Blue Moon

You know what they say about showbiz? They love to build you up and then they tear you down. 

Luna Maara never wanted to be a star, but by the time she realised she hated the limelight, she was in too deep. Sold-out concerts, fans screaming her name on the street, memes going viral whenever parts of her fell out of a costume. Oh, and stalkers. Don’t forget the stalkers. The latest one calls himself Mark Antony, and he sends her linguine carbonara and…dog treats?

Most people think she has it all—the fame, the money, the luxurious lifestyle. But under the facade, there’s nothing but an empty shell. Everyone close to her lies, or takes advantage of her, or both. Her family, her friends—she can’t trust anyone. Not even Ryder. Somehow, her former bodyguard’s betrayal hurt most of all.

Former SEAL Ryder Metcalfe never meant to fall in love again, but during a nightmare trip to the Caribbean, a prickly pop princess wormed her way under his skin. And then she ditched him. Which was his own fault, and also his biggest regret. He can’t turn back the clock. He can’t change fate.

But somebody else can.

When Luna’s scared, there’s only one person to call. Only one man she trusts, with her body if not with her heart. Mark Antony might gift Ryder a second chance, but he’s determined the star-crossed couple won’t get a third.

Blue Moon is a story of second chances and self-discovery with plenty of dark humour and a morally grey girl squad. There’s also some grovelling and a dog. Who doesn’t love a dog?

Please scroll to the bottom for content warnings.

Chapter 1

I’d cried a thousand times in my life—most of them in the last two months—but never on stage in Las Vegas. Tonight, I sniffed back a tear as I took a final bow. This was the first show where I’d had any creative control, where I’d chosen the songs and choreographed most of the routines. Okay, so the costumes were a sore point—think Ancient Egypt meets Victoria’s Secret—but the audience loved the performance.

Especially the last number.

The ballad I’d written from the heart on a flight back from San Gallicano.

In a palace of wonder, by moonlight’s gleam

A tale of heartbreak, a sorrowful dream

An Insta princess, her trust did confide

In a man who guarded her, right by her side

*

He stood as her shield, through storms and strife

She thought him a friend, her guardian for life

But behind the facade, in shadows he’d hide

Betrayal’s cruel secret, like a serpent inside

*

Lies crushing her

Truth rushing her

The fantasy unwinds

But still the old ties bind

*

With whispered words and his tender embrace

He shattered her world, left no solace or grace

The lies were a poison, his deceit cut so deep

Leaving her broken, in the abyss she’d weep

*

She had given her all, her heart open wide

But his treacherous actions left every tear cried

In the ruins of trust, a soul torn apart

She’d rebuild her life, in lyrical art

I was known for peppy pop songs, for elaborate sets and big-budget productions, but for two minutes and forty seconds tonight, it had just been me, a spotlight, and a microphone as I gave the vocal finger to all the haters who accused me of lip-syncing. Okay, so I did lip-sync sometimes, but only on the high-energy dance numbers where I felt as if I were gasping my last breath otherwise.

The lights dimmed, and I trooped off stage with my dancers. There were only four of them—Venus, Aisha, Luis, and Paul—but I liked the more intimate feel of this show. I’d gone from having the world watching me to only three thousand people, which was practically like performing in my own living room. Tickets had sold out for the entire four-month run.

It wasn’t a booking anyone had expected to happen, not my pig of an agent, not Frank Serafini who owned the Nile Palace, not even me. But Kalinda de Leon, whose show had been in final rehearsals, had suddenly discovered that she was seven months pregnant—like, how had she not noticed earlier?—and since nobody wanted her to give birth on stage, Frank had needed to find a replacement quickly. He was willing to pay top dollar for a short run until Kalinda could fit into her costumes again.

And after my former record label cancelled my contract for bringing the company into disrepute—honestly, I hadn’t meant to show my boobs to the world, and it wasn’t my fault they marketed me to a teenage audience—I’d found myself at loose ends. And also quite poor, thanks to my ex-accountant running off with all my money while I was incarcerated at a turtle sanctuary. Long story. Anyhow, I had the time, and I needed the cash, so I’d had my new lawyer add a bunch of stipulations to the contract and then I’d signed it.

One show down, ninety-seven left to go.

“You were fantastic, my sweet.” Luis picked me up and swung me around, almost taking out Paul with my feet. “You slayed. The voice of an angel.”

He put me down and tippy-toed sideways, pretending to play a flute, and I giggled. Luis was camp and over the top and, most importantly, very, very gay. I adored him. My lawyer said I couldn’t specify the sexual orientation of my colleagues in my contract—there were rules against that, apparently—so she’d added a clause stating that I got the final say in whoever was hired instead. Once we had a shortlist, I’d hunted through their social media until I found that Luis loved gay club nights and Paul had been happily married to Rufus for almost two years. It wasn’t that I wanted to discriminate; I just didn’t want to get hit on. Or worse. Ever since my innocence had been stolen by a man I’d once thought was a friend, a man heavily involved in the music industry, every interaction with the opposite sex had been clouded with suspicion, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow that to affect the show.

It wasn’t as if Luis and Paul couldn’t dance, anyway. They absolutely could.

“And you have the feet of Fred Astaire.”

“Oh, please. Fred has nothing on me.”

“Dinner at the Peppermill?” Venus asked. “I’m too wired to sleep.”

“Yass!” Luis high-fived her. “Tonight, we’re celebrating. Go change, and I’ll make a reservation.”

He was looking at all of us. At me. Oh no, no, no.

“I should get an early night.”

“No, my darling, that’s simply not possible. You’re the star! Don’t break my heart and leave here alone.”

Alone. For the first time in my life, I was spending time on my own, and everybody knew it. Mom was busy telling any reporter who would listen that I’d had another breakdown, my ex-assistant—who was also my cousin—was still living with her in a mansion I owned, and I could no longer afford the army of masseuses, stylists, personal trainers, and bodyguards who’d once followed me around. Not that I was really missing them.

Well, apart from one person.

Ryder Metcalfe, my ex-bodyguard, ex-friend, and the one man I thought I might actually have been brave enough to consider dating if he hadn’t been gay. But then it turned out he wasn’t gay, he’d just lied about his sexuality because he thought it would make his life easier. He knew why I was so nervous around men. Ryder was only the second person I’d confided in about what happened to me, and still he’d kept lying.

Jerk.

And not only was he straight, but he also had an ex-wife lurking in the background. Oh, and a dead girlfriend he was still in love with. I didn’t know her name, but during one of our heart-to-hearts on Valentine Cay, he’d told me I reminded him of a woman he’d once cared for a great deal. A woman who’d died. 

A ghost who still haunted him, according to his ex-wife’s bestie.

What a freaking mess.

I didn’t want to miss Ryder, but my stupid heart hadn’t gotten the memo.

“I’m not going to the Peppermill.”

Four months ago, I would have been there in a heartbeat, dancing on the freaking table, tossing rainbow sugar like confetti while my cousin Jubilee and twenty other people filmed my antics for social media. My worth had been measured in likes back then. Likes, views, and comments. Those little hearts that meant people loved me, or at the very least, their finger had slipped before they scrolled on to the next piece of content. If my metrics dropped, Mom had wanted to know why, and I’d spent hours scheming with Jubilee in order to keep myself trending. 

And for what? 

I’d lost almost everything.

All I had left was my voice and this show. 

And my dancers. Yes, they were getting paid to be here, but they’d had my back since the first rehearsal. Even Paul, who didn’t say much but rode home with me in my car every night and checked I made it safely into my apartment building. Okay, so it wasn’t my car. It was a limo provided by the hotel. I did own a car—a gift from a past sponsor—but it was parked in the garage at the house I no longer lived in, and I didn’t know how to drive it.

Mentally, I added driving lessons to the long, long list of things I needed to do after Luna at the Palace closed. Perhaps I could take a road trip? Just keep driving across America until I plopped off the edge?

“If we have to go out, then maybe we could go to a quieter restaurant?” I suggested. “Someplace I can eat rather than you guys having to take pictures of me with fans every five seconds.”

Venus glanced at Aisha, and a look passed between them. “You’re still on your social media hiatus? We thought that was only for the rehearsals.”

“No, it’s permanent.”

Another glance. “Really? But you have, like, fifty million followers.”

It was true. I’d posted nothing but official promo for the show since I returned from San Gallicano, and somehow, I’d still gained ten million followers during that time. I’d also put on five pounds through eating like a regular person, and now I was either pregnant, bulimic, or letting myself go, depending on which gossip column one happened to read. I hadn’t read any of them myself—the “head in the sand” approach was surprisingly liberating—but my half-sister on my dad’s side, Cordelia, messaged me to complain that I was ruining the family name every time a new article came out. I didn’t even have the family freaking name. When I blocked her number, she’d begun sending angry, all-caps letters on personalised stationery. I was on first-name terms with the courier now. Hassan, but his friends called him Hass. He apologised every time he handed me a new envelope.

“I’ve changed a lot in the past several months. Reevaluated my priorities. Having half the world mutter about cocaine addiction every time I sneeze wears me down, you know? I’m tired of being public property.”

“I couldn’t stand it,” Aisha announced. “I mean, I love being on stage, but having people watch me twenty-four-seven?” She shuddered, and her golden headdress shimmered under the lights. “No way.”

“So why don’t we go to the Rock?” Venus suggested. “They have a strict ‘no cameras’ policy. Reservations only, but I bet they’d give Luna a table.”

No cameras, no phones, no electronic devices whatsoever. I’d never been there, for precisely that reason. Until I took a trip to San Gallicano, I’d never eaten a meal without a picture of either me or my food appearing on the internet.

“That’s one of the restaurants at the Black Diamond?” I asked, just to check. When I slunk back to Las Vegas at the beginning of April with my tail between my legs, I’d stayed at the Black Diamond for a week while Ryder’s boss helped me to find a new place to live. I think she felt sorry for me. Pity wasn’t something I enjoyed, but I also knew nothing about renting an apartment, so I’d sucked it up and accepted the help. The suite at the Black Diamond had been a sanctuary. The staff probably thought I was a weirdo because I didn’t leave for seven whole days, but they’d been friendly and, more importantly, discreet. My whereabouts hadn’t leaked. Even Mom hadn’t been able to find me.

“The fusion restaurant. Food to die for and prices to match, but this is a special occasion. My credit card can just cry quietly.”

Could I afford to buy them all dinner? I was almost sure I could, but math wasn’t my strong point. Why study from books when I was already making lots of money, Mom always used to say. The university of life would provide a better education than some Ivy League college full of stuck-up bookworms. Officially, she’d home-schooled me, but in reality, she’d only cared about the subjects necessary to win pageants. Ask me about my proudest accomplishment (the journey of self-discovery and personal growth that has brought me to this stage today), or what society could do to encourage civic engagement in my generation (promote open dialogue and help young people to find their passions), or if I could have dinner with anyone, dead or alive, who would it be (Zainab Abbasi, because her unwavering dedication to education and gender equality is truly inspiring), and I could give the perfect answer. But multiplication? If I couldn’t use the calculator on my phone, I struggled. And I’d rather dress up like a cowgirl stripper and do a photoshoot on a ranch—again—than try to split the check after dinner. 

A stagehand approached, wide eyed and hesitant. “Tiana says can y’all get changed? She needs to clean your costumes.”

“We’ll be there in a minute,” I told her, and she scurried off. 

Paul checked his watch and began walking toward the dressing rooms. “If we’re going to get dinner, we should go soon.”

“Luna?” Venus asked.

“Okay, make the reservation.”

“What time should I ask for?”

“Ten thirty?”

Late, but the Rock was open twenty-four-seven, whether you wanted a midnight snack or brunch with friends. Welcome to Vegas, land of neon lights and messed-up body clocks.

“Uh-uh,” Luis told her. “Make it eleven. Have you seen the pile of gifts on Luna’s dressing table? And there’s a crowd waiting by the stage door, baying for blood and selfies.”

My stomach dropped. So much for keeping a low profile. I liked the idea of the gifts, but not the people, not all the cameras. It was as if a switch had been flipped during my time in San Gallicano. What had once fuelled me now made me sick. Like water, I guess. A little was essential for life, but swallow too much and you drowned. 

“Is there another way we can sneak out?”

The theatre manager materialised behind me. “These people have waited for hours to see you. Remember your contract? You have to interact with the fans.”

Right. Promote the show, use my experience with social media to spread the word. Hashtag LunaMaara. Hashtag LunaAtThePalace.

My life was just one long infomercial.

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CONTENT WARNINGS

     

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