Something Beyond Fame (Infinite Tenderness #3)

Chapter 1

1

Iran my fingers through my short choppy bob and frowned as I assessed myself in the mirror. I was not conventionally beautiful. Throughout my teens I had tried to conform to society's standards of beauty—long blonde hair, glittering eyeshadow, and pale pink lipstick. I was like any other girl who’d wished to be on the cover of Miss Teen magazine, trying to blend into what society dictated to be beautiful. You would never have noticed me. Average height, slim build, average features. Nothing at all special about me.

I’ve been singing and playing my guitar and writing songs as long as I can remember. People sometimes said they liked my songs, but nobody ever remembered me after I’d performed.

Born in a small town in a small state and filled with even smaller-minded people, it took moving to the big city to find myself. With a back pack, guitar, and a head full of dreams, it seems funny that the defining moment in my life, my change in luck and the shift in my life’s trajectory, came from the styling chair of a back alley hair salon.

My box-dyed blonde wasn’t cutting it. The ends were frazzled, and the limp color along with the city's humidity just made my hair appear less blonde and more mousy.

“I need a change,” I declared. Thehairstylist in her early fifties looked at me with raised eyebrows. “I’m a singer, and I just want people to remember me.” I don’t know where those words came from exactly. It wasn’t a conscious need, but clearly it was there all the same.

Her hands moved quickly, with expertise. Tilting my head from side to side and pulling my hair up, changing the angle, she surveyed and assessed me in the mirror as she moved.

“I can give you a change. The question is, are you truly ready for a change?”

It wasn’t like it is on TV. She didn't cover the mirror or wait for a big reveal. I watched her chop away, inch after inch of blonde curls littering the floor. I was in shock, my eyes wide open as I wondered how I could ever return home now with hair like this. After the cut came the color, a deep dark brown that appeared as silky and smooth as dark chocolate under the light.

She added the final layers, spinning me around in the chair with a watchful eye, a master of her craft.

It was short, like a boy’s haircut, but not quite the same. On me it was elegant, sexy, masculine, feminine, and beautiful all at once.

Had my face changed? No. But it appeared to be different. Suddenly I had high cheekbones and a strong, angled jaw. My thin lips seemed fuller, my eyes deeper, and my complexion glowed.

“You need makeup, but not too much. Go dark. Dark liner and darker eye shadow. And a glow. Here.” Her thumb smudged across my cheek in an unnatural upsweep. She caught the reservations in my expression and simply shrugged. “Trust me.”

She was of course, right, a contouring expert a decade before it became popular. I never caught her name, I never went back. I shrugged off the old me right there in that salon.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

“Rachel Ramsey,” I said, and she shook her head and screwed up her face.

“No,” she said firmly, and I knew she meant it.

She looked lost in thought for a moment.

“Raven,” she said with confidence.

“Pardon?” Just for a moment, I was confused.

She ran her fingers through my short dark hair. It was tousled and sexy, and I looked like someone else. Her stern blue eyes fixed mine in the mirror. I liked the feeling of her fingers on my scalp.

“Raven Ramsey.” She indicated my reflection in the mirror. “This is Raven Ramsey. People will remember Raven Ramsey.”

And she was right.

Rachel Ramsey with her box-blonde average looks and average life died in that salon. And Raven Ramsey was born.

I went to the same clubs at which I’d begged to perform weeks before and hustled the exact same way, but this time their gazes lingered. Their attention was caught by Raven Ramsey in a way it’d never had been with Rachel. The men were interested, although I had no interest in them. And the women, even the straight ones, were curious, drawn in by the first flash of confidence that came from being Raven, followed by the melodies that dripped from my lips like honey.

I faked it as Raven Ramsey before I became her, and then there was no one else. Now, I’ve forgotten what I was like before.

I knew I could sing. My voice has never been a problem. But finding confidence and a direction gave me something more, that pinch of what Simon Cowell would now coin as his own phrase, the X-Factor.

But men are fickle creatures. They love the thrill of the chase, and love to let their imaginations run wild but my hard and constant no creates contempt in the end. I couldn’t thrive in the music industry if I wasn’t prepared to change my morals, sexuality and generally every fiber of my DNA.

Needless to say, I wasn’t.

Then I met Clarissa. She flew in the face of adversity. She wore a t-shirt that said Dyke for Lyfe and if asked, she would say, “If you take their ammo they can only shoot blanks.” Her club was the hottest spot in town at the turn of the millennia. Mindsets were changing, and different was becoming cool, but Clarissa didn’t give a fuck about that. All she cared about was a good night, a good show, and a good fuck at the end of it.

She opened me up in a way I’d never felt possible. I sang on stage and I owned it. I felt beautiful, bold, strong, and powerful. Then she would slip into my dressing room and make me orgasm loud and hard. Sex was no longer taboo. It was a journey, a discovery, and I was along for the ride.

When I got the invite to headline at the pride concert, I was excited and thrilled, and I expected Clarissa to be over the moon. But I was wrong. She was subdued. Withdrawn. Knowing. “I knew you were made for bigger things. I just thought we would have longer together.”

I was only twenty-six. I brushed her comment off, but it changed things. We changed. I played at the club sometimes, but much less regularly. New bookings kept coming to me, crowds got bigger and the hotel rooms did, too. So did the pay-checks. I stopped looking at my bank account. Suddenly money was plentiful, and I no longer needed to check. I didn’t think about it, and I didn’t see it, but everything I needed and asked for came to me in seconds.

Clarissa let me go. There was no dramatic breakup, no scene, just a soft parting of ways as I climbed the ladder of success and fame. As I climbed high, my career was my sole focus for many years. I poured my heart and soul into songs, music, and performances. Every night, for audiences all over the world with adoring crowds of women, I was giving it my all.

But we all have a vice.

Mine, as it turned out, was the adoring women.

I fell hard and fast and deep. In love, lust, or something along either of those lines. Hurtling through one intense relationship after another, constantly afraid of being alone. Clarissa had shown me how good life could be when you had someone by your side, when you could share it, and I craved it. I needed to feel loved and wanted, so I dove in with no restraint and time after time got my heart broken.

Earlier, I said men were fickle. I would like to retract that statement and instead go with this: the music industry is fickle. After years of flying high, the gigs began to run dryer. With fewer calls, big spaces in my life opened up, and for the first time since becoming Raven Ramsey, I found myself with more time to think and be alone with my thoughts.

I no longer wrote songs because no one wanted new Raven Ramsey material. The fans that were left for me wanted a medley. They wanted the big hits, the ones my loyal fans sang their hearts out to every time I took to the stage.

Of course, the lesbians still loved me. I was out. I was proud. I looked a certain way that appealed to them. The Raven Ramsey haircut was still commonly sported by many a lesbian—although obviously I still wore it best. It had evolved slightly over the years, had become more edgy, but it was always a version of the short, dark, casually sexy look I had started off with. Even once my mainstream star dwindled, or more like went out completely, the lesbians still wanted me. And I suddenly needed them to keep my head above water.

I obliged by singing what they wanted to hear, but it became a job. It became a chore. I lost faces in the crowd. If you asked me the date, the day, even the state I was in, I had no idea. I was on autopilot and heading for both a crash and the tail end of my 30s. Neither of these were something I wanted.

In my early 30s, I should probably have reinvented myself. Maybe all stars burn out sooner or later. Perhaps my ten strong years was more than most of us get at the top. My manager suggested a reinvention, but I didn’t go for it. We couldn’t settle on what a reinvented Raven Ramsey would look like, and I think deep down inside, I was still struggling to find myself. I ended up breaking up with my manager a year ago. The money I earn these days no longer justifies the cut she’d take from it.

That was when I got a call from Voyager Cruiseline. They were looking for a headliner to perform on the maiden sail of their very first Sapphic women’s only ship: Pride of Paradise.

Clearly I was still the most famous lesbian performer, and that thought made me happy for about a minute. It was probably more like I was the most famous lesbian performer within their budget.

A two-week paid vacation around the Caribbean performing every third night to adoring women at the onboard theatre. Was I interested? Hell, yes, I was interested. I signed on the dotted line, packed my designer swimwear and I climbed aboard.

That was nearly five years ago. And here I still am. Many, many cruises later, still on board the Pride of Paradise. I didn’t want to be a cliche, a washed-up cruise singer, a has-been, the talented, nearly-made-it-but-not-quite performer. The one who still slept with fans just to feel good about herself.

But perhaps that’s exactly what I am.

There’s no denying that cruise life is appealing—particularly for someone like me with no family, no home ties, and nothing really in my life beyond performing. I have seen so much of the world and have enjoyed the freedom the cruise life gave me. Performances are every other night now, but that still gives me long free days to enjoy the ports. To earn my keep, I have to assist with events on sea days and encourage guests to enjoy some of the many activities we offer.

I can tell you with complete conviction that cruising isn't for everyone, but it’s certainly for me. I love it even after all this time. The cruise life is just something that can't be captured in a few words.

Cruiseliners offer that five-star quality with high-end touches and excellent service. They are also a gateway to glimpses of many places. If you can appreciate a snapshot, if you can make the most of a few hours, if you can plan and prepare yourself for dashing days full of Cexcitement topped with luxurious nights crammed with entertainment, cruises may be for you. cruise life doesn’t just have to appeal to the over 65s. It may also be loved by a thirty-nine-year-old woman with adventure in her soul.

Can you call a cruise ship elegantly beautiful? Seems like an odd choice of description. But from the soft echoes of violins to the perfectly polished mirrors and soft velveted couches, it felt that way to me. And even after five years, I still feel those tingles when I board.

It wasn’t the cruising life that filled me with disdain. It was my own life, and that’s what I was contemplating as I straightened my Pride of Paradise jacket and applied a final coat of ruby red lipstick.

It was a new cruise day, so all staff needed to be in the grand foyer to welcome aboard the guests for the next two weeks.

A cruise of the British Isles was always fun for me, especially the first one of the season. After a couple of months of the same route, you may miss a day off the ship at ports you didn’t really love, but the first cruise of the season always sparkles. Everyone is refreshed and ready for a new beginning.

I felt that now, if not also a little withdrawn.

“Ready?” Urduja, head of sound for the ship and also my closest friend in the world, nudged me. She was a petite, beautiful Filipino woman whose soft rounded features and warm eyes drew you into her kind and calm nature. But in reality, her name actually meant legendary warrior, a princess in Filipino folklore, and I had seen her make grown men crumble to their knees. She ran the sound department holding no prisoners and delivered top-tier quality in every venue, on every deck, and at all hours. She was a sound-bringing machine of a woman and I was in awe of her, and also a little bit scared.

“Are you?” I asked with raised eyebrows, and she laughed.

“Give me a break. You know they will all make a dash for you.” She rolled her eyes and put on her fakest American accent. “Oh my god. Oh my god, it’s Raven! Raven Ramsey! Do you know I had your poster on my wall. I was so in love with you. You’re the reason I knew I was gay. I used to finger blast to you every night. I used to…”

“Okay, okay” I laughed cutting her off. “Don’t let Fernanda hear you.” As if on cue, the cruise director gave a glance our way before the doors opened.

“Gah, that woman needs to get laid. Never met a woman so far…”

She was cut off again as guests began to enter the ship. There was low-key chatter, wide eyes, and soft awws, and then their eyes fixed on me.

“Oh my god. Oh my god, it’s Raven!!!”

“Told you,” sighed Urduja.