by Mia Harlan
“Let us use your song?” Charles tenses.
“No. I mean pick a song. What if it’s not good enough?”
“It will be.” Charles gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “How about we pick a couple of songs together and let the guys decide which one to use?”
“Okay.” I sigh in relief at the word ‘we.’ I may not be able to do this alone, but I have Charles and the other guys to help me. They can help transform the song into something better. Together, we can make this work.
When the food’s ready, we head back to the dorms. Charles spreads the takeout containers out on the boardroom table and takes a seat directly in front of Tate’s broken guitar. It’s impossible to tell that anything’s wrong with it, since I put it back with the cracked side down, but I’m terrified he’ll still somehow notice.
He doesn’t.
I try to relax, but I’m acutely aware of the broken instrument’s presence. I swear it’s watching me, judging. Here I am about to feast on fancy, expensive food while all I’ve done is ruin things: the bathroom, the rug, the guitar. There’s no way I can pay the guys back, but maybe helping them get through this audition is a good place to start.
Chapter 28
“So how do you want to do this?” Charles asks.
He takes off his glasses and cleans a spot of dust with a takeout napkin. It’s funny how different he looks without them. He’s suddenly rougher, wilder. More beastly. When he perches the glasses back on his nose with huge hands, he reminds me of a ferocious beast playing dress-up.
There’s something distinguished about Charles, though, that makes the glasses work. It’s not the fact that he likes fancy food, even though he does, or that he brewed us a pot of tea to go with our meal. It has to do with the way he carries his huge frame and lounges back in his seat like royalty.
“Roonie?” he asks, his tone implying he’s been waiting for an answer from me for quite some time. “Where shall we start?”
“Oh.” I flush, realizing that I’ve been staring at him and not saying a word for who knows how long. “I could play all my songs first and then we can pick a few?”
“Good idea.” Charles spins around in his seat and reaches for Tate’s guitar.
“Stop!” I cry.
Charles freezes an instant before his huge fingers graze the solid wood. “What’s wrong, Roonie?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head emphatically. A little too emphatically. “Nothing’s wrong.”
Charles doesn’t buy it. He regards me quizzically for a few seconds, glancing between me and the guitar. He can obviously tell something’s up, but he can’t seem to figure out what.
“I saved all my songs online,” I quickly change the subject. “Here, let me play them on my phone.”
When I pull up the site, Charles is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. “Can you send me the list of titles?” he asks.
“Let me see.” I play around with the page until I figure out how to share the list.
Charles looks over it and nods. “We’ll use my phone to add critiquing notes next to each song.” He scratches his beard while I tense in my seat. “And we can come up with a matrix, so we can score each song.”
My heart grows cold. How can Charles even think about grading my songs? About scoring and criticizing work I poured my heart and soul into? I jump to my feet. I can’t sit here while Charles lists all the things that are wrong with my creations. I can’t look at all the abysmally low scores he’s bound to give them. And I definitely can’t bear to have him destroy my love for music. Not when it’s the one thing that’s kept me going all these years.
Why did I even agree to this in the first place? The only reason the guys even asked me for help was because they were desperate. They don’t really like my songs, and neither will the judges.
“Roonie?” Charles moves between me and the door, blocking my only means of escape.
“Move!” The order slips past my lips before I can think better of it. I cover my mouth in shock. Did I just boss around the Beast?
“Why? What’s wrong?” Charles asks, eyes wide. But he steps aside, just like I asked. I start to move past him, and his shoulders slump. The hurt is plain on his face. After everything he’s done for me, the least I can do is explain.
“I can’t let you critique my songs. They’re…important to me, Charles.” What I really want to say is that they’re all I have. That without my music, I’m not sure if there’ll be any of me left. “I didn’t write my songs to be criticized, or rated, or graded. They might suck, but they’re mine.”
“Your songs don’t suck.” Charles pales. “I never meant to imply that.”
“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better. I don’t care if no one else likes my songs. I do. I wrote them for me. They make me happy. They…” Keep me going. Keep me living, day after day. Keep the hope alive. “They’re mine.”
“Roonie.” Charles stares at me earnestly. “Your songs are amazing. The two that I heard yesterday—either one of them would be perfect for the audition.”
“Charles, I know they’re better than Apples, but—”
“Apples?” Charles frowns.
“Your song. Not that I’m saying it was bad or anything…Just, that it really needs work.”
“Apples?” Charles raises an eyebrow. “Wait ‘til I tell JJ.”
“Please don’t. I wasn’t trying to insult your song. I just—”
“Roonie,” Charles interrupts. “Let’s just agree that Apples is a terrible song, okay?” He takes my hand in his and his eyes grow soft. “You’re doing us a huge favor. We’re lucky you’re even willing to consider letting us use one of your songs. And we would be happy to use either of the ones you sang last night.”
“But those songs aren’t even any good, Charles.” I’ll always remember the song that led to our first kiss, but it’s something I made up in the shower. It’s definitely not audition-worthy, and the first song I sang with Tate is even worse.
“Your songs are amazing, Roonie,” Charles insists, a hint of desperation lacing his voice. Considering the only alternative he has is Apples, it makes perfect sense.
“Charles, you can use one of my songs. I already said you could, and I wouldn’t go back on my word.”
His shoulders sag. “Thank you. And I’m sorry. I should never have mentioned critiquing. I didn’t mean to suggest your songs weren’t good. No, wait…” He holds up his hand when I open my mouth to interrupt. “The critiquing, it’s something our English professor has us do. With literary fiction. It helps us interpret texts and gain an appreciation for different literary genres.”
“Okay…” I grow quiet, not sure how any of that applies to my songs. I’m actually a bit overwhelmed at his explanation. It’s another reminder that Charles got into college, while I did not.
“I just wanted to figure out which song would be the best fit. I thought critical analysis…well…what I meant to say is…” Charles falls back into his chair. “I’ve never written a song before.”
“Do you want to?”
“Maybe.” Charles grabs a sliced sandwich from one of the boxes. It looks simple enough—a baguette with sausage. “Saucisson sec?”
“What?” I ask, bewildered.
Charles holds up the container and raises an eyebrow. My stomach growls in response and Charles chuckles. I sit back down, grab a mini sandwich, and take a bite. Salty meat and spiced mustard greet my taste buds.
My mouth marvels at the different layers and textures. The baguette is crispy on the outside and as fluffy as a cloud on the inside. The meat has just enough bite to it and the mustard hangs out on my tongue after the other flavors dissipate.
“You know Apples?” Charles asks.
I glance around at the different takeout containers before it hits me. “The song?”
Charles cringes. “I helped write it. I tried, I really did, but…I don’t know how you do it, Roonie. I spent weeks researching fairy tales, and zilc
h. Not even one half-decent verse. I don’t get it. How do you come up with such great songs?”
I wouldn’t say great, but I don’t voice the thought aloud. I don’t want Charles to think I’m fishing for compliments. Instead, I try to answer his question. How do I write songs? I’ve never really thought about it; I’ve always just done it. “I guess I just channel my emotions,” I finally explain, “and the songs just come to me.”
Charles nods and picks up a delicate caviar sandwich. He chews slowly, savoring the flavor, and I debate trying one. I’m not sure how I feel about eating fish eggs, so I open a few of the other containers and peer inside.
When I see one filled with snails, I freeze.
“Ah, the escargot,” Charles says absently.
The word is familiar, and I realize that this is the dish I’d picked out at Chez Caviar. Because it was the cheapest. Six snails with a green, slime-like garnish peeking out from inside.
I slam the box shut but Charles doesn’t seem to notice. He looks distant, his eyes unfocused. Then, they suddenly lock on me.
“What do you mean by channeling your emotions?” His gaze is filled with a mix of fascination and admiration that I don’t think anyone’s ever had for me.
“It’s like…if I’m feeling sad, I’ll write a sad song about a heartbroken princess.” I flush, realizing how pathetic that must sound. “Or, um…if I’m angry, I sing about injustice. Stuff like that.”
“And how are you feeling now?” Charles asks, his gaze intent. He leans closer, crowding my personal space, and I forget to breathe.
Every one of our kisses last night was unexpected and I want to experience that again. I want Charles to grab me and cover my lips with his. My feelings are probably reflected on my flushed face. I tense and Charles does too. His huge body pulses with it, but he doesn’t make a move. He just stares at me, his midnight eyes flashing. “Well, Roonie, how do you feel?”
“Fine,” I squeak.
“Just fine?” Charles leans closer. My heart pounds faster.
“Oh.” My brain tries and fails to catch up. All I can focus on are his lips.
He starts to lean in, but then abruptly pulls back. “We should focus on the song.”
“Right.” I nod. “The song.”
“Will you let us audition with it?” He stares at my lips. “With the song from our first kiss?”
My heart pounds loudly in my chest. My lips suddenly feel swollen with longing for his. Charles continues to stare at them, and I barely suppress a whimper of need.
“Well?” he asks.
“W-well what?” My voice squeaks.
“Will you let us use the song from our first kiss?”
I nod absently, not even all that sure what I’m agreeing to. I’m not sure I even care. Then, it’s like a dam breaks. All the tension seeps out of Charles’s huge frame and he pulls me into a hard, all-consuming kiss.
Chapter 29
Shaking with every step, I exit the elevator and force myself to walk to the rehearsal room. I’ve had two days to figure out how to turn my Beauty and the Beast song into an a cappella audition. Two days to find a way to meld four unique voices into one cohesive, mind-blowing routine.
And I’ve failed. Miserably.
I feel like I’m being escorted to my own execution. Charles’s huge form looms over me on my right and Tate on my left. JJ brings up the rear, leaving me no choice but to move forward.
“Ready?” My Prince Charming smiles at me. I falter.
I should have used a different song. Something I submitted with my college application or one of my newer compositions. I wanted to—I even pulled them up on my phone—but each time I was about to play some of my best work for the guys, I froze up.
Maybe I should have written an entirely new song for them, instead. At least then I could have given them all fitting parts.
They don’t have those now.
My Beauty and the Beast song is meant for one guy, not four. Maybe it could also use a princess, but there’s no girl in the group. And even if the guys wanted to add a new singer to their group, where would we find a girl who can sing? It doesn’t matter anyway. My song was never meant for an all male a cappella group and the modifications I made over the last few days are amateur at best.
The guys could still make it work—their voices are that good—but I have no idea how to get them to sing the version I keep hearing over and over in my head. It’s one thing to compose a song, but I don’t know how to run a rehearsal and choreograph their performance. No amount of a cappella videos could prepare me for that!
“I can’t do this.” I shake my head and stop outside the doorway.
“Yes, you can.” JJ squeezes past Tate and moves in front of me. He stands entirely too close and I’m pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose. My heart flutters. “Your song is amazing, Roonie. Writing it was the hard part and you did that. This?” He wraps a strand of my hair around his finger. “It’s just a rehearsal.”
“You’re going to do great,” Tate adds, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.
Charles grunts in agreement and places his huge palm on the small of my back. Warmth seeps in through the yellow silk blouse Charles got me to wear to the rehearsal. The material caresses my skin and I shiver.
“How about…” JJ tugs on a strand of my hair, “…I take you out after rehearsal? We can grab dinner.”
“Like a date?” My eyes widen.
I’ve never been on a date before. A kaleidoscope of butterflies dances in my stomach. Then Tate’s grip on my hand tightens and Charles goes visibly tense.
I flush scarlet.
How could I forget they were standing right there? And how could I even consider going on a date with JJ when I’ve been making out with Charles and Tate every night? Both guys have been sneaking in kisses whenever I’ve found myself alone with them. I’ve been feeling enough guilt about kissing the two of them. How could I even consider adding JJ into the mix?
“The three of us will take you out for dinner.” Charles scowls at JJ, who smirks.
“For burgers.” JJ grins.
“Or Chez Caviar.”
“It has to be burgers. If you two are going to crash our date, the least you can do is agree to go for burgers.”
So he was asking me out on a date?
“We could get mini burgers at Chez Caviar,” Charles argues, making me wonder if he ever eats anywhere else. Aside from the gourmet dinners which JJ cooked for us, it’s the only place where I’ve seen him eat so far.
“Or we could go to Unity. For actual burgers,” JJ throws back.
“I think I agree with JJ,” Tate says and then he and JJ burst out laughing.
Charles scowls at the two of them, while my eyes dart back and forth, trying to figure out what’s going on. Tate finally explains. “Can you picture Charles eating burgers, Roonie? He’ll ask for a knife and fork.”
JJ snorts. “He’ll probably bring his own knife and fork.”
“He would,” Tate tells me.
“There’s nothing wrong with having good table manners,” Charles grumbles.
“One time, we went for hot dogs, and Charles wouldn’t eat any because they didn’t have cutlery.” Tate grins.
“You’re lucky you didn’t get food poisoning.” Charles glares at him. Then, he turns to me. “Roonie, we can get whatever food you want after rehearsal, okay? Even if…” he shudders, “you want hot dogs or burgers.”
“I don’t,” I say quickly, though I wouldn’t mind some fast food. “I’m okay with whatever you guys pick.”
“Burgers,” JJ and Tate chorus.
“We can figure that out after rehearsal.” Charles scowls at them. “Ready to go in?”
All my worries come flooding back but I nod anyway. I can do this. The guys already like my song. And they’re amazing singers. As JJ said, we probably won’t be here long.
I follow him into the rehearsal room, my confidence growing until I spot Silas. He’s leaning casua
lly against the wall, a vision of threatening power. His arms are folded. His clothes, which are once again all black and decorated with chains, add to his air of coldness and aloofness. He does not look happy to see me. His lips are turned downward, and I find myself staring at his pierced lower lip.
When I look up, and our eyes meet, Silas full-out scowls. With the entire rehearsal room separating us—and with three princes surrounding me in a protective cloud—I feel brave. Well, braver. I straighten my spine and maintain eye contact with the Dark Prince. I can’t let him know he’s getting to me. I can’t be the first to look away.
Silas almost caves. Almost. I see the surprise register on his face at my sudden boldness. I’m so close to winning our silent battle I can almost taste it. Then, the guys leave my side.
They head to their usual places in front of the piano, leaving me standing alone in the doorway. I know I should follow, but that would bring me closer to Silas. Panic fills me and the Dark Prince sees it. Like a predator, he pounces on his prey.
“How’s our director doing today?” he challenges me with a triumphant glint in his eye that quickly morphs into a sneer.
I can’t even muster the courage to nod. I duck my head and fight the urge to take a step back. Or several steps. Enough to get me out of this room and away from his obvious hatred. My heart feels like a rock-solid ball of ice. My throat locks, like it had the last time I was around Silas, and I can no longer speak. Tate and Charles and JJ are counting on me, I remind myself. They told me they believe in me. I don’t see why.
I'm going to screw this up. I’m going to disappoint them and remind them why they never should have trusted me in the first place. It's bad enough I flooded their apartment and broke Tate's guitar. When they fail their audition because of me, they’ll never forgive me. If this audition is a complete train wreck, they might not even let me back into the suite.
I should have packed a bag, just in case. Except that nothing in that apartment is actually mine. Not even the clothes on my back. Just the fractured necklace I’ve transferred into my dress pants pocket when I changed for rehearsal.
