The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1)

by Shelby Rebecca

  “Can I help you, Deloris?” I ask. She looks up at me, her expression stunned, and wipes her forehead. “No, it’s fine. He’s bleeding. You should check on him. I gave him a kitchen towel.”

  “Okay,” I nod, understanding I should help him, even though I don’t want to.

  As I climb the stairs, I wonder, is Katharina right?

  Is Kolton capable of love?

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  It Can’t Be Me

  I put on some long socks to cover my scars before I walk toward Kolton’s open bedroom door. I haven’t been in there since that first day when I’d put those too-tall boots in his closet and read his letter explaining why he’d moved us into his house. I knock, but he doesn’t answer, so I walk across the threshold and call out, “Kolton? You okay?”

  Silence.

  I take a few steps into his room, but he must be in the bathroom. The door is open so I stand just outside. I don’t want to end up seeing something I shouldn’t. “Kolton?” I ask again.

  “Come in,” he says, his voice low, quiet.

  When I turn into the doorjamb, I see him leaning on the edge of the sink holding a blue towel stippled with blood. My impulse is to jump forward and help him, but he winces, moving his arm away from me.

  “Is it bad?” I ask, putting my hands up to show him I’ll stay back, give him space.

  He looks up at me, his eyes darting to my white shirt and shorts, then quickly away. I cross my arms over my chest.

  “She’s right, Mia,” he says, staring at the blood embedded in the towel.

  “About?”

  “I’m empty. I didn’t love her, or any of them. Not like—”

  “You don’t have to explain. Just let me take a look at the cut—okay?” He shrugs and I move closer, taking his hand in mine and peeling the blue kitchen towel away, revealing a long, deep gash in the crook of his palm. “You should go to the emergency room.”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. I turn on the water and pull his hand down into the stream, watching his life force drain and swirl along with the water. I know it’s weird to think, but it’s kind of beautiful.

  The god, he bleeds.

  I look up at him and watch as his eyes take me in. I break eye contact first.

  “Where’s your first aid kit?”

  “Under the sink,” he says.

  “Don’t move,” I warn as I hold his hand under the water, letting him know he needs to keep it there. He nods and I open the cabinet, pulling out the blue plastic first aid box. I set it on the counter and find some antibiotic ointment, cotton, a wrap bandage, and some scissors. I set them out methodically and pull a small metal bench seat over from the corner toward the sink.

  “Here you go,” I say, urging him to sit down but keep his hand in the water. I turn and grab a white washcloth from the linen closet. When I turn around, he’s watching me. I feel a little self-conscious in these tight shorts as I walk toward him. He swallows hard and leans back so his flat stomach ripples under his cotton shirt.

  I turn off the sink and pick up his hand, the physical contact shooting a bolt of energy through my whole body. I close my eyes for a second and when I open them, the bleeding has stopped and his palm is wrinkly from the water. I stand between his outstretched knees and dry his hand with the washcloth. I don’t look at him, but I feel him looking at me; it makes my face hot, but I ignore it.

  “Hold it flat, like this,” I say spreading his hand out. The cut is deep, but not deep enough for stitches. I pick up the ointment and put a thin amount on my finger, then rub it into the cut. I can’t control my breathing without focusing. I have to tell myself. Breathe in, breathe out.

  His scent, touching him, it does things to me, makes me dizzy. I feel so drawn to him, but at the same time, so stupid. He’s not the relationship type. He might be attracted to me, but he’s like that with a lot of women. I mean, that model chick is beautiful and he just tossed her aside. He’s trouble; he’ll hurt me; I know it. I have to stop this right now.

  I pick up the cotton and place it over the gash, pressing into it with my thumb and wrap the gauze once around his hand, then again, and again. As I do so, I tell myself this is not healthy. Kolton’s not good for me.

  After wrapping around the fourth time, I cut straight across and use one of those metal hook things to secure it in place.

  “There you go,” I say, realizing my voice gives me away. I still haven’t looked at him and I don’t want to move away. I force my leg to move my foot back, take a step, and let go of his hand. As I do, Kolton stands up, towering above me.

  “Look at me,” he urges.

  I shake my head no and keep my gaze down.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” he says. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  “Why did you, then?” I snap.

  “It’s what I do. I’m a very physical person. I crave affection. And you were so—”

  “What? Pushy?”

  “No. You were being sweet to me in the car. I thought for a minute—”

  “That I didn’t think you were a controlling asshole for once?” I ask, and it stings coming out. He shakes his head, and takes a step to the side, breaking the physical closeness between us.

  “And I thought I was the asshole,” he says, scowling at me. “All I’ve done is tried to help you; I messed up. Don’t call me names.”

  My shoulders feel heavy, and my feet curl up under me like a little girl. “Sorry.”

  “Why did you choose me as your coach?” he asks, moving toward the doorjamb. I lean against the counter and cross my arms.

  “Because you asked me to,” I say, confused and stand firmly.

  “Was it because I have my own label?”

  “Yes,” I admit, “partly.”

  “Why else, then? Before you found out how little I really know about treating people, maybe you wanted to have a little bad-girl fling with me?”

  “I’m not the ‘have a fling’ type, Kolton.”

  “Then why?”

  “I think—” I say, remembering back to that day. What was the real reason? “I wanted to trust you,” I say. My eyes open wide as he peers into them, into me, into my wounded part—the same way he’d done outside the studio that day. I’m lost in him. He makes me feel soft like clay.

  He looks down at his hand, running the tips of the fingers along the place where I’d secured the wrap.

  “You deserve the world, Mia. And I want to give it to you. Do you understand what I’m saying to you now?”

  My heart drops into my stomach, the ache deep inside me begging for something I have no understanding of. I nod my head. “I think so.” But not really. I wait. He waits.

  “You deserve a chance to grow up. To have someone who can love you—real love, you know?”

  “I do want real love—someday.” His head drops, and he presses the bandaged hand into his heart.

  “You heard the lady. I’m empty. I don’t love anybody –it’s impossible,” he says, before he disappears from the doorjamb, from the bedroom, from the apartment, from me.

  * * *

  That night, the police come and go, and Deloris won’t talk to me about what she saw happen between Kolton and Katharina. She pours herself a glass of a red wine and goes into her room, leaving the mess on the floor, just like Kolton asked her to.

  The new body guard, Manny, comes in as I’m trying to decide if I should clean everything up myself. I mean, I don’t want Riley to see it when she wakes up.

  “I’ll get it,” Manny confirms. “Do you know where the broom is?” he asks as I take in his appearance. He’s tall with dark hair and olive skin, broad shouldered, wearing a white T-shirt and slacks. His arms are tattooed. He looks intimidating, but I’m not scared of him at all. He has a dad-like safeness about him.

  “Uh,” I ponder. “I don’t really clean around here. I’m guessing in the pantry closet thing.” I start walking toward the kitchen area.

  “No. No,” he blurts. “I’ll
find it. You should get some sleep.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.” I turn away from him and walk up the steps.

  As I climb, I feel like reading the article gossip magazine article about the slap, but decide to just sleep. I open the nightstand drawer and toss the phone Kolton gave me inside. I stare at it wondering whether there’s a text from him. I’m not going to check it—maybe not ever. If he wants to talk to me, he’ll have to come see me in person.

  After I close the drawer and sit down, sinking into the plush bed in Kolton’s house, I come to realize, I need to focus on me. He’s just—broken. So am I—but he’s worse. He’s the unattainable man, Kolton Royce. At least I don’t sleep with people to make up for not having parents. Even as I think such a mean thing, I feel bad. He can’t help it, I guess.

  Just stop, Mia. I have Riley to think of, not just myself. I don’t need him to succeed. He’s making it hard for me to concentrate. I’ll be on another team next week and we can figure out the living arrangements then. I pull the duvet up and over me; the air fluffs me in the face, pushing my hair back. I sink in and my eyelids are so heavy, I can’t fight sleep.

  In my dreams I’m not alone, I’m loved. I can almost feel the physical presence in real life, as if there are arms around me. I won’t open my eyes, afraid they might go away.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Dead Battery

  I’ve been paired with a twenty-five year old woman from Atlanta named Jessie. I’ve seen her around, but I’ve been racking my brain about her voice since checking my email yesterday after recording my version of “Burn.”

  Now that Pulse’s team for the next round has been sorted out, it’s time for Jessie and me to meet and practice. Then I’m supposed to go meet with Joyce McKim—executive producer. I get to the set and am immediately told we’re supposed to check in with a voice coach to get the song down before we meet with Kolton tomorrow—which I’m not looking forward to.

  A female production assistant comes up to me, buzzing with adrenaline. “We’ve had to speed up the schedules and some other changes are coming so we can get everything filmed in time for the live shows.” While she talks, I stare at the hair sticking out under her hat. “Now weekends are included,” she says, shoving the new schedule into my hand. Cut back on the coffee. Geez.

  I don’t even look at it before shoving it in the bag strung across my shoulder. It doesn’t matter either way. When I open the door, Jessie is already there.

  “Hi,” she says. Right away and I can’t help but notice her bright green eyes.

  “Hi,” I say back, shaking her hand.

  “I’m so nervous,” she admits. “Do you know why they changed this round?”

  “No,” I lie. “Maybe they’d planned it all along but didn’t want us to know.” That’s a believable one, I think.

  “So, what do you think of this song?” she asks.

  “I like it,” I say. “I recorded it yesterday.”

  “Shit,” she says. “I’m recording today.”

  “We can get started if you don’t want to wait for the coach.”

  “Yeah,” she says, looking over the lyrics. “Can you sing it for me once?” I nod my head and sing a Capella. I love Ellie Goulding’s voice, but the lyrics mean so much to me. They remind me of Kolton, of me, of us—if there had been an us.

  “Damn, girl,” she says. “You really feel this one.”

  I nod. If only she really knew why.

  She takes a turn, and I realize how strong her voice is. It’s going to be a lot harder for me this time because her pitch is perfect. She’s got a unique rasp, a lot of range, and power in her voice.

  But then I remember I’m winning this round, too. They’re moving me to another team; that’s the whole point of this change. But can’t she have a chance, too? It’s completely unfair if she doesn’t have the possibility of winning.

  The voice coach pops in for about an hour. She gives us both tips and I’m a little jealous now because Jessie will do a better job than me on her iTunes release of the same song.

  Sometimes I’m just such a jerk, sitting here begrudging her the chance to be awesome. When it’s time for Jessie to go record, I make my way to talk to Joyce McKim.

  Before I know it, I’m knocking on the trailer door where I’d met with her before. I’m nervous about what she’s going to say; my hands are sweaty when the door opens and Joyce looks down at me with a furrowed brow.

  “Come in,” she says.

  “Okay,” I mumble and she waves me in.

  I find myself sitting behind the table again. She stays standing. “How’d it go today?” she asks.

  “Is Jessie going to lose because of me?”

  “Not necessarily,” she clarifies. “This conversation needs to stay between us, Mia.” I nod, and she taps her chin with her pointer finger. “We’ve had to make quite a few changes to the schedule and the procedure.”

  “So, Jessie still has a shot?”

  “If she does well.”

  “What if she’s better than me?”

  “The teams after this round aren’t the ones necessarily going to the live shows.”

  “What?”

  “Each coach can only advance the best five of the remaining contestants on their teams after this round.”

  “Oh. So, just because someone wins the round or someone is saved doesn’t guarantee them a spot on the team?”

  “No. But, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

  I don’t say anything. I pick at my nail polish until I can see the whites of my nails underneath.

  “Is everything okay, Mia?” She sits down, and it has the effect she must have wanted it to. I take a breath and look her in the eyes.

  “I’m just—I’m ready to be off Kolton’s team.”

  “I don’t know about that, Mia. He’s been very clear. Despite everything we’re doing to separate the two of you, he doesn’t want to lose you. He found you and he feels—responsible for you.”

  “Not anymore,” I say.

  “I just talked to him today.”

  “But—”

  “You’d basically have to throw the round.”

  “Like, mess up on purpose?”

  “Yes. Selma would still save you. But that’s what you’d have to do.” She crosses her long legs under the table.

  “I can’t do that. I just can’t.”

  “Then I don’t think he’s going to let you go.”

  Realizing we’re at an impasse, I nod my head in understanding, shake her hand, thank her, and leave. Why would he be so stubborn? To ask me to throw the round on purpose just to get on another team. What the hell?

  I check the schedule. I’m not due at wardrobe for another half an hour. I find a bench and take out my phone. I pull up Google and type “Kolton Royce slapped.” I need to figure out what’s going on, connect some of the missing pieces.

  Several articles pop up with similar headlines. I click on the GOS~P article since they don’t usually write complete falsehoods. They tell it like it is.

  “Playboy Royce, Slapped”

  7/13/13 12:45 AM PDT BY GOS~P STAFF

  Kolton Royce, best known as our LA playboy and lesser known for his singing, was slapped in front of cameras coming out of the restaurant, The Ivy, earlier today. Katharina Inez was said to have yelled, “You can’t quit this!” pointing to herself before leaving. Neither Kolton Royce, nor his red cheek, were available for comment.

  But then another headline on their “See also” section under the article catches my attention.

  “Who’s tamed the bad boy? Kolton Royce turned over a new leaf?”

  7/29/13 8:15 AM PDT BY GOS~P STAFF

  Under the picture that shows Kolton looking hot as hell, but forlorn and withdrawn, it says:

  Something seems to be changing in Kolton Royce’s life. The notorious ladies’ man has been noticeably absent from the LA scene. Did he meet someone? We haven’t seen him with anyone steady since calling of his relat
ionship with Katharina Inez after she slapped him outside The Ivy. Their relationship was not exclusive. He’d been seen with lots of other ladies while they were dating. So, what gives?

  We’re going to keep an eye out. He has been filming for a new singing competition, The Stage. Is it possible he’s met someone on the set? A few insiders say there might be a story there. Has Kolton been tamed by one of the protégés? A little birdie told us it might be true. But who is she? We’re dying to find out. More to come.

  Holy shit! Has he read this? It’s just days old. I can’t even—I mean—how do they find out this stuff?

  Everyone here is under contract not to talk to the media. Even when you lose the round, if you don’t want to be sued, if you want to be a part of the tour, you have to keep quiet.

  My stomach rumbles and turns itself into knots. I want to run away, to hide. They will find out, won’t they? Unless he stays away from me. Unless I lose the round on purpose. They’re going to out us. They’ll write about him keeping me in his house, about Deloris, about our deeper connection as survivors. I’ll never be taken seriously. I’ll be the slut who slept her way onto the show. I’ve got to get out of here. I turn on my music player, plug in my ear buds, and run. Running saved my life before. Riley’s life. It feels like I finally have control over my own life, like I didn’t have when I lost my parents. When our lives turned to ashes. When Kolton barged into my life and took over.

  I don’t know where I’m going. Away. Just away. Somewhere I’m not the prize to be found inside the box of cereal.

  I run all the way to the exit, past the gate guard, who lets me out, and down the street. I feel my feet stuffed into TOMS wedges slapping against the concrete. I listen to my song, Burn, play over and over until it’s running through my bloodstream. I tune out my fears, my anger, my confusion, and pay attention to the sounds of my breath, the urgency of my heartbeat, until it’s all I know. My pace is not too fast, just enough to take me somewhere that’s not so stifling.