Lie to Me (Rising Star Book 1)

by Lee Piper

  She clicks her jewel-encrusted fingers. A mousy-haired PA then scampers about the conference room, handing out promotional packages to each of the contestants. Some immediately open the manila folder, their brows furrowed, reading. Fifty bucks says they’re suckers for fine print. The remainder of us glance at the cheesy image on the first page, roll our eyes, and throw the marketing propaganda on the glass tabletop.

  Vivienne winks, or at least she tries to. I’m guessing Botox is to blame for any lack of movement. “This is where the competition gets interesting.” She glares at her PA. “Lights.”

  A moment later, the shutters are drawn and the room is shrouded in darkness. No longer being able to see Reid’s profile is a godsend. For the past ten minutes, I’ve tried to ignore his chiseled jawline. Tried and failed. But in my defense, that jaw could cut diamonds. My panties shimmy just thinking about him. Not that he’s glanced my way—I’ve checked.

  With the press of a button, the projector springs to life. Vivienne’s smile appears almost sincere as she gestures to her presentation. “To ensure we are all on the same page, I’m going to state the rules.” She pauses, her hawk eyes trained on each of us in turn. “As you all know, the purpose of Rising Star is to discover and sign the next big music act.”

  On my left, Tobias nudges me. A swarm of butterflies on acid take flight in my stomach. I search the room for good friend and fellow competitor, Willow, but can’t make her out. Damn, where is her soothing voice when I need it?

  “However,” Vivienne continues, “unlike other talent-based competitions, the fate of our artists rests solely on the voters.”

  I swallow, realizing way too late the acoustics in this boardroom are insane. The noise from my throat echoes back. Oh hell.

  Vivienne’s gaze whips to me and narrows. “Everything all right, Ms. Stirling?”

  Beside me, my brother groans. In my peripheral vision, Reid’s jaw tenses.

  “Yep, perfectly fine.” I gesture for her to continue. “Please.”

  Some of the contestants snigger. They can kiss my ass.

  “Thank you.” Vivienne sniffs. “As I was saying, we don’t have B and C grade celebrities posing as judges in our competition.” She waves dismissively. “Quite frankly, they’re a waste of money, air time, and more often than not, legal fees.”

  The urge to snort is real.

  Across from me, Reid pushes some wayward hair behind his ear. Even in the darkness, the lion on his bicep all but roars at me. Goddamn, he’s beautiful. I shake my head.

  “Each act starts with a live audience capped at one hundred people.” My stomach drops somewhere past my swollen ankle. “The more votes you receive, the larger your live audience grows for each performance.” My heart threatens to chokehold me. “If you lose votes, you lose your crowd base.”

  Vivienne rubs her skeletal hands together, her rings blinding when they catch the projector’s light. “Each act will perform once on a different night, with B-rolls of your musical journey filling the remainder of the time slot. The first act to reach full capacity in the performance arena and receive the majority vote wins a recording contract with Ironbank Records.” She turns to glare at her PA. “Lights.”

  The shades are opened and the room is illuminated once more. My eyes take a moment to adjust, but when they do, I freeze. Reid is watching me.

  Somewhere in the background, Vivienne asks, “Questions?”

  Somewhere in the background, a girl raises her hand.

  Somewhere in the background, the words, “How many people does it take to fill the performance arena?” are murmured.

  But I can’t be sure. All I can be sure of is Reid staring at me, really staring at me. For the first time in three years.

  “Two thousand.”

  “What?”

  Silence.

  “Ms. Stirling?”

  Contestants turn to gape at me. Most in confusion, two in resignation, and one with an unfathomable expression.

  There’s no way I’m going to attempt swallowing a second time, so I settle for clearing my throat instead. Bad idea. I sound like a donkey being shanked. “Sorry, I, ah, got a bit excited.”

  Vivienne’s nostrils flare. “I’m glad you’re looking forward to the experience.”

  My brother turns to me, mouthing, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I shake my head, ignoring him. Why did no one tell me about the size of the crowd beforehand?

  This is fucked. This is beyond fucked. This is so far past fucked there isn’t even a word to describe how fucked it is. I close my eyes, my breathing ragged. My dream of winning this competition drips down a metaphorical drain, one aspiration at a time.

  Hours later, I drag my sorry ass out of the car and trudge to the front door. After the meeting, I gave the boys a hurried wave goodbye before hightailing it to Doughnut Delights for my shift. Work is always busy, but add a two-for-one deal with an after-school crowd of sugar-starved teens, and the place is insane.

  The moment my shift ends, I’m out of there, and ten minutes later, arrive home. With tired eyes, I take in the exterior of the townhouse I share with Jasper. It’s a beautiful building. Like many others on our street, it has traditional brickwork with timber awnings and a balcony on the second story. The exterior is painted a soft gray, while the window frames are a brilliant white.

  I sigh. Mom and Dad would have loved this place.

  Tobias is waiting for me on the front doorstep, already dressed for our performance tonight. As I put my key in the lock, he leans in close, smelling my neck. “Mmm. Apple and cinnamon. Delicious.”

  With a laugh, I push him away. “Get off me.” Shoving my takeout bag into his hands, I smile. “Take the damn doughnuts.”

  His grin is wide. “If you insist.” In under two seconds, Tobias has the bag open and is taking a massive bite out of the snack.

  I shut the door, throw my keys onto the side table, and freeze.

  “Yes, yes. Fuck, you feel so good. I’m close, so fucking close. Don’t stop now. Oh. My. God.” There is a long, drawn-out moan followed by a guttural growl.

  “Jesus Christ. Not again.”

  Tobias stares at me, slowly shaking his head. His lip twitches, and before long, he’s bent over in a fit of hysterics.

  There’s the loud thump of what I assume is a fist connecting with the wall. It’s powerful enough to send clouds of dust cascading down on us.

  “Keep it down. You’re ruining the moment.”

  “Give us a break, Jasper.” My voice echoes through the house. “Tobias and I don’t want to hear that shit. You keep it down.”

  My brother mumbles something unintelligible, but thankfully, their deafening throes of pleasure subside.

  “I need a shower,” I mumble, heading toward the stairs.

  “A cold one?”

  Shuddering, I face Tobias. “Hell to the no. Trust me, listening to my brother get frisky with yet another Barbie wannabe does nothing for my vajayjay.” I shake my head. “I feel so dirty.”

  “And I feel thirsty. Got any beer?”

  “No! You’re going easy on the alcohol, remember?”

  He grumbles, but I ignore him. After the shit he pulled on us six months ago, sobriety is for his own damn good. My stomach knots from the memory. He was pale, so pale. His lifeless body a crumpled heap on the stark bathroom tiles.

  I shake my head.

  Twenty minutes later, my hair is freshly washed and I squeeze into a pair of skin-tight, ass-hugging jeans. After slipping on a black tank top and stepping into my knee-high boots, I attempt to put on some makeup. And snort. The girl in the mirror looks like a drunk panda who was poked in both eyes during a pub brawl. I wash it off and decide to go with the fresh-faced look. Besides, people will be so busy rocking out they won’t care what my face looks like.

  The moment I step into the living room, Tobias glances up from where he’s scowling at his phone. He does a double take then whistles. “Damn, girl.”

  I p
ull on the neckline of my tank top in a vain attempt to cover my exposed cleavage. “What?”

  He stands, circling me. “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Your jeans are tight and the twins are out. What gives?”

  Rolling my eyes, I scoff, “Nothing.”

  “Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it. I too can pretend you didn’t dress with Reid in mind.”

  I roll my eyes. “Like he’d even notice.”

  “I knew it! I knew you wanted in his pants.”

  Hands on hips, I glare at my best friend. “Reid wants nothing to do with me.”

  He grimaces.

  “Look, I deserve his indifference served straight up and ice-cold.” My voice softens. “But come on, it’s been three years. How long is the guy gonna hold a grudge?”

  He shrugs. “Wouldn’t have a clue. You’ve never spoken about it.”

  Grabbing some cash and my keys, I head for the door, refusing to think back to the fuck-up to end all fuck-ups. “Let’s go eat. I need to line my stomach with a burger before facing Vivienne again.” I call out to my brother, “We’ll meet you at Rising Star.”

  There’s a muffled grunt from upstairs.

  Tobias rubs his flat stomach. “A girl after my own heart. Tiffany refuses to eat anything with carbs, and I’m so fucking sick of Paleo salads.”

  “You need to ditch that chick.”

  “You need to forget that dude.”

  “Let’s agree to disagree.”

  “Done.”

  It doesn’t take long to drive to Rising Star. As soon as Tobias and I step inside, a pretty blonde with glossy lips pokes her head out an open doorway. “Shiloh, got a minute?” I cringe, then try to hide it. Her gaze scans my bare face. “Or several?”

  Gritting my teeth, I shake my head. “Sorry, Stephanie, I don’t have time.”

  “Honey, there is always time for hair and makeup.” She actually claps. “Come on. Chop, chop.”

  Beside me, Tobias chuckles.

  I give him a death stare before turning back to Stephanie. “Fine. But I need to do a sound check in forty minutes.”

  Her eyes widen. “There’s no time to waste, then. Quickly!”

  Groaning, I follow.

  An hour and ten minutes later, the greenroom door slams shut behind me.

  “Where have you been?” Jasper does a double take. “And what the fuck happened to your face?”

  I glare at him. “Stephanie got her hands on me.”

  “Hair-and-makeup Stephanie?”

  I give a sharp nod.

  “She’s hot.”

  Grabbing a water bottle from a nearby table, I throw it at his head.

  Jasper jumps to his feet. “The fuck?”

  “She literally tied me to a chair and attacked me with brushes. She’s not hot, she’s evil.” I gesture to my face. “Glamazon drag queens have more subtlety. It’s going to take paint stripper and a trowel to remove this shit.”

  “Your hair looks good.”

  My mouth gapes in shock. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Yep.”

  His honesty makes me smile. “Ass.”

  “Trust me, sis, as soon as you start singing, no one will give a shit about your face.” He steps closer, his eyes widening. “Or your hair.”

  I growl. He smirks.

  Tobias glances up from his phone. “Your brother’s right. They’ll be too blown away by your vocal range to care.”

  Muttering about the ridiculousness of volumizing mousse, I pace. If I don’t keep moving, I’m going to hurl. It’s that simple. The sound of the crowd growing exponentially louder is like a death toll on my upchuck reflex.

  “Thank fuck Vivienne had the foresight to organize support bands. Waiting around for one song from us would have sucked ass otherwise.”

  Tobias nods. “I’m just glad they’ve got a similar style. Can you imagine if they were a pop group?”

  Nausea rolls through me.

  “Or a boy band with synchronized pelvic thrusts?” Jasper wiggles his hips.

  Sweat breaks out on my skin.

  Tobias grimaces. “Fuck, man, put it away.”

  I can’t breathe.

  “They’ve got a good sound,” Jasper admits.

  My vision blurs.

  Tobias tilts his head, listening. “Yeah. It’s heavy, loud, and tight.” He smiles. “Not bad.”

  I need to get out of here.

  My voice is barely above a whisper. “I’m gonna go grab some air.”

  As I’m about to leave, Tobias grasps my arm. “Hey, are you okay?”

  My smile is brittle. “Yep. Fine.”

  His eyes search my face. “What’s going on? Why are you sweating?”

  “I’m not sweating. I’m covered in inch-thick luminous foundation.” Turning, I try to move away.

  Tobias’s grip on my arm tightens. “You can’t go anywhere. Vivienne will have a coronary.”

  “Vivienne won’t even know I’m gone. I won’t be long.”

  He’s about to argue further, but I don’t let him. If I don’t get out of here, I’m going to throw up on his favorite pair of high-tops. End of story.

  “Be back in a bit.” I finally shake him off, and rush down the hallway.

  As soon as I reach the main arena, I’m hit with a wall of heat. It barrels toward me, almost knocking me backward. My eyes scan the room. The production team has been busy, because everywhere I look is black. Black curtains cordoning off the empty space, black floor, black ceiling, black stage. The only exceptions are the stage lights on the overhead rig, alternating between multicolor strobes, spots, and washes. Cutting the arena into one-tenth of its original size makes it feel full. So very, very full.

  I scramble for the wall behind me.

  The crowd is swarming, pulsing, going stark raving mad for the band on stage. There must be one hundred people in the audience already. One hundred fucking people.

  Fuck me sideways.

  I try to take comfort in the drumbeats. They’re deafening and reverberate through my ribcage, but the sound is familiar and, in an odd way, comforting. Then the vocals start. The vibrations from the amps tremor through the soles of my feet and up my legs. However, the smell of fog from the smoke machine, mixed with spicy deodorants and pungent body odor, accosts me. I search for an open window. Nothing.

  This isn’t good.

  Air. Need fresh air.

  My breathing is erratic.

  I can’t breathe.

  A sheen of sweat layers my skin.

  Gotta get out of here.

  I stumble forward, pushing, tripping, staggering through the crowd. To my right is another dark hallway. Spinning, I fumble to what must be the rear service entrance. When I heave my body against an ancient door, it groans in protest but eventually opens and I spill into the back alley. I throw myself against the rough brick wall and, staring at the night sky, inhale through my nose. Over and over, I focus on my breath while my gaze takes in the inky depths above. It’s so vast, so open. The stars winking at me are more effective at calming my jumbled nerves than a double dose of Prozac.

  What. A. Clusterfuck.

  “What are you doing?”

  My head whips to the right.

  Fucking fucks of Fuckville.

  “Well?”

  Reid is standing a few feet away. As though timed to perfection, the clouds part and the moon beams down on his body. Reid’s skin is almost translucent in the moonlight. His tattoos star in their very own film noir special feature marathon. Even though his expression appears mildly concerned, the gray depths of his eyes are shuttered, unfathomable. I really want to fathom them.

  My heart pummels my ribcage. The stupid organ wants to flop onto the ground by his feet like a puppy craving a belly rub. Closing my eyes, I try to calm the torrent of warring emotions coursing through me. Terror, bravery, lust, apprehension, clarity, confusion. They’re all present, swarming my insides like tripping bees. But if I�
�ve learned one lesson over the past three years, it’s never to show weakness. Especially in front of Reid Tate.

  “Yep, I’m fine. Never better, actually. How are you? Are you good? You look good.” Inwardly, I groan. “I mean, you look good in the dark. You know, with the shadows and the moonlight and everything.”

  Reid is silent.

  Sadly, I am not.

  I continue. “Why are you here again? I’m just chillin’ before our performance. It’s nice hanging in the, ah”—I scan my surroundings—“back alleyway. Weather is a bit cold though. Mom would have said it’s brisk. Funny word, brisk. Sounds like the illegitimate lovechild of a biscuit and a brick, don’t you think?” My laughter is shrill.

  Reid blinks, his face expressionless.

  My one-sided word-vomit is worse than an eighties B-grade horror movie. “The scenery is nice. I mean, with the corrugated iron fence and all.” I look anywhere but at the man on my right. “I really like what they’ve done with the wooden crates. It’s very dumpster chic. Not that I know anything about outdoor design, but you know, dumpsters.” Scrunching my eyes closed, I mentally throat-punch myself.

  Reid’s footsteps move closer. I’d bet my Fender he’s sauntering toward me as though he’s starring in a cologne commercial. Not that I’ve got the mental capacity right now to ogle the man. I’m focused on transporting myself out of this alleyway through telekinesis.

  Not. Working.

  With each step, my breath grows more and more erratic. The lethal combination of Reid’s woodsy spice and unadulterated man-musk washes over me. My heart pounds and there are specks of silver behind my eyelids. Oh God.

  He stops in front of me. I’m one hundred percent certain the likelihood of escaping concussion after collapsing from sheer embarrassment is impossible.

  “What are you doing?” I rasp.

  Callused fingers sweep my long hair to one side, exposing my neck to the cool breeze. I shiver. Somehow, my labored breathing becomes even more fitful. I blame the long fingers gripping the soft strands—they’re an ovulation-inducing, panty-obliterating nightmare.

  I gasp. Something really fucking cold is pressed against the back of my neck. My upper body instinctively thrusts forward in a bid to escape, only a wall of Reid blocks my movement. So I stand there, tits all but around my chin and my mind a whirlwind of nonsensical utterances. I’m literally stuck between a rock and a hard place.