Author's Note:
I'm sorry to all my readers of Dream to the Sky, Garden of Dellia, and other crap stories I produced (which didn't have many readers, by the way.) I feel like I'm betraying those stories, but I'm just stuck at the next chapter without any reviews. And a couple awful guest reviews for my other stories are making me even less encouraged than I already was. Thanks a lot.
Corrine is going to be a servant to Louis, the most famous rock star in Europe and America in this story.
P.S. The Corrine in this story is a tiny bit OC when it comes to bravery, and Louis might be a tiny bit snobby as well. Please don't be mad and no flames. Although, I will accept gentle constructive criticism. I'm still a learning girl. Also, going to the spy university (I think those are actual places where you train to be a spy and a bodyguard) is like Corrine's dream of being a musketeer. There isn't much these days that can have as big an importance or difference in life as a girl musketeer.
If you have any suggestions, PM me or write it in the tiny little comment box below.
Please read and review! I'm trying my best. Thank you.
In case you become confused, Ari is Aramina and Vive is Viveca. I know it's not that confusing, but when I gave the sample to a couple of my friends, they asked who the heck those chicks were- and no, it's not because they don't watch Barbie. They even bigger fans than I am.
Convenu= agreed.
Q: Like? Dislike? Maybe?
Q: What Barbie movie do you like best?
Q: Who's your favorite character in all the movies? In the Three Musketeers?
Q: Do I suck? (Hint: answer is yes.)
Oh, and no offense to any obese kids. I just need to try to make the story humorous. I don't really think you'll break floorboards if you stand on them *scoff*.
Okay, so now I'll shut up and let you read the dang story. : )
Chapter One
"Renee, I really doubt I can get into there. Isn't it, like, for the rich and the hard working? I want to be a spy and a bodyguard, but I'm not. . . I don't have the qualities," I sighed as I quote the rejection letters, talking to one of my best friends, Renee, over Skype. Renee's dark eyes glowered at me. We all wanted to go there, but none of us could; we were rejected over ten times, me mainly. "Besides, they made it clear they don't want us," I added, putting a short pause between the words.
"You are hardworking!" protested my other friend, Aramina, from the side, whipping her red hair at the screen as she attempted to dance on their bed. Renee was looking tortured as she continued to dance on her back. Typical Ari. She, Renee, and my friend Viveca were currently in the city of Paris while I was still in America.
"Convenu!" agreed Vive in French. To translate for me, she added, "Agreed!" Vive sighed, looking at me sadly. Out of all of us, I was the one who believed our dream the most, but was too chicken to do it. That's like the musketeers giving up on their first major mission. "Corrine, please reconsider being a maid. You belong in there no matter what. They're just too stubborn to see it. I mean, you are a girl. You know there hasn't been a girl in, like, forever. But everything has a first."
I wasn't really that comforted. To me, it sounded like, "Mumbo jumbo, first, girl, blah, blah, blah." I stared at them sadly.
Suddenly, my doorbell rang. "Guys, I have to go. I'll email you later," I said. Before anyone can respond their crappy encouragement speeches, I ended the contact.
"Uh, can I help you?" I asked, confused as I stare at the fat old woman on my doorstep. I hope she doesn't break the wood from her obesity.
"Corrine?" asked the woman. I nodded. "It's your job now," scowled the woman gleefully as she hands me a letter. She left before I could open the letter.
Dear Corrie,
I am pleased that you will be mine and my son's maid. I hope you enjoy your time with us.
Meet me in that old coffee shop at the end of your block so we can talk business. And this must remain a secret
no matter what. Thank you for your help.
"Who's it from?" I wondered aloud. No return address, no signature, and I'm betting no fingerprints either by the carefulness of the letter. I hoped that I'm not going to go meet a murderer at Starbucks. Especially not one who doesn't even know what 'that old coffee shop' is named. I am obsessed with Starbucks! How dare they!
And how dare they mess up my name. From the curly handwriting and the kind, feminine words, I assumed a woman wrote it.
Should I meet them? Should I tell Ari and the others that I'm getting letters from strangers, asking me to go to Starbucks alone? Finally, I decided. "What the heck," I muttered, shrugging.
From inside, I changed my pajamas to my red dress and shove on a coat. Br-r-r-r! I hate autumn. The colors of the leaves are beautiful, but the chilly atmosphere is what I hate. Making sure that in case I'm meeting with a stranger who's going to kill me, I wrote a note that explained where I was and left it on my kitchen table. Mom would be freaked out if she found out, but I couldn't risk it. There've been a lot of crimes lately around the city. My home was in the country, but it wasn't that far.
"Shush, Miette," I said. "Go back to sleep." My kitten purred, worried, but I send her a smile. She relaxed her tiger position and slumped back on her bed, trying to fall asleep again.
I glanced around as I slowly step into Starbucks. Deciding to not look suspicious just sitting here, I ordered a latte and sat down, sipping slowly. Not seeing anyone who could possibly be the woman - or man - that wrote me the letter, I relaxed and stared out the window, chewing my lip after I finish my latte.
"Corrine D'Artagnon?" asked a firm, but gentle voice. I glanced up, startled to see a man in his. . . fifties? Also, behind him stood someone I assumed to be a teenage guy. I couldn't see his face behind his hood. The old man and the teenager sat down across from me.
"Who else? Are you the person who sent me the letter?"
"Who else?" mocked the old man, laughter clear in his voice. I rolled my eyes. I heard the teenager give a small snort, but I couldn't be sure.
"What'd you want?" I asked.
"I hear that you're a maid without a job. We need a maid or a servant. Would you mind considering being it?" he asked. I raised an eyebrow.
"You could've just called or whatever. You made me feel like I had a creepy stalker," I snorted. "And is it usually this. . . awkward when you get a maid?"
"Yes, I could've, and no, not usually. But this isn't usual. It's about whose maid you'll be."
"Uh, yours and his?" I guessed.
"No. Not mine. Louis's," he whispered.
"Louis?" Who was - oh. "Are you kidding me?" I demanded, frowning at the teenager. I didn't hate Louis, but I wasn't his biggest fan ever. . .
Louis Phillips was the most famous boy singer in two countries - America and Europe! He had girls all over him, like Ari, but I was more unimpressed than impressed. He was probably a no-good snobby jerk who would try to seduce me. Well, buster, it isn't gonna happen! Like, never ever!
"No, why would I kid for such an important matter?" frowned Oldie. I frowned as well.
"I'm not exactly. . . up for it," I cautiously said, not wanting to hurt Louis's father. He seemed kind and the exact opposite of his playboy son.
As if understanding, he rumbled with laughter. When he calmed down, he suggested, "How about I give you a few days to consider? You will be paid well, too." I bit my lip, unsure, but nodded. "Good. Meet us back here on Friday. Uh, what is this place called, again?"
"Starbucks," I bluntly snorted. The man nodded, shook my hand, and they walked out, Louis ignoring me the whole time. I sighed, threw cash onto the table, and left.
Should I do this?