by Lisa Suzanne
I’m such an idiot.
And now he thinks she’s fair game or fresh meat or whatever—that she’ll put out for him like she did for me. But I didn’t tell him it wasn’t like that.
It meant more, but now she hates me, and then she made me feel like an idiot in front of everyone...and you know what?
I just thought of the first thing I can do to piss her off.
I head to the food room. I’m going to channel these strange feelings into making sure I win.
I circle the meals I want for tomorrow. I check through the papers already in the folder and find her food order.
I change her lunch order from a chicken salad sandwich to a tuna salad sandwich.
Then I find the general food request form. This is more for things to stock for the house that anyone can eat—things that’ll be in the refrigerators and cabinets in the food room.
Under special requests, I add a few things.
Cinnamon.
Cinnamon rolls.
Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Cinnamon raisin bread.
Cinnamon sticks.
Cinnamon gum.
I even ask for cinnamon candles, though I don’t know for sure if we’re allowed to get non-food items.
It’s petty. It’s mean. It’s childish.
But it’s also harmless—more of an irritant than anything else. A way to distract her and catch her off guard.
There’s no way in hell she’s going to beat me. I’ll make sure of it.
CHAPTER 24: LEXI
Sleeping in the same bedroom with a stranger wasn’t really so bad.
I fell asleep before he even came up to bed, and our beds are on opposite sides of the room.
Okay, I didn’t fall asleep, but I pretended to. Instead, I tossed and turned all night as I tried to categorize my feelings for Gage. Do I hate him? Yes. Do I love him? Also yes.
Not that any of it matters.
I need to put him out of my mind, out of my periphery, and focus on why I’m here. I refuse to lose this because of him—because he pulled my concentration away.
And Tyler, too. I love the attention from someone both as hot and as successful as him, but I still don’t trust that he’s here for the right reasons. Something doesn’t sit right with the fact that he’s already in a band that’s climbing their way to the top.
Those were the thoughts in my mind as I tried to sleep in a bed that wasn’t my own. I don’t miss Nashville yet, but I miss home. I miss that feeling you get when you walk through the door of the place that’s exclusively yours. This isn’t home. This is a big house on the beach I’m sharing with eight men who are all strangers to me.
All of them—including the man I thought I got to know but who turned out to be someone totally different.
I get up and shower before anyone else is even awake. When I head down to the kitchen, I find the guy they call Blaze there, popping blueberries into his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, his voice a deep baritone. He’s a big, burly guy with a long beard who looks like he wears a lot of flannel shirts and chops a lot of wood.
“Good morning,” I say, and I wrinkle my nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Cinnamon rolls in the oven,” he says. He draws in a deep breath. “Just like my mama used to make when I was a kid.”
I give him a cursory smile, but I need to get out of here. The strong smell of cinnamon this early in the morning is making my stomach queasy.
I don’t know why I hate the smell so much, but it makes me nauseous every time. I grab a cup of coffee and a banana and head out to the deck to breathe in the salty ocean air instead of that rancid smell inside.
A few deep breaths help clear my lungs and make my stomach feel better. I eat the banana and enjoy the sunshine as I relax back in a lounge chair.
I’m tired after not sleeping well last night, but I’m ready for whatever today might bring. The door opens and Eric joins me with a plate of food.
“Good morning,” he says, walking his plate over to one of the tables set up out here.
“Good morning,” I echo.
He sits and digs in. “Sleep well?” he asks.
I nod. “Fine. You?”
He nods, and usually I’m pretty good at small talk, but between the stress of this competition and the tension of Gage being here and the smell of cinnamon that followed Eric out on top of my lack of sleep...well, I’m just not in the mood for it.
“So you’re from Nashville?” he asks. Apparently he is in the mood for it.
I nod. “Yeah. And you’re Chicago?”
He nods. “The Windy City, baby,” he says, and he reminds me of one of those typical Chicago guys on that variety show who love Da Bears.
“What do you do in Chicago?” I ask. When you don’t feel like talking, you get them talking. Isn’t that the rule?
“I work mostly in television as a session bassist.”
“What’s that?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee.
“I work for a studio and they use me when they need me. I don’t have a regular band I play with, but I work with a lot of the same guys all the time.”
“Do you like it?” I ask. I feel like I’d hate that. I loved being part of Electric Red Summer because of the camaraderie we formed with one another.
He grins. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
I grunt a courtesy chuckle for him.
“If you’ve ever heard of the Runyon Six, I was number six,” he says.
“I’ve heard of them,” I say. They were a famous family a decade and a half ago who traveled the country selling out small venues. It wasn’t just a musical act, but it was a whole variety show that included all sorts of acts. “What was your favorite part of that?”
“Juggling,” he says.
“Juggling what? Singing and performing?”
He laughs. “No. Juggling knives and setting them on fire.”
My brows dip down. “How old were you?”
“Eight.”
Jeez. He was juggling fire knives at eight. You know what I was doing at eight? Probably learning to braid Barbie’s hair.
Tim and Colt join us on the deck, and John and Decker step out a few minutes later. I wonder where Gage is, and I wonder where everyone got their plates of food.
I decide to head in, and just as I do, I run smack into a firm chest standing right in front of the patio doors.
“Oof,” I grunt. “Sorry.” I look up to find Gage standing there.
I glare at him, and he responds with a smirk.
He steps aside to let me into the house and the strong smell of cinnamon wafts to my nostrils.
I about fall over from the strength of it, and then I find a candle lit on the kitchen counter.
A cinnamon scented candle.
I see Blaze pulling more cinnamon rolls out of the oven.
A box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch sits open on the counter.
I glare toward the door, where Gage still stands as he watches me. He shoots me another smirk before he disappears out the door.
That bastard.
I beeline for the food room. I find a saltshaker, and I slip it into my pocket.
He may have remembered my hatred for cinnamon, but there were a few things I didn’t forget, too.
Like the fact that he doesn’t like salt on his fries because too much salt makes his fingers swell. I guess now that I know he’s a bass player, I understand why he didn’t want his fingers to swell. Trying to play bass with swollen fingers can be rough and clumsy, and he’s about to get a little extra dose of it.
I draw in a breath—through my mouth, of course, since everything in this dang house reeks of cinnamon now.
I need to be calm about this.
He’ll be expecting something at breakfast, so it won’t be on his breakfast. Lunch, maybe, or even dinner. I need to be patient.
I blow out the candle and stick it in a cabinet once it cools. He thinks he can get to me, and he’s right. He’s getting to me. But I
won’t let him see it.
After breakfast, the producers direct us to the couches in the family room, and the MFB boys walk back in.
“Your second competition takes place today,” Dax says once everyone is gathered. “We’re looking strictly at technique. We have your isolated bass from the signature song you chose to play the day we met you at the Ashmark offices, and we’ll be judging that, which was lower pressure, along with today’s challenge, which is higher pressure.”
I don’t take my eyes off Dax while he speaks, but the feel in the room shifts at his announcement that we’ll be playing under pressure today.
“You’ll be playing isolated bass on an MFB song of our choosing. We’ll be watching for who has the best technical skills and who’s able to put their own spin on our song without changing the feel. We have two mini-studios set up here in the house, and the assistant producers and a cameraman will be with you to help you record. We’ve already done a random draw for who will record their samples at what time and who will play which song. You’ll have thirty minutes to get us your sample once the challenge begins. Before the end of the day, we’ll eliminate another bassist.”
The MFB boys aren’t messing around.
They want their bassist, and they want her now.
And they probably don’t want to keep too many people around too long since it’s a grand a day per contestant.
That little tidbit comes back to me. It’s worth my efforts to stay in this as long as possible. I’ve already earned two thousand dollars just for getting through last night’s competition, and I’m nowhere near slowing down now.
We’re given our random numbers, and I’m in the second round. I won’t find out my song until I get into the mini-studio, though.
I head up to my bedroom. Unlike Eric and Decker, who are in the first round, I have thirty minutes to get into the right headspace, and I plan to take full advantage of that time.
I do some deep breathing exercises. I mentally run through my favorite MFB songs. I sniff my favorite sweatshirt to get the smell of cinnamon out of my nose.
And when it’s my turn, I freaking rock it. It’s a song I know, and I can’t help when I start singing along. I’m having fun, the song blasting in my ears as I play along with the bassline. It’s an incredible feeling, and I’m confident that I did well enough to pass through to the next round.
I ride the high of that confidence all the way until lunch, when I take a huge bite of my chicken salad sandwich, starving after all the effort I put forth this morning.
And when the flavor of rotten fish hits my tongue, I immediately know what happened.
“Ugh!” I yell, tossing my sandwich down.
“What’s wrong?” Tyler asks beside me.
“I asked for chicken salad. That’s tuna.” I hold a hand over my mouth because I’m a little terrified I might actually puke.
It’s not just the stinky smell. It’s the texture, the flavor...everything about it.
And the jerk across the table fighting so dang hard to hide his smile is most definitely guilty as sin.
CHAPTER 25: GAGE
“We’re sorry to say that Eric, you lost this battle. You won’t be MFB’s replacement bassist.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that it wasn’t my name in Dax’s exit announcement.
We say our goodbyes to the former child prodigy, and honestly I’m a little surprised it was him. I’m not sure who I was expecting it to be.
He heads upstairs with Miles, the assistant producer assigned to him, for his final interview before he packs and heads out the door.
As soon as he’s out of the room, Dax says, “He had great skill, but the rest of you in here blew him away on the MFB song. Will needs to head out to a gig, but Adam, Brody, and I are sticking around for the next half hour or so. The liquor has been restocked and you’re all still here, and that seems like a good enough reason to me to celebrate.”
His announcement is followed by cheers as the four of them move away from the fireplace where they stand when they make announcements. Will ducks out, and the others move around the room and join different conversations.
“Dude, did you hear about Colt?” Decker asks me. He’s quiet as he talks, and he avoids eye contact in favor of glancing around the room to see who’s within listening distance.
My brows dip down. I’m not one for gossip...but this is a competition, and if there’s something I should know that’ll give me a leg up, I’m not squandering that shot. “No. What about him?”
“Kane, the guy who we’re all fighting to replace, plays for Ruby Ray now.”
I nod. “Right.”
“Well, turns out Colt used to be Ruby’s bassist. I guess they used to date, and he fucked around behind her back with her guitarist. Kane was only supposed to be a temporary fit until they found someone permanent.”
“And now MFB’s entertaining Colt as a potential replacement?” I ask, and Decker nods. I whistle through my teeth. As far as gossip goes, well, that’s pretty juicy. “Wow. Slap in the face to Kane and Ruby if Colt gets it.”
Decker makes a face. “Nah, he won’t win. He’s good, but he’s not next level like you or me.”
I chuckle. We’re definitely not the only two at the top here. I haven’t had a lot of opportunities to watch the others play, but it’s easy to pick up a few things here or there.
Tyler’s fucking amazing, and I only know that because I’ve listened to Capital Kingsmen. I’m a fan.
Blaze is good, too, and John. Hell, everyone’s pretty decent. Everyone here has talent, or they wouldn’t be here.
And then there’s Lexi.
In a league of her own...and not just because she’s a chick.
But I can’t really imagine they’d choose Colt. Not because he isn’t talented, but because that would be a pretty big gut punch to the guy who left, and from what I understand, he was like a brother to the rest of these guys before he chose to leave.
We don’t get a chance to dissect that further because Adam joins our conversation. Decker immediately puts on an act. It’s just who he is—which is to say that he turns into somebody different every time someone new approaches. I think I might be the only person here who he’s actually himself around...and I can’t help but wonder how that gives me an advantage over him.
It feels good to mingle with somebody in the big leagues—and even better that this is the guy who personally invited me into this competition.
“How are you two feeling so far?” Adam asks.
“It’s going incredibly well,” Decker says, his voice brimming with confidence. Okay, so maybe it isn’t all an act for Adam. Decker does tend to be a fairly overconfident sort of guy.
“And you?” Adam asks, turning to me.
I can’t help when I glance over at Lexi. “It’s been an amazing ride so far,” I say.
Adam follows my line of sight, and then he turns back to me with a raised brow. I realize I just totally gave myself away, but Kat already knows, as do all the guys I’m competing against, so I’m sure the MFB guys know, too.
He leans in toward me. “Might I advise you to keep your eye on the prize?”
I chuckle. “My eye is firmly on the prize.”
He nods. “Good. And in some ways, even better if you can work under distraction. I’m not supposed to tell you guys this, but an upcoming challenge will test your ability to work that way.”
“Feel free to drop more hints,” Decker says, and we all laugh. “Who won the isolated bass challenge?” he asks.
Adam shrugs. “We couldn’t pick just one winner. But, interestingly, none of us chose the same performer we chose last night, so that tells you there’s a whole lot of talent in this room and it’s not going to be easy to narrow it down to just one of you.”
Brody calls Adam over to talk to Blaze and Tyler, and I look around the room and spot Dax. I want to get a little face time with him while he’s here, too, but he’s currently involved in a conversation with Lexi.
I want this.
I want it so bad I can taste it.
To be in a room of musicians and know I’m one of the best.
To perform around the world with my band.
To have four other guys who will become my family.
To have the fans and the fame and the money sounds great...but to have the respect that comes with performing in a band as well-known as MFB instead of a cover band playing a shitty casino in downtown Las Vegas—that’s the real dream.
The MFB guys head out, and I beeline up the stairs to my bedroom for a little peace and quiet before dinner. I have this strange urge to write. I want to get some of these feelings down and see if I can turn them into a song.
But the second I open my bedroom door, the feelings change.
I’m no longer lost in the cloud of the future, of the dream that could turn into a reality.
Instead, I’m faced with a room full of cats.
Not actual cats. Just photos of them.
Everywhere.
My heart races as anxiety takes hold. It’s not an allergy. It’s a fear.
I fucking hate cats, and the terror of one clawing the fuck out of my arm at such a young age haunts me as I’m faced with black cats and white ones and orange ones and ones that are practically shaved.
I get that I didn’t tell her the truth that day. Surely she wouldn’t have done this if she knew it was an actual fear of mine and not just some dumb allergy.
I can’t control my body’s physical reaction to seeing those little assholes splashed all over the place. I’m tense, and I don’t even want to touch the damn papers with cat images all over them let alone clean this whole damn room up.
I have no idea how she did it.
I vaguely remember something about a computer and printer in an office somewhere. Glad to see she somehow found cat pictures on it and was able to put it to good use.
I draw in a deep breath, and then I start yanking down the photos tacked up on the walls like wallpaper. They literally cover every available square inch of space in here.
I sweep the photos off my dresser and my bed. I even find one under my pillow and another stuffed inside my pillowcase.
