Unfiltered

by Payge Galvin

  The minute the elevator doors close behind us on our floor, Dillon grabs me and swings me around in a crazy, drunken waltz. “We did it,” he whispers in my ear as we careen down the hall toward our rooms, crashing into walls as we go. “We really fucking did it.”

  “We did,” I say, working my key into the lock on my door while Dillon leans against the doorway. I’m exhausted, but I don’t really want this night to end. “You want to come in?”

  “Sure,” he says, following me inside.

  I toss my bag on my bed while Dillon walks toward the huge picture window. “Look at it,” he says in hushed tones. “This beautiful fucking city. Tonight it feels like it’s all mine.”

  I walk up beside him and press one hand against the glass. We’re so high up that it looks fake, like something you’d see in a movie. “It’s amazing,” I agree.

  I feel Dillon take a step toward me and feel a shift in the room, but I don’t look up. He reaches over and takes my hand, and against my better judgment, I loop my fingers around his, both of us staring down at the neon wonderland below us. My heart is pounding, and I can feel the pull. It wouldn’t take much to change everything between us, I know that. But for how long?

  “Thanks,” Dillon whispers, and I feel his hand on my neck, his fingers running through my hair. I have to move now, have to shift because of the shivers that are working their way down my body.

  “Thank you,” I whisper back, turning to face him. There’s a faint scent of champagne on his breath, but he looks totally sober as I meet his eyes. His mouth is closed, and I want so badly to reach up and run one finger along the perfect curve of his lips, to taste him, to inhale him, even if it’s just for one night. Dillon bends down, and I close my eyes, but only feel his lips graze my neck, two perfectly placed kisses behind my ear.

  “I should probably go to bed,” Dillon says, pulling away from me suddenly and swaying a little on his feet.

  “Right,” I say, stepping backward and dropping his hand.

  Dillon makes his way to the door that separates our rooms and then turns back to me. “Savannah?”

  “Yes?”

  But he doesn’t answer, just points in my direction, steps through the opening and closes my door behind him.

  I turn back to the lights of Vegas, but they don’t interest me as much now. All I can think of is Dillon—the feel of his skin on mine, the timbre of his voice in my ear. The want is so deep, so encompassing that even though I know it’s a bad move, I have to make it anyway, no matter what happens tomorrow.

  “Dillon?” I call, opening the door between our rooms. But all I hear is soft snoring from his bed. Dillon’s face down, fully dressed, his nice black shirt untucked and a wrinkled mess under his body. I grab the extra blanket out of the closet and cover him, running a finger along his hairline and taking one last look at his beautiful face.

  After turning out the light and closing the door behind me, I lean against the wall that separates the two of us, imagining I can still hear his soft breathing.

  “I love you,” I whisper, but the only answer is my phone buzzing in the darkness of my empty room.

  Chapter 6

  Dillon

  A hush comes over the mostly empty theater as Gavin Holloway walks to the center of the stage. “Congratulations!” he says, his voice booming out over the seats without a microphone. “You are the best of the best. The top voices in the country. And not just because your mama thinks so or your choir teacher thinks so or your boyfriend thinks so. You’re here because we think so.”

  A scattering of applause fills the seats up toward the front of the stage where all of us are gathered. Gavin smiles down at us. There are a few other people on the stage with him, some producers and showrunners that were introduced before, but I don’t see the rest of the judges anywhere.

  “There are one hundred and twenty-two of you filling these seats today,” he continues. “Take a good look around because by the time the audition show airs in two weeks, seventy-five of you will be gone.”

  There’s a murmuring as everyone looks around them wondering who it will be. I smile at Savannah next to me, and she smiles back. It won’t be us.

  “The following week, another fifteen will bite the dust until we have the top thirty to work with over the next several weeks. This is not a game ladies and gentlemen. There is a lot of time and money invested in this production and all of us…” Gavin spreads his arms wide to include the people who are setting up the cameras and the rigging as well as the other producers. “…all of us take this very seriously. You will work like dogs. Like fleas on dogs. You will get up early and you will do what we tell you over and over again until you get it right. And then at night you will collapse into bed only to get up the next day and do it over again. If you don’t like it, feel free to go home and cry because there are tens of thousands of other singers who are itching to take your place.” He smiles down at all of us. “Welcome to American Voice.”

  There’s a low murmuring as everyone pulls themselves up from the theater chairs and heads for the doors into the lobby. We’re getting our room assignments next, but I seriously have to pee.

  “I’ll be back,” I say to Savannah, nodding toward the men’s room.

  “Want me to hold your bag?”

  I hesitate. I don’t really want to haul almost a hundred thousand dollars in cash to the urinal, but except for audition day, this thing hasn’t been out of my sight. But this is Savannah, and I trust her more than anyone in the world. “Sure,” I say, handing over the canvas duffle.

  I’m washing my hands at the sink when the blonde guy from the audition room walks through the door. “Hey, Dillon, right?”

  “Right,” I say, totally embarrassed that I can’t remember his name.

  “It’s Sam,” he says, walking to the urinal. “Glad to see you made it.”

  “Yeah. You too. It’s pretty wild so far.”

  “I know one of the guys who made it to the finals two seasons ago, and we ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

  “Good to know,” I say, waving as I walk back into the lobby.

  “Here,” Savannah says, handing me the bag. For a split second I wonder if she looked inside, but then decide I’m just being paranoid. “The guys are supposed to go with that producer and get their room assignments. I have to go over there.” She points to a woman with a clipboard.

  “Too bad we can’t room together,” I tell her, realizing too late that she’s probably going to take that the wrong way. She’s been keeping her distance from me since the night we made it through the auditions, but I have no idea why. I got completely shit-faced that night, but I don’t think I did anything that stupid. At least I hope I didn’t.

  “Hey, Dillon,” Sam says, walking up to the two of us. “Who’s your friend?”

  I can’t miss Savannah’s reaction to Sam as she looks him over. Guess I’ve finally figured out her type. “This is Savannah. We came here together.” I can’t help it. I had to add that because I don’t like how this is going. “Savannah, this is Sam.”

  Sam raises his eyebrows. “Wow, you both made it? The network must love that.”

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “Well, they’re always looking for good backstory, and a couple that auditioned together and both made the show is gold.”

  “We’re not a couple,” Savannah says quickly. I glance at her and try to dissect her smile. Is she flirting with him?

  “Well, whatever,” he says, putting one hand on my shoulder. “It’s still a good story.”

  “Let’s go, people,” one of the assistants yells, and we line up to get our assignments and our room keys.

  There’s a scramble for the elevators, and when we finally get off on our floor Savannah stops in the hallway. “I’m down this way,” she says.

  “I’m down here,” I say, pointing to the opposite hallway. “I guess I’ll see you at dinner.” The network is hosting a big banquet in one of the restaurants to welco
me the contestants.

  “Yeah,” she says. It seems like there’s more she wants to say. “Hey, wear the black shirt again.”

  “It’s dirty,” I say.

  “Well, pick out whatever’s second best,” she says.

  “I can dress myself.”

  “That’s what you think.” Savannah reaches up to give me a quick hug, and then she’s gone.

  There’s a lot of people wandering around in the hallway, and I imagine it’s what a dorm must look like on move-in day. I find my room but the door is already open a crack.

  “You must be Dillon,” the guy putting clothes into the dresser says. He’s tall and thin with light brown skin, dark hair, and a tiny silver hoop in each ear.

  “Yep,” I say, setting my duffle down on the other bed. My other bag is already up here along with my guitar leaning against the mirrored closet.

  “I’m Luke,” he says, putting another stack of shirts into a drawer. “I’m nineteen, from Long Island. I don’t snore, but I do stay up late.”

  He sounds exactly like a Craigslist ad. “And you like sunset walks on the beach?” I joke.

  Luke stops unpacking and stares at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Uh oh. I give a little half-assed laugh. “Nothing. I was kidding. Because it sounded like an ad…never mind. I’m Dillon, but you already know that. Twenty-three, from Rio Verde, Arizona. I don’t know if I snore, but so far I haven’t had any complaints.”

  Luke goes back to his suitcase. “We might as well get it out in the open. I’m gay.” He grabs a bundle of socks and stuffs them in a top drawer.

  “Okay,” I say, not too sure where we’re going with this. “I’m not.”

  Luke finally stops moving and looks me in the eye. “Is that a problem for you?”

  I shrug. “Are you going to hit on me?”

  He breaks into a tiny smile. “No. You’re not my type.”

  I look down at the cleanish t-shirt I’m wearing. “So what’s your type?”

  Luke goes back to his suitcase and picks up some more socks. “Gay,” he says. “Gay is my type.”

  “Then no,” I say. “It’s not a problem.”

  ***

  Luke shoots me a smile from the wings, and I give him a tiny thumbs up. He’s a cool guy, at least he seems to be in the twenty-four hours we’ve known each other. I’m standing at the back of the stage with about fifty other people waiting my turn to sing while Savannah and the rest of the contestants sprawl in the theater seats at the front of the stage. They’re filming this for the opening rounds of the show, and I can feel the heat from the lights even way back here. So far, I’ve found the best thing to do is ignore the cameras, even when they get up in your face for a candid shot. I reach up and adjust the number that’s pinned to my shirt, a little like a prison number if I think about it. But it’s a prison I practically killed myself to get into so I’m not complaining.

  Luke steps to the mark at the front of the stage and shakes his long arms out. We rehearsed a little in the room, but I have no idea what he’s capable of with a mic in his hand in front of an audience. We’re supposed to sing the song that we did in front of the judges, the one that got us here in the first place. I laughed when Luke told me what his was, but as the first notes of “Firework” by Katy Perry come out of his mouth, I get why they gave him a ticket to the show. Luke’s voice is clear and controlled, but he has a diva quality that most of the girls here would kill for. The only movement on stage is his foot tapping out the time, but it still feels like he’s putting on a show. For a lot of people here today, this is going to be their only opportunity to get on camera before they’re sent home. Luke isn’t going to be one of those people.

  “Very nice Mr. Conrad,” one of the producers says as they scribble on their clipboards. We’re going in order, and I barely pay attention to the next five people in line, focusing on the music and how I’m going to sing it. Finally it’s my turn to step out onto the little yellow X on the stage and blink into the lights. Savannah is sitting in the front row of the theater, and she holds up both hands with her fingers crossed. I flash her a grin. I can’t imagine what this would be like doing it alone.

  “Mr…Varga,” the producer says. “What are you going to do for us today?”

  “I’m singing ‘Beautiful Day’ by U2.”

  “Take it away,” he says.

  I stand in the middle of that stage and look past the lights, past the first few rows that are filled with people to the last rows, way up in the nosebleed seats of the theater. I try to imagine that every seat is filled, and these are the people that I have to reach. I grab the microphone and stay still for a few seconds as the opening bars play in my head before launching into the song, trying not to think too much about what I’m doing, just riding the song and the lyrics to the end and hope for the best. As the last notes fade into the air, I look toward the table of producers. “That was very inspiring Mr. Varga,” the head producer says. “And entirely unexpected. Thank you.”

  I walk back to my place at the back of the stage and try to gauge how I did. Luke returns my thumbs up, but I’m sure he’d still do that, even if I sucked.

  The girl to my right leans toward me. “That was amazing,” she says quietly.

  I look over at her. Blond, cute, wearing a dress and cowboy boots. I sort of have a thing for girls in cowboy boots. She sang a country song when she went before me. Mia something. “Thanks Mia,” I say. “You were good too.”

  “I was good,” she agrees, looking up at me with startlingly blue eyes. “But you were amazing.”

  “Not true,” I manage, before getting the stink-eye from one of the assistants off stage. I shut my mouth and look straight ahead while Mia smiles. I can almost feel Savannah’s eyes on me from the front row, but I don’t look for her. If she’s allowed to practically eat Sam alive with one glance, then I’m allowed to talk to Mia. As she keeps reminding everyone within earshot, we’re not a couple.

  ***

  I’m zipping the duffle bag just as I hear Luke’s key in the door.

  “Doing laundry already?” he asks.

  “Not exactly,” I say. I grab my wallet and my hotel key. “Listen, I’m going out for a little bit. Let me know if I miss anything, okay?”

  Luke glances at the clock on the nightstand. “They’re airing the first episode at that theater in like an hour. The network wants everyone to be there.”

  “I will be,” I say. “If I’m late, I’ll meet you there.”

  “All right,” he says. “I’ll work on a good cover story. Say you’re having an affair with some married blackjack dealer or something.”

  I smile. “See, I knew you were handy for something.”

  Thank God there’s nobody in the hallway as I walk to the elevators. We’re not exactly under house arrest here in the hotel, but about as close as you can come without actually committing a felony. Which I might actually be doing, come to think of it.

  I find the hotel exit that’s not on the strip and walk past the taxis that are waiting there and down the alley until I come to a main street. It’s busy with people crowding the sidewalks and cars lined up along the street. I exhale a little, feeling more invisible out here. There are a bunch of taxis parked next to a sidewalk—this must be where they take breaks. I look them over and finally pick a guy with a turban and a well-groomed mustache.

  “Hey, want to earn an easy $100?” I ask.

  He looks me over, exhaling the smoke from his cigarette. “Is it legal?” he asks.

  “Yep,” I say. “I just need you to drop something off for me. But I don’t want the video camera on in the cab.”

  The cabbie glances at the car. “Broken anyway. It’s not a bomb is it?”

  “No,” I say. “It’s not a bomb. I promise.”

  The guy shrugs and walks to the driver’s door while I climb in the back. I give him the address I got off the internet and sit back, enjoying the scenery as we leave the strip down at the far
end and drive into what looks like a slightly run-down suburb. “This the place?” he asks, looking up at a brick building.

  I check the address on my phone. “Yep, that’s it.” I hand him the duffle bag over the front seat. “There’s going to be a desk for the Clark County Foster Care program in there. I need you to drop this bag on the desk— just say it’s an anonymous donation, and then come right back.”

  I can see him hesitate before taking the bag. “It’s just some clothes and books and stuff,” I say. I take a deep breath. “I was in a foster home for awhile, and I just want to give back. But I don’t want them to know it’s me.”

  He seems to relax a little as he gets out of the car and walks up the cement walkway. I wonder what he’d do if he knew that he had over a hundred thousand dollars in his hands. Probably make a break for it. I would.

  In less time than it takes for me to get worried, he’s back and climbing into the driver’s seat.

  “Did they say anything?”

  “The lady at the counter said that they don’t usually take donations at this office,” he says. “But I just left it on her desk and walked out.”

  “They’ll take this one,” I say, imagining the look on that lady’s face when she opens the zipper. “Thanks.” I hand him the $100 bill, one of the last few I have left.

  “No problem,” the guy says, shoving it in his pocket.

  I check the time. They’ve probably left for the theater by now, so I give him that address. As the cab pulls away from the curb, I sit back in the seat, feeling lighter than I have since that night at the café.

  Chapter 7

  Savannah

  “Swanky,” Dillon says, settling into the plush velvet seat next to me. His cheeks are red, and he looks a little out of breath, like he’s been rushing.

  “Where were you?” I’ve been looking all over for him this afternoon, and he hasn’t been answering his phone.

  “I had to go out. Take care of something.”