me, sliding an arm around my waist and letting it slip down to my ass, squeezing slightly.

  I jerked out of his touch. Why the hell did he seem to think that I was his property just because I paid him to manage me? He was good at h
is job, I’d give him that, but he was such a perv.

  Aaron glared at Hugh, and he backed off a little. I sighed in relief. Maybe having him here wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” I scoffed. “Let’s do this.”

  One of the tech guys ran up to me and handed me the headset for my mic and my earpiece for the monitor so I could hear myself singing, then helped me get the battery pack for the mic attached on the back of my pants. Of course, Hugh took the opportunity to stick his hand up my shirt, brushing his fingers along my skin as he grabbed the cord for the mic and pulled it down so it could connect to the battery pack. Again, Aaron glared at him, this time raising an eyebrow too.

  Mercifully, Hugh left without another word after I was miked up.

  “I’d punch him in the face if he ever called me ‘doll,’” Reagan muttered.

  “Whoa, calm down. We don’t want you going into early labor,” Aaron said, sounding genuinely worried.

  Reagan gave him the stink eye, and I had to stop myself from snorting out loud, since my mic was on.

  The lights in the house dimmed and the strobe lights and smoke machines started working, and the sold-out crowd’s cheers gave me the hit of adrenaline I needed. The video camera that was going to start the live stream appeared in front of me. My performance started below the stage, walking toward the rising platform on camera, and then my backup singers and I would rise up onstage in the middle of the song.

  “Okay, Daph, going live in ten…nine…eight…seven…six…five…four…” Greg, my cameraman, said, then counted down the last three numbers on his fingers before pointing to me.

  I heard the opening chords of the cover song I was opening with, P!nk’s “Get the Party Started,” start to play, and a video monitor showed me that the camera was showing the band. Then I saw my face on the monitor. I started singing, and the cheers were so deafening that I almost couldn’t hear myself singing even with my earpiece in. I smiled and touched my ear, signaling for tech to turn my monitor up. Reagan walked around me and stood on my other side as she started snapping pictures. She and Aaron would head down to the front row of the audience once I got onstage, but she wanted to get some shots here too.

  As I walked toward the rising platform, my three backup singers, Bailey, Samantha, and Willow, came up behind me, singing the harmony for the song. We stepped onto the platform, and it slowly started to rise.

  The girls started walking off the platform and to their places onstage right on time, but too late, we realized that the platform had stopped working. Because Samantha’s foot caught on the stage and she fell down, landing on her elbow. The camera quickly left her and went to Willow instead, and I glanced at her to see if she was okay.

  The agony was written all over Samantha’s face. She’d hurt herself. Badly. Who the fuck hadn’t checked this fucking platform to make sure the timing was perfect?

  Great. I was so pissed off that my inner Taylor was coming out to play. He was the one who dropped F-bombs right and left, not me. I only really talked like a sailor when I was either pissed off or in the throes of passion.

  Wait. It had been working perfectly when we did the sound check this afternoon. What had happened between now and then?

  Samantha quickly waved her hand at me, telling me that the show had to go on, and I took the four-inch step up to the stage and finished the song. During the audience’s cheering after it was over, I risked a quick look back to where my girls were supposed to be, and Samantha wasn’t there. I guessed someone had gotten her offstage. Well, I’d had to go with just two girls before, when Willow had laryngitis for a week. So it wasn’t the end of the world. But I was worried about Samantha. That fall looked bad.

  I couldn’t think about that right now, though. I was onstage at Madison Square Garden in front of thousands of people. The show had to go on. So I took a deep breath and pushed my worries about Samantha from my mind.

  “What’s up, New York City?!” I screamed. “How are we all doing tonight?”

  The cheers were deafening, and I grinned.

  “Are you ready to get this party started?” I yelled.

  Again, more cheering. Damn, it felt good to be here in my element. I loved recording, I did, but performing? This was what it was all about. There was nothing else like it.

  “Okay, so let’s go back a few years,” I said. “I think a few of you might know this song.”

  My band started playing my first chart-topping single (at least the first one I’d written), “Queen of the Angels.” The crowd’s cheers were deafening as I started to sing.

  I know who I am

  And I know where I stand

  I can fall a hundred times

  But my wings will not be tied

  And they can try all they want

  But I will not be broken

  I’m the queen of the angels

  I speak for those who don’t have a voice

  I stand with the broken

  My voice will rise above the noise

  As I sang, I walked over to where one of my tech guys was going to attach the cord to my harness so I could fly above the stage. You know, like an angel. Corny, but with the lighting and smoke machines, it looked awesome, at least according to the pictures Reagan had shown me. It looked to me like my eyesight was fading and it felt like I had to work to keep from coughing from the fake smoke while I was singing.

  I started to rise above the stage, and I could feel that something wasn’t right. It was slight, but I’d done this stunt more times than I could count. It was a staple of my show. And I knew how this harness was supposed to feel. This was wrong. Halfway up, I raised my left arm instead of my right, my pre-arranged signal to tell tech that something was wrong and they needed to bring me back down.

  I felt myself heading back down toward the stage, but about four feet up, the harness suddenly dropped me. I’d done safety training for this and I knew I needed to brace myself for the fall so I wouldn’t get hurt. The bad thing, though? I’d done all of the safety training in sneakers. I probably should have done it in the high-heeled boots I always wore onstage. But I hadn’t, so as I fell, I rolled one of my ankles, and I could instantly tell I would have to have it looked at.

  I didn’t miss a note, but I could tell that the crowd was worried. Especially my four friends, who were looking at me with horrified expressions. So, during the instrumental bridge, I spoke.

  “Don’t worry. Even the queen of the angels falls sometimes, but her wings are never broken.”

  What felt like an eternity later, the show was finally over. I still had to go out and perform an encore, but at least I had a couple of minutes to find out what the hell had happened tonight.

  If it had just been tonight, I might have chalked it up to things going wrong on the venue’s end. But it wasn’t just what had happened tonight. This was just the latest in a string of mini incidents that could have had far more disastrous consequences than they’d ended up having.

  Joe, my lead guitarist, had been electrocuted by a faulty wire last month, and I’d ended up having to bring in a substitute guitarist in at the last minute for a few shows while he healed. Not the end of the world, and from my understanding, it had actually helped that guitarist land an awesome gig, because he had the short stint playing for me on his résumé.

  And then, two weeks ago, one of the gates that was supposed to be a barrier between the fans and the stage had collapsed, and five people had ended up in the hospital. When that happened, I’d gone and personally visited each one of them after the show, given them a ton of swag, and arranged to pay all of their medical bills. I hated that they’d been injured after they’d paid good money to come to one of my shows.

  I wasn’t a diva. Really, I wasn’t. I didn’t throw tantrums over every little thing, and I didn’t ask for much in my rider. And I’d tried to be understanding, because I knew everyone made mistakes. But fucking with people’s safety like this? Nope. This was crossing a line. Som
eone was losing their job.

  I reached back and clicked the switch to turn my microphone off as I stormed over to Hugh. Well…okay, it was more like really fast limping. Because my ankle hurt like a bitch.

  “What in the actual fuck happened out there tonight, Hugh?” I demanded. “The rising platform not coming up all the way? My fucking harness giving out and dropping me onto the stage?”

  “I-I don’t know what happened, Daphne,” he stammered, looking everywhere but at me.

  “This is completely fucking unacceptable,” I growled. “You’ve worked with me for four years, Hugh. You know I don’t ask for much and I don’t complain about stupid shit. But I could have fucking died if I hadn’t realized the harness wasn’t hooked up properly! And do we even know what happened to Sam?”

  “They took her to the hospital. I’m still waiting for news,” he told me.

  “I’m headed there right after this show is over,” I said. “And you are not going to stop me. Do you understand? Besides, I think I sprained my ankle when I fell. I need to have it looked at.”

  “I’ll call over there and tell them to expect you,” he sighed.

  “Okay. Now, I’m going to go back out there and end this show with a bang, and then you’re going to get me a ride to the ER. Do we understand each other?” I said, staring him down like it was a contest.

  “Got it, doll,” he said. “Now, go give ‘em hell.”

  “It’s what I do,” I muttered, starting to walk away and then looking back over my shoulder. “And stop calling me ‘doll’!”

  I switched my microphone back on and gave the signal to my musicians and the two backup singers I had left that we were going back onstage. The musicians went on first, and they started playing an extended intro to the first song of mine that had ever gotten any sort of airplay or recognition: a cover of Elton John’s “All the Girls Love Alice.” It was one of my favorite songs to perform because I’d recorded it for Taylor and he always loved hearing me sing it. Besides, I loved giving a nod to the musicians who came before me, and it was still a crowd favorite too. Apparently people liked that a woman was singing the song and giving it a new breath of life.