Midnight Haze (Lavender Creek #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

SIENNA

There were only two reasons that people came to a Sienna Slade concert. Three at a stretch.

One, they were fans of my father — he'd been a guitarist and songwriter back in the day for a mega popular band and seemed to only grow in fame after his death a little over two years ago.

These concert-goers were what I liked to call ‘love-to-haters’.

They came to my shows, bought my albums, and then tagged me on Twitter to make sure I knew that I didn't have my father's talent.

The second was the type of attendee who were either young enough to be watching me on TV for the first time, or old enough to feel nostalgic having grown up watching me.

Often, these fans forgot that I was, in fact, Sienna Slade and not Gemma Powers, the peppy teen sit-com character I’d played for the better part of seven years.

They tended to be disappointed in everything I did — my clothes, my songs, the way I wore my hair.

.. They weren't really my fans, they were Gemma Powers’ fans.

The third kind were the smallest portion. They came because they liked the music, or me — at least, the version of me that my label allowed to exist. Still, I wished more of my audience fit into category number three.

My final song of the night involved the kind of complicated choreography that really made me sweat. Not that it mattered much if I got out of breath. Most of the show wasn't even sung live, despite my protests. It was a decision my label had made for me, much like everything else in my life.

I pounded the air with my fist three times to the beat before spinning and dropping into a complicated dip.

I'd pushed back on the lip syncing as much as I could, but my label wouldn't hear a word I said. Just looked at me pityingly, even as they saw the dollar signs. That was the problem, I suppose. For me, this life, this career, should be all about the music. Maybe that was because I’d been raised by a rock band and had spent more time on tour by the age of twelve than most adults in their entire lives.

To the label execs, I was a pretty package worth more in merchandise than album sales.

God forbid I have my own thoughts or opinions.

I’d written most of the songs I was performing tonight, and yet they were nearly unrecognisable from my initial draft.

Enough was authentic that the label could claim me as a ‘singer-songwriter’ but the heart of the music had been carved out and chipped away.

I often felt like this industry had done the same thing to me, pushing down my wants and, ironically, my voice, until I was whatever they wanted me to be.

The perfect girl, barely even real, and they screamed for me anyway.

Lights flashed as I twirled, the ridiculous costume I’d been forced into wearing trailing after me as I completed the turn.

My smile began to falter under the scrutiny, panic trying to claw its way to the surface until I smothered it somewhere beneath the ten-pounds of make-up and hairspray.

I pushed my emotions down so deep that I barely reacted to the tug on my hem as a figure broke through the barriers and rushed the stage, grabbing for me.

My limbs froze, the dance forgotten even as my security hauled the fan away with one of my dress’ tassels gripped tightly in their hand, raised triumphantly above their head, as they were escorted off stage.

A voice in my ear prompted me to smile, to laugh it off like that encounter couldn’t have gone very differently if the venue’s security hadn’t reacted so quickly.

I did as I was told, like I always did, but the feeling bubbling up inside me right then definitely wouldn’t have been approved by my label.

It was the last song of the night and that was lucky, because if I’d had to stay on stage for another song and dance… I might have snapped.

My smile was big enough that I'd have frightened most people up close. But this grin was only for the stage. No part of the real Sienna ever touched the platform.

Applause broke out and I steeled my spine as the crowd surged forward, like my impending disappearance was enough to drive them into a fever pitch as thousands of eyes and hands reached for me.

My smile was intact even when I wanted to crumble, but I forced a quick breath into my lungs and clamped down on the spiral I could feel brewing.

My dad had never been one for sage advice, but he had taught me one thing: never let them see you cry.

Get me off this fucking stage.

"New York, you've been incredible. Good night!" I blew the crowd a kiss and hurried off the stage as quickly as my bedazzled heeled boots could take me.

The stage manager gushed as she removed my mic pack and earpieces and I smiled, nodded, posed when she asked for a photo, and then shot my agent a dark look as soon as I escaped.

Instead of feeling sad to be leaving this tour behind, I was relieved.

It was my first, so it should have been exciting, maybe even emotional, getting to connect with my fans.

Instead it felt forced, fake and phony. My dad had loved being on tour more than anything in the world — including me.

But at that moment I didn’t think they could get me to go back out onto that stage even with a gun to my head.

That, more than anything else, told me enough was enough.

My label wouldn’t stop stifling me unless I made them.

If the choice was between breaking my contract or becoming broken myself, I knew what I had to do.

Louise followed me as I strode to the small dressing room to grab my things and I groaned when she caught my hand before I could take off my make-up.

She was my agent, but more than that she was my best friend.

The label wasn’t thrilled when I obtained outside counsel, and looking back I realized that should have been the first red flag.

"One quick interview at the stage door," she said, releasing my hand and squeezing my shoulder gently. "Then we can get out of here."

I sighed but didn't argue. The sparkle in my eyes had long faded and I grinned at myself in the mirror until my features came back to life, good humor in my brown eyes, a smile teasing my lips.

Most of my life was just acting. The irony of leaving my role as Gemma Powers behind to focus on my music career, only to end up pretending now more than ever, wasn't lost on me.

"I can't keep doing this." My words were somber, even as my expression remained light. “I don't care what we have to do, but I need out of this contract, Lou. They control every second of my life."

Even if the public couldn't see it yet, I was fraying at the edges and it was only a matter of time until I unraveled altogether. The label had forgotten I was more than just a pretty package for them to market and exploit — they picked out my wardrobe, monitored all my socials and removed ‘off-brand’ posts, they’d even given me a list of what I should be eating to maintain the shine of my hair and clear skin.

I felt like a prize horse, and at this rate I wouldn’t have been surprised if they wanted to check my teeth and gait to see how best they could package me next.

"I'll do my best—”

I stopped next to her, my hand on the door as her citrus perfume washed over me.

"No. I'm done, Lou. I'm not getting back on a stage until I can sing — really sing.

And," I said, pausing as I pulled open the door, “I'll burn this costume before ever wearing it again.

" I was done being their willing puppet.

This had to end. I wanted to live my life, my way.

Her eyes dropped to the sway of the sequinned tassels above the tops of my thighs and she grimaced before nodding. "That thing is a fire hazard anyway."

"You're telling me," I muttered as I marched away, ignoring the urge to scratch beneath the long sleeves with difficulty.

If I didn't know better, I might have thought I'd been dosed with itching powder.

Unfortunately, my costume was just cheap and, after so many days on tour, the material was beginning to chafe my sensitive skin.

For a moment, I imagined I was somewhere else. Someone else. Sun beating down on me, breeze playing with my hair. I could almost taste the sweet scent of hay as I tried to re-centre myself.

The corridor was quiet and lit so brightly that even the thickest foundation would have struggled to hide my freckles.

The complete opposite to the moment of respite I’d been imagining.

Though one bonus of being forced to spend my time inside a studio, rather than out in the sun, was that my freckles had faded somewhat.

I hated how young they made me look. I was twenty-five and already had enough trouble being taken seriously as it was — forever etched into minds as Kenneth Slade's kid, or that girl from Rosedale.

But at least for tonight, after one small interview, I could go home and just be myself. Eat pizza in my jammies and cuddle with my cat. Maybe I’d even open a bottle of wine.

The thought cheered me slightly and my pace quickened to the exit ahead of me where I knew the press would be waiting.

My mood soured immediately as I pushed open the heavy fire door and found my least favorite journalist outside in a long dark coat, braced against the night’s chill.

She was older than me by about a decade and I could never tell if she deliberately ignored the no-go questions sheet Louise provided, or if she just found reading beneath her.

Either way, Kennedy Zats got under my skin like nobody else did.

The snick of camera shutters was loud, but I did my best to ignore the other photographers who wanted snapshots for their magazines and gossip columns. They wouldn’t bother me unless I bothered them. For the most part, anyway. It was the journalists like Zats that I had to watch out for.

There was no preamble, no time to prepare, Zats was already rolling and so I reinforced the smile on my face as she grinned at me with teeth so white they could only have been veneers.

"Sienna! We're so glad to have caught you. How does it feel to be at the end of your first tour?"

I kept my relief locked down. Just because the first question was okay, didn't mean good things would follow. Zats was tricky like that, luring you into a false sense of security before going for your throat.

"It's been an incredible experience," I said, somewhat honest. "I'm beyond grateful for everyone who bought tickets and showed up to support me." There. A nice, succinct answer that Louise would be happy with.

"Sure, sure," Zats said, teeth gleaming in the glow of her cameraman's light.

She leaned closer, placing a perfectly manicured hand on my shoulder, and I held back my groan.

The faux concern, the blank smile... Here it came.

"What do you think your dad would have made of your first tour? Do you think he'd be proud?"

Do you think he'd be proud? What kind of question was that? Generally, talking about my father was one of the no-go topics I tried to avoid. But with Zats live broadcasting…

"I'm sure he would have wanted more drums and less sequins," I said tightly, forcing a too-short laugh and deciding right then that this would be the last time I ever did an interview with Kennedy Zats. I was ready to burn my world down and laugh in the ashes. If that’s what it would take to be in control of my life, then so be it. I’d set my boundaries over and over and she continued to ignore them.

Zats chuckled but looked disappointed with the answer as she played with her platinum blonde hair.

What else could I really say to her? That my dad thought pop was a cop out, only for musicians who couldn't make real music?

That without the promise of vodka and a little coke, he likely wouldn't have come to watch me?

Zats either didn’t sense my rising irritation or didn’t care about it.

“Of course, with what happened tonight on-stage I have to ask — does this bring up painful memories for you? To anyone who’s unaware,” she said, glancing toward the camera while I fumed, “there’s been much speculation about the heart attack that Kenneth Slade suffered at such a young age.

Much like Sienna, he was also approached by a fan on stage shortly before his death.

Do you think there’s any truth to the speculation?

Are you concerned for your own health and safety after the events of tonight? ”

I stared at her, frozen, unsure if I was more angry or shocked that she’d dared to ask me about it like we were friends chatting over tea and not speculating over the death of my father.

He’d had a heart attack, which was hardly surprising despite his young age; he’d been a rockstar in the eighties and while he’d sworn to me that he was done with the drugs, it didn’t reverse the years of damage already done.

“No,” was all I managed to choke out, feeling like the camera somehow pressed closer to capture every minute emotion on my face.

Zats continued like my short answer didn’t bother her.

"We also heard a rumor that Teen Vogue has tapped you for their latest cover girl — how does it feel to be the teenager of the moment?" She thrust the small foam mic into my face and I blinked dumbly at the camera. This was the first that I was hearing about Teen Vogue. As soon as I got out of this interview, proverbial heads were going to roll. Teen Vogue was the complete opposite of the re-brand I wanted, that I needed if I was going to carry on performing. I didn’t want to be a pop princess, not that there was anything wrong with the label. It just wasn’t me.

"Sienna?" Zats prompted and I let my smile drop. If the label wouldn't listen to me, I would just have to force their hand. I was done playing nice and nodding like a good little girl. They wouldn’t listen to me when I told them what I wanted — needed. Fine. I’d make them listen in the way young women in the public eye had been doing for years: I was going to trash my image so thoroughly they would have no choice but to take me seriously.

"I'm twenty-five,” I said, voice flat, and Zats flicked a glance at the camera. "It's hard to be the teenager of the moment when you're not, in fact, a teen."

Zats' mouth dropped open, the mic drooping in her grip, and a familiar black town car pulled up behind the cameras. Cade stepped out and my body relaxed.

I gave Zats and the camera my only genuine smile of the night as I lifted a hand to Cade.

"That's my ride." I blew a kiss at the camera and nodded to Zats who watched with her eyes wide as I swept away, sequins casting patterns on the tarmac.

"Always a pleasure," I muttered and didn't glance back as I climbed into the waiting car and slammed the door behind me.