Here is a piece of the short story I have worked on for the NYC Midnight competition. You can read the rest on my Substack, which is listed at the bottom!

The problem with working under a pop star is that there are no days off. No holidays, vacations, or even when you’re under the weather. Snot-covered tissues were overflowing the cupholder in Tara Klein’s Subaru as she waited in the drive-thru at Starbucks for her client’s usual order. A hot, white chocolate mocha with no whipped cream and a splash of almond milk. She gets that every day.

“Good morning, Tara,” the guy at the drive-thru window greets her, “The usual for the Lya Banks.”

She moved over the tissues and started jamming them into the other cupholder, freeing up space. “Yeah, Thomas,” she said. Her hands felt disgusting, full of mucus and hand sanitizer. But an all-caps text from Lya stated that she needed her coffee, so here she was. “When is it different for her?”

He watched her move stuff around in the car, her red, dry nose, sniffing in her seat. “Sorry you have to work today when you’re feeling like this,” he said, handing her drink over.

“It doesn’t matter to her when she wants her coffee. I could be dead and still have to show up, drink in hand.”

“Maybe she’ll send you home early.” He gave her a hopeful smile, and she laughed at his sarcastic remark because why would Lya Banks give a damn about Tara? “Call me when you’re done with work. I can bring over some soup for you when I’m done here.”

She smiled, “Yeah, I would like that a lot. I’ll see you soon,” and drove off to Lya’s home.

A former mega pop star, Lya Banks, was in over her head in fame as Tara had watched it all spiral down throughout the years. Scandals and bad crypto sponsorships- Lya had tried it all to stay relevant. Now it’s “Coffee,” this, or “Can you believe these assholes,” that. Tara has been at her wits end with Lya, and this cold will not help her today.

Turning on Broadway Drive, the luxury mansion behind gold-plated gates is in view. If you were to picture hell as a home, it’d be Lya’s home, all up in flames. To add to the pain of getting out of bed, someone was parked in her spot, adding more walking for her. It’s a setback, but you never know who shows up here anymore, so she deals with the unwanted guests with a smile.

On her way to the house, coffee in hand, she realized her phone was still in the car. Ah, fuck it, she’ll just drop off the coffee and head on out, tell Lya that she’s too sick to stay. She could hear the music playing through the house. As usual, Burning Hearts, one of Lya’s songs that had made the charts, was playing. Typical narcissist, she thought.

Tara yelled into the house, hoping she would hear her through the music. But nothing. She sighed and went towards the entertainment room, where the music was most likely playing. “Lya,” she tried again, “you’re in here?” Still no response. Now, it was starting to get on her nerves.

When she entered the room and turned around the corner, she saw Lya, arms behind her back, mascara bleeding onto her cheeks. “Behind you!” Lya yelled out, but Tara could not react fast enough, for it all happened instantly; a hand holding a cloth, covering her mouth, knocking her unconscious.

Read more on my Substack below!