The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1)

by Shelby Rebecca

  I’m just standing here like an idiot, but his eyes slice through me. It’s like he’s seeing me. The real me, the one that night in the fire. The one I try to hide.

  He walks toward us. But he can’t be coming over to us, can he? Can he?

  He is. He’s looking right at me as he’s walking toward us. Holy shit! My body wants to bounce around, but his stare keeps me stuck to the ground.

  “What’s your name?” he asks. Even his speaking voice is melodic.

  “Mia Phoenix,” I answer, peeking up at him, noting his heavy black earrings and a small scar, slightly annealed, on his chin. I’d never noticed it before on TV or pictures. Maybe because he usually has face stubble. Today, though, his face is shaved clean.

  “Good luck, Mia Phoenix,” he says, before crazed fans surround him again, pushing me and Riley to the back of the line. I force myself to look away from him, “Let’s go,” I say to Riley.

  As we start walking toward the shuttle, I turn back to get one last look at him. He’s signing autographs, but he’s still looking at me, watching me walk away. My stomach flips, and I smile a little, but try not to.

  For the rest of the day, I can’t shake this feeling. It’s not that the rock god actually talked to me that’s freaking me out so much. It’s the way he stared at me—through me. I’ve never felt that way before. It’s like he saw the real me. And, for a minute, he tried to let me see the real him.

  I don’t know if it was a good feeling or a bad feeling. I just know I wouldn’t mind feeling it again. In fact, I’m looking forward to it.

  * * *

  The next morning I have to check-in early, seven am, for family interviews. We’re moved into a holding room that looks like a lounge decorated with blue couches and little pub tables with stools. What comes out of this will be the part where they share “my story” with the world. I’ve already sent over pictures, with news stories and footage of the fire with me and Riley in our pajamas on the lawn. All of it.

  If I make it onto the show, all of that will go along with the package. The walk-up, the interview, the news footage; it makes my stomach ache. I have to wonder if I’m capable of all of the working parts of trying out. There’s so much more to it than simply singing.

  Riley is brought into the lounge, too—all dressed up in the same dress from yesterday.

  “Thanks for wearing that again, Riles,” I say, and hug her. I understand why they’re going to interview her, too. My stomach hurts so badly, I just want to tell them no. What happened to us is private.

  I pick at my nail polish as I watch a few other families have their interviews. My roomie from New York, Blaire, has her parents with her now. New Yorkers are a unique bunch, if any of them are as outspoken as she is, that is. This morning she told me my clothes were too boring. Boring clothes, that’s me.

  A production assistant pops over to us. “You’re next,” she says. “We’d like you two standing over here at this table.” Riley and I follow her as they place us on tall blue bar stools. Lights are moved over to us and turned on.

  “Mia Phoenix,” says the host, a thirty-something man I’ve pretty much grown up with on my TV since I was a kid. He’s smooth, cool, and confident. “Chuck Faraday,” he says, shaking my hand.

  Ohmygod, he’s talking to me! This just doesn’t seem real.

  “Just wanted to run the story by you. We’re talking about your parents and the fire. The footage will run during the interview so the audience can see it. Our editors have done a tasteful job so far. You’re an inspiration already,” he says.

  An inspiration. What the hell? I feel the pull of the pain from that night. If I don’t check myself, it will engulf me whole until I feel nothing. I’m smiling but it’s not really me pulling up the corners of my mouth. It’s just for show.

  He asks questions, I talk, Riley talks. I squeeze her little hand, burying my nose in her hair. I’m completely numb. I don’t know what I said or what she said. I silently apologize for pimping out her pain like this. I feel like shit.

  I put on the smiley face again, the one that hides the true me, and thank him before the cameras and lights are moved to the next family. As I head out the back entrance, I’m hoping I’ll see Kolton Royce again. I’m kind of sad when I don’t.

  * * *

  The next morning, I have to report at seven am again to practice my song. Today are the try-outs and I’m singing “When I’m Gone.” It was the producers’ favorite, or so I’m told. I make sure Riley is safe in the green room playing her DS video game with an adult who’s assigned to watch the kids who are on set, and I practice my song several times with the voice coach who’s standing in front of empty chairs. I try to imagine the chairs full of people—it just doesn’t seem real.

  Once he’s happy and has tweaked me significantly, I let the make-up artist pretty me up. It’s strangely relaxing to have someone put my makeup on. I close my eyes and listen to my breathing, connect with my thoughts, endeavor to stop picking at my nail polish, wringing my hands, and tapping my foot. I tell myself I’m doing the right thing.

  What if I do get on the show? Who will take care of Riley? I wonder if it’s like the military: you need to have a family member take the kid for you when you deploy. Now I’m really starting to panic. I feel dizzy, hands clammy.

  The hair lady comes over and sits me down, shaking baby powder in my roots. “Why are you doing that?” I ask.

  “It helps with volume and absorbs oil.”

  “I washed my hair this morning,” I say. God, I’m so defensive.

  “It’ll be perfect, okay?” she says, calmly. She must be used to crazed singers before try-outs. There’s a live audience today and I can hear them being coached about applause just outside the doors.

  “You’re going on thirteenth out of one-hundred,” says the chick with the iPad who’s been rushing around all morning. “There are sixty-four spots available. Good luck.”

  “Isn’t thirteen an unlucky number?” chides Blaire, my hotel roomie from New York.

  “Let’s hope not,” I say. Geez.

  * * *

  In the second holding room, I’m pacing, wishing my heels were at least two inches shorter. The waiting is always the worst. A young PA comes up with my ear monitor and I put it in; it fits with some molded wax that feels a little squishy. I’d used it earlier during practice, but it still takes getting used to, hearing myself through it.

  Someone hands me a mic as the camera crew films me at my most nervous. I’m pacing, shaking my free hand to give my nerves an outlet. Audiences must love this part. I know when I’m watching these shows, this part is especially exciting.

  “Three, two, one…” says a voice in the dark. The doors open and I walk out, my heels clicking in the shadows. People clap as I find the glowing X I’m supposed to stand on in the dark.

  I notice there is back lighting so my face will stay obscure. I know that all anyone can see of me right now is my silhouette. The stage is outlined in glow tape, too—so we don’t fall off if no one votes for us, I suppose.

  The audience is slightly illuminated, making it harder for them to see me. The coaches are sitting behind their long desk, and it strikes me how they look like normal human beings—albeit very good-looking human beings, but just humans, nonetheless. I purposely try not to look at Kolton Royce. That feeling. I don’t think I could handle it right now.

  I can’t wait for the music to start. Singing is the only time I don’t feel alone. I feel a connection to the people in the audience, a warmth emanating from them to me. I’m giddy for it. I need it. As the clapping and cup-hitting-the-table sounds start in the song, I take a deep breath and begin singing the first line. People start cheering and clapping, as if they’re relieved I don’t suck.

  There’s a buzz! One vote. I just need one more.

  I’m starting the second line when I hear a second buzz, and then another, or more than one more. The lights come on, and I giggle for a second as I try to adjust my eyes to the
shock of the light. I skipped just a half a beat, but start back again. The judges nod to one another, approving of my looks, as if they’re glad my face matches my voice.

  I peek at him, even though I shouldn’t. Something’s weird about the way Kolton Royce is looking at me again. He’s very serious. There’s no smile turning up his lips, like the others. Is he angry at me? Of course not. Maybe that’s just his listening face.

  For some reason, I’m not feeling that oneness with the audience like I usually do. It’s the largest audience I’ve ever sung in front of. That has to be it.

  No, if I’m honest with myself, it’s that I’m preoccupied with Kolton Royce: notorious ladies’ man, sex god, well-known for being photographed with models, fancy celebrities—sometimes leaving with more than one woman at a time. He does that messy-sexy look well. It’s like he just rolled out of bed: blond hair, worn jeans, black boots, and a soft Pendleton shirt.

  What an idiot I am—staring at him. I force myself to look away, and pay attention to the audience. I smile as the camera man comes up to do the swing-in close up. I listen to my voice through the earpiece and it centers me again.

  Once I’ve got myself under control, I’m singing the last line, and the crowd is erupting into claps and whistles. Ninety seconds, the happiest I’ve felt in a long time. They loved it, and I’m not in the dark, I’m in the light. I’m living the dream. I bow and smile, crossing my ankles and grasping the mic with both hands.

  Chuck Faraday saunters up and smoothly puts his hand on my elbow. “Wow! That was great, Mia! How do you feel? All four of the judges voted for you.”

  They did!

  “I guess thirteen wasn’t an unlucky number,” I say.

  “Thirteen?”

  “Yeah, I’m the thirteenth contestant today.”

  “Oh! That makes sense,” he says, and the coaches laugh. So does the audience. “So you have your pick of coaches at this point. I’ll start with Pulse. What would you like to say to her now?”

  The soul man begins to speak. He’s tall and thin, wearing his dreads and black leather like no one else could. He has on three, count them, three thick gold chains.

  “Well, hello, Mia. I loved it—loved it. I thought your performance was inspiring, spectacular. I’d love to be your coach. I can really help you, introduce you to the people who can get your image right, your record done. Yeah—you should come ride with the Pulse.”

  I’m laughing. What a line!

  “Ride with the Pulse!” Selma exclaims, highly amused, her little accent so cute. “Oh, honey,” she says to me, “we ladies need to stick together. I think you are unique, very controlled. Your tone is unparalleled, and you have an amazing stage presence.

  “I’d like to get you moving around the stage some more, using your God-given gifts,” she says, motioning just above her breasts and moving down to her hips, giving them a little shake.

  I immediately feel my cheeks heat, no doubt blushing as red as an apple. “I mean your voice, too, honey. But that body, I can teach you how to use it on stage. Choose me. Come be on Team Selma!”

  I’m smiling so hard it hurts. I look at the next two to see if they have something to add when Kolton puts his hand up as if to say he’s next.

  “I don’t know what just happened up there, Mia,” he says in his smooth voice. The aloof expression on his face makes my heart drop into my stomach. “I think I’ve been waiting all my life to hear your voice, and, now that I have, it’s like you plugged a missing piece in my heart.”

  What the fu…?

  And he’s smiling now, a side smirk smile with a dimple that makes panties drop all over the world. He knows what he’s doing.

  “I’ll do anything at this point—anything at all, to get you on my team. I’ll beg if you want me to. I could give you a cheesy one liner,” he says, nodding at Pulse, “or I could shake my hips,” he says pointing at Selma, who promptly stands up and shakes what her momma gave her, making the audience clap and yelp. “But what I really want to say is, you could win this whole thing—if you had the right coach. So I have to ask—do you trust me?”

  “I hardly know you,” I say. It just tumbles out, and then I’m wishing I could shove the words back in because the audience claps and Danny, the country guy, stands, pointing at him.

  “She hardly knows who you are, man!” He exclaims, his laugh all throaty and deep. “Awe, pretty lady, you don’t need him. You need to come on over to Team Danny! This is where the winner’ll come from. He don’t know what he’s talkin’ about. Y’all know what I mean?” he says to the audience. “I can help craft your unique style. I know people—you know, people who are just dying to get their hands on a young talent like you. I can get you on the right track for a long term career.”

  “You know people,” Selma says. “We all know people.”

  “But I have my own label,” says Kolton, his voice soft but in command. “I am ‘the people’ to know,” he says, his upper lip lifting on one side. The others fake these obviously overdone insult-faces, but Kolton doesn’t play along. His gaze hones in on me.

  “So who do you choose, Mia?” asks Chuck, the host. Who do I choose? I look at each coach again, one more time. I look down at my nails; I’ve picked the nail polish off in little clumps.

  He called my voice the missing piece of his heart. I’m pretty sure that’s the cheesiest thing anyone has ever, ever said, since the beginning of time. And he’s a man whore, who’ll probably try to get in my panties, which is the last thing I need. Oh, and he makes me uncomfortable, and nervous, and vulnerable.

  But, he says he wants to earn my trust—which is such an unexpected need for someone to have and then speak out loud, to be honest. It shows vulnerability on his part, as if he’s not a persona glorified on screen. It touches me—and I don’t think that’s why he said it either. It seems like he’s completely honest; I want to know the reason why.

  And, from a business perspective, he does have his own label and, if I prove myself, maybe he’ll sign me – regardless if I win. It’s like a slow motion car wreck when I open my mouth and say, “Kolton,” and I feel my top lip twitch.

  I hear the crowd, see the other coaches conceding and clapping for him, but as soon as he pushes his chair back, I have nothing but Kolton vision.

  He’s standing up and walking toward me, doing that smolder thing where he smiles and bites his bottom lip. My knees are weak. I purposely wiggle my legs to keep them working, keep me upright.

  He’s going to hug me. He’s so freaking tall, I have to get on my tiptoes to put my arms around his neck. Ohmygod! He smells so good, like musk and spice.

  He puts his arms around my lower back, pulls back slightly, and puts his hands around the curve of my hips. I move my hands down to the muscles in his arms. A chill runs down my spine and directly into my naughty parts.

  He leans down to my ear, and whispers, “Sorry you don’t know me very well. But I’d like to change that. I promise you this, you’ll learn to trust me,” he says, before turning and walking away.

  Little nineteen-year-olds like me, we just aren’t prepared for rock gods whispering in our ears. I’m breathless. Everything in my body is screaming to have his hands on me again. My hormones are like a raging fire inside me.

  I run off the stage where Riley is strategically placed for me to hug her—in front of the cameras, of course. All for ratings, but, right now, I don’t give a shit. I hug her so tight.

  “You did it, Mia!” she says, her words are my undoing. My baby sister is proud of me, and all is right with the world. It’s like I’m high, although I’ve never done drugs. But if I had, this must be what it would feel like. My blood rushes through my veins so quickly I’m light headed. Giggly. My cheeks hurt from smiling so much.

  As I grab Riley’s hand and walk away from the cameras and the noise, I’m running over the exchange between me and the coaches. All of that banter will surely get me some air time. We all know, the more they show your story during the
competition, the better your chances for getting the audience’s votes when they count.

  “Riley, oh my gosh!” I squeal, holding her a little too tightly. I’m happy I made it and that counts for something. I think I made the right choice in choosing Kolton. At least, I hope I did.

  I need to calm my hormones, though, or I’m going to be in trouble.

  Trust him? I really hope I can.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Team Kolton

  I’m told to wait, and I do. According to my schedule, tomorrow is my after-interview and photos with the coach and team, so I thought I could leave but there must be something else they need from me.

  There’s food laid out for contestants and their families, so I make a plate for Riley and me. I’ve been a vegetarian for about a year now, something about eating burnt flesh after the fire—okay, I can’t go there right now, but Riley still loves her some chicken nuggets with barbecue sauce.

  “Are you going to be famous or something?” she asks, her little face covered in sauce. I wipe it before taking a bite of my spinach salad.

  “A little, I guess,” I say, seeing someone walking toward us in my peripheral vision. My eyes dart over to find Kolton Royce, in all his glory, coming toward us. I start chewing really fast so I can swallow my bite. Oh my God, do I have spinach in my teeth?

  “She’s going to be very famous, little girl,” he says, kneeling down and putting his hand out to shake with Riley, giving me a close-up view of the tattoos covering the lower half of his arms. One arm is covered in a green and black swirled tribal design. The other has a guitar with metal wings surrounded by dark clouds.

  “What’s your name?” he asks Riley, as I run my tongue along my top teeth—just in case there’s food stuck there.

  “Riley,” she says. “I like your song, the one about the panther. That one’s cool.”

  “Well, thanks,” he says, turning his attention on me. “At least one of you knows who I am, then,” he says. He sounds serious and my heart drops down to my stomach.