Plan Bee

Like the heroine of a country song, Poppy has no job, no friends, and suddenly no boyfriend. Her reality is anything but blissful.

But when plan A goes awry, it's time to embrace plan B.

Instead of hightailing it back to Los Angeles, Poppy’s picking up the pieces in an attempt to create a life she loves. All while coping with a severe case of culture shock.

Y’all it’s a steep learning curve when the only southern you are is Southern Californian.

This is the third novel in the Bee Stings series, but can be read as a standalone.

Between the Waffle House and the Big Hair Don’t Care Salon, I stop to say a quick prayer. The exact opportunity I’ve been waiting for is at the end of this alley. There’s one slim nondescript door along the length of the brick wall. I double check the address and enter a sterile lobby. There are two rows of white folding chairs along opposite walls, leaving a narrow walkway. Another woman is waiting. She doesn’t look up from her phone when I walk in.
I take a clipboard from the pile on the unmanned reception desk, and grasp my lucky pen. As I start to fill in the form, I freeze at the section listing experience. For the millionth time, I catalogue the events of the last few weeks. Danté, the other half of my duo Tempting Persephone, stole my music and is touring with some generic blonde chick. He refuses to give me royalties, or even admit that I wrote all our songs. He’s holding my music hostage. Plus he’s threatening to sue me for slander and harassment if I keep contacting him. He knows I have no proof and is claiming I just transcribed the music and lyrics during his brainstorming sessions. Apparently, he’s on the verge of some huge recording deal. Just thinking about him makes me feel furious and powerless.
I skip over the experience section and continue completing the form. The next section asks for my agent, which I don’t have. I decide to turn it in as is. They’ll be so enamored with my singing ability that it won’t matter what my level of experience is or that I don’t have representation. They’ll sign me on the spot. It’ll be a true Hollywood—uh…Nashville Story.
“Have you been waiting long?” I ask the woman.
“Nah,” she replies, still not looking up from her phone.
Another woman walks in and takes a seat. Neither of them has an instrument. Wasn’t I supposed to bring my guitar? Maybe they have guitars for us.
“You have a pen?” new woman asks me. I hand my lucky pen across the narrow aisle.
A man enters from down the hall. He picks up a form, scans it for a minute, and says, “Poppy, follow me.”
We walk down the unadorned hallway. There are bare lightbulbs dangling from extension cords overhead and nothing on the white walls. He knocks at the third door. There’s a muffled reply from the other side. He motions me inside and closes the door behind me without entering.
It is a cavernous space with concrete walls. The ductwork and lighting hang from the ceiling like skeletons. Wiping my palms down the front of my jeans, I walk to the far side of the room where one long table has been set up. There’s a man and a woman sitting on either side of a camera that’s propped in the center of the table. Two hulking men, bodyguards maybe, are standing to the right. This is terrifying.
“Demo,” the man barks, holding out his hand.
“I don’t have one.” I reply, handing him my form. “Is that okay?”
“Sure,” the woman says, flipping through some papers. I’m not sure either one has glanced at my information. “Slate, then play whatever you’ve prepared.”
“What is slate?” I ask.
“It means state your name and management.”
I open my guitar case and slip the strap over my shoulder. My hands are so sweaty I’m not sure I’ll be able to hold the pick. Come on, Poppy, this is why you are here. Wow them.
“I’m Poppy Rodriguez,” I say, my voice shaking, “and this is my original song Falling.”
I decided to sing the one song Danté rejected from our songwriting sessions. It’s a favorite of mine. It chronicles the time I fell in love with Michael, the married baker, who owns 4 & 20 Bakery down the street from my former elementary school in Los Angeles where I taught fourth grade. I blush at the memory of Michael and me. So much has happened since then. While I’ve forgiven him and myself for toeing the line of adultery, he was my first love and will always have a special place in my heart.
After taking one more steadying breath, I close my eyes and start to strum. I’m just finding my rhythm when I feel something bounce off my shoulder. I open my eyes. There’s a foam dart on the floor. I keep singing. The two men to the right of the table both have bright green foam-dart guns pointed at me. I screech as they start pelting me.
“Keep singing,” the woman demands. So I do.
During the chorus, a dart flies into my mouth. I spit in out, and shield myself from the dart onslaught with my guitar. That’s when they stop. The man is laughing hysterically. I peek over the edge of the guitar. The two gunmen have holstered their guns. The man at the table is clapping and the woman is scribbling notes.
“That was fantastic,” he says. “When that dart sailed into your open mouth—”
“We can slow down that moment for the network pitch,” she interrupts.
“—it was gold,” he continues.
I can feel the tears prick behind my eyes. “What is all this?” I ask.
“You were just on the pilot of Hungry Musicians—where we prank wanna-be country artists and see what they’ll do for a shot at music stardom.”
My breath is coming shallow. This was a prank? The room starts to constrict. I shake my head to regain focus.