The Doom-Metal Mermaid and the Duke of Danger

Chapter 1 Elaine Finch was having the worst Tuesday of her entire life. And considering her life included the time she’d accidentally super-glued her hand to a cat at the animal shelter where she volunteered, that was saying something. Her crime? As the lead singer of the doom-metal band 'Killer Sphinx', she may have, in a moment of profound artistic expression, called the music of global pop sensation Ray Shawn "soulless, synthetic sludge designed for people who think a stroopwafel is a daring culinary adventure." The interview had gone viral. Her band's monthly Spotify listeners had quadrupled, mostly from people leaving angry emoji comments. And her manager, Tony, was having a conniption. "He wants to meet you," Tony had squeaked over the phone an hour ago. "His lawyers are drawing up a cease-and-desist. Or a lawsuit. The email was very vague on the specifics." And that was how Elaine, drowning in a sea of black lace and pent-up fury, found herself in the penthouse suite of the most famous man on the planet. She’d expected a sterile, chrome-and-white palace of ego. Instead, she was staring at a wall of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with dog-eared paperback thrillers and a collection of lava lamps. The man himself, Ray Shawn, was not what she expected. He wasn't preening in a silk robe. He was in faded jeans and a threadbare t-shirt for a long-defunct punk band, holding a small, bespectacled tortoise. "You called my music sludge," he said, his voice a low, amused rumble that was nothing like the Auto-Tuned perfection of his records. It was warm and real. "For the record, Gerry agrees with you." He held up the tortoise, which blinked slowly. "He’s a purist. Prefers the Baroque period." Elaine’s prepared speech died in her throat. "You... have a tortoise named Gerry?" "I have two. Gerry and Marla. They're my emotional support animals. They tell me I'm very grounded." He set Gerry down on a plush cushion. "Tea? Or I have a really expensive scotch that I bought because the bottle looked cool, and I'm terrified to open it." Ten minutes later, Elaine was clutching a cup of jasmine tea, having just admitted that her favorite guilty pleasure was the film The Princess Diaries 2. "It's a perfect film," Ray agreed solemnly. "The themes of duty versus personal desire are handled with surprising nuance." This was the plot twist she hadn't seen coming. Ray Shawn, the prince of saccharine pop, was a dork. A charming, self-deprecating, tortoise-owning dork with a surprising knowledge of obscure doom-metal bands. He’d even correctly identified the influence of Candlemass in one of her riffs. "So, the lawsuit?" she finally asked, swirling her tea. "There is no lawsuit," he admitted, running a hand through his perfectly disheveled hair. "I just... really wanted to meet you. That interview was the most honest thing I've heard in years. Everyone around me just tells me I'm brilliant. You called my life's work 'synthetic sludge.' It was refreshing." He leaned forward, his blue eyes intense. "In fact, I have a counter-offer." Elaine’s heart, which had been doing a strange, traitorous flutter, stopped. "Let's hear it." "My world tour starts in three months. It's a huge, glittery, soulless spectacle. The kind you'd hate." He smiled, a real smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "It's missing something. An edge. A raw, emotional core. I want you to be my opening act." She choked on her tea. "You want a doom-metal band to open for you? Our fans would eat your fans alive. And your fans would probably file a class-action lawsuit against us for disturbing their peace." "Exactly!" he said, his face lighting up. "It would be chaos. It would be art. Think of the publicity. 'Soulless Sludge Singer Teams Up With His Biggest Hater.' Can you imagine the headlines?" She could. And a terrible, wonderful, terrifying part of her wanted it. She looked at him, this absurdly handsome man who quoted Monty Python and kept a tortoise named Gerry, and felt the last of her resistance crumble. Suddenly, a loud, wet snort came from the corner. Gerry, having migrated from his cushion, had his front legs planted on the leg of Ray's million-dollar sound system and was rhythmically bumping his shell against it. A low, distorted hum emanated from the speakers. Ray and Elaine stared. "I think Gerry is trying to lay down a bass track," Ray whispered. A strangled laugh escaped Elaine. Then another. Soon, they were both doubled over, tears streaming down their faces, as the tortoise continued its relentless, unmusical assault on the hi-fi. When they finally calmed down, wiping their eyes, the air between them had shifted. The humor had dissolved the last barrier. He was no longer a pop star. She was no longer a metalhead with a grudge. They were just two people, sharing a ridiculous moment. "So," Ray said softly, his gaze dropping to her lips for a fraction of a second. "Is that a yes?" Elaine looked at the tortoise, then back at the Duke of Danger-Pop. Her life had officially become weirder and more wonderful than anything she could have imagined. The plot, it seemed, had just thickened. "Yes," she breathed. "But I have one condition." "Name it." "Gerry and Marla get backstage passes. And a rider. I want a bowl of the finest organic strawberries for them at every venue." Ray Shawn, the biggest star on the planet, threw his head back and laughed. It was the most beautiful sound Elaine had ever heard. Even better than a power chord.