Unfiltered

by Payge Galvin

  “Like what?” They’ve been keeping us under lock and key since the auditions—I can’t imagine where the producers would let him go on his own.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He’s starting to get irritable, so I decide to let it go.

  I look around the small theater. Now that there’s only forty-five of us, plus various producers and show people, we don’t need to watch the first episode in the big theater where we rehearse so they rented out a small movie house for the screening. Plus it’s nice to get out of our hotel for a change. Two weeks in and I think I’ve actually left the hotel a total of five times.

  “This seat taken?” Sam asks, a bucket of popcorn in his hand.

  “Not as long as you share your popcorn with me,” I say as he sits down next to me. If Dillon’s going to be cranky, I can at least talk to Sam.

  I don’t miss Dillon’s body language, the crossed arms and the way he tilts his hips away from me as Sam takes the seat on my other side. He doesn’t like Sam. Or maybe he just doesn’t like Sam when he’s around me. That’s what I’d like to think. But he’s got little miss Mia and her stupid cowboy boots hanging off of him at every opportunity so he’s one to talk.

  The lights dim, and all of a sudden I’m crazy nervous. Out of all of the hours of filming they’ve done, what’s the network going to use? In a tiny movement, Dillon reaches over and grabs my hand. I can’t help it: I squeeze it right back. Because that’s what friends would do, right?

  “You okay?” I lean toward him.

  Dillon doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are full of emotion as he gives a quick nod, his profile lit against the huge screen in front of us. We watch the American Voice logo on the screen as they do flyover shots of the tens of thousands of people lining up at every audition stop. We see a few of the interviews they did as people waited in the lines, and they show a few of our fellow finalists’ audition footage. I poke Sam when they show him on the screen, eyes lit up and full of confidence as he sings in front of the judges, earning him a unanimous round of yeses and a ticket to the show.

  And then the announcer comes on the screen. “It’s not often that we get to see a miracle unfolding. Not often that two extremely talented people strive for the same thing and achieve success. It’s magic when that happens, and right here on this season of American Voice we have two such people.”

  “Oh my God,” I whisper as the slow music starts, and the screen switches to me and Dillon outside of the arena that morning blinking in the light from the camera. I can feel Dillon looking at me, but I can’t take my eyes off the screen as they tell our story, about coming from Arizona on the bus and arriving together. About how I didn’t want to audition, but Dillon convinced me and then us singing a few bars of “Hello.” They show a few seconds of my audition, and then the background music goes quiet and there’s Dillon on the screen in his brand-new black shirt in front of the judges.

  “So…Dillon,” Kurt says. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an electrician,” Dillon says. “But not a very good one.”

  They all give a small laugh. “What are you going to sing for us?” Jake Cutler asks him.

  “‘Beautiful Day’ by U2,” Dillon says with a smile, but I can see the nervous tension in his eyes.

  The camera zooms in close, so close that the screen is filled with his face. His beautiful face. The camera loves him—he looks even better than he does right now if that’s even possible. He closes his eyes, and I can see him counting the beats in his head as he waits for the intro. The judges look bored in those few seconds, Gavin staring at his phone as always and Natalie examining her nails. Everything changes the minute the first deep, rich notes come out of Dillon’s mouth and fill the room even though there’s no sound system, no microphone, just Dillon standing all alone on a blue piece of tape in front of their table. He makes contact with each of them; we can all see it in the way every judge is sitting up straight, unable to take their eyes off of him. Everyone’s heard the song before—I must have heard Dillon sing it dozens of times in practice. But nobody’s heard it like this, so deep and so clear as the notes soar up to the ceiling and beyond. When he’s done, Dillon bows his head and gives the judges a shy smile. Other people might think that’s an act, that he’s putting on a show about how humble he’s trying to be. But I know it’s the truth—Dillon really doesn’t know how good he is.

  There are tears in Natalie’s eyes as she speaks, her voice catching in her throat. “That was beautiful,” she says quietly.

  “Amazing,” Kurt agrees, at a loss for more words.

  Jake hasn’t stopped clapping and adds, “You look like a model, but you sound like a superstar.”

  All eyes turn to Gavin, but he doesn’t say anything right away. Just pushes his chair back from the table, stands up and starts clapping. “That,” he says with a dramatic pause. “Was one of the greatest, if not the greatest, audition in the history of American Voice. Welcome to Las Vegas young man.”

  Dillon busts into a grin that’s both relieved and elated. The next shot on the screen is of me crashing through the audition doors and into his arms, knocking him to the ground as we celebrate.

  “Keep your eyes on Dillon and Savannah this season,” the announcer says. “It’s not often you get to watch dreams come true.”

  “Way to go—America’s Sweethearts,” Sam says with a laugh.

  The theme music starts again and there’s a new montage of Elimination Week, but I can’t focus on the screen anymore.

  “How did you not tell me that?” I whisper to Dillon.

  “What?” he looks away from the screen to meet my eyes.

  “About what happened at your audition.” I can hear my voice rising, but I can’t help it. “You practically had Gavin bowing at your feet, but when I asked you, all you said was that they liked it and gave you a ticket.”

  Dillon looks confused. “Why are you so mad at me?”

  A few people start shushing us, so Dillon grabs my hand and leads me out the side door and into the empty lobby. I lean against the wall, my arms crossed in front of my chest.

  “What’s going on?” Dillon demands, standing right in front of me. “I didn’t have anything to do with that.”

  He thinks I’m mad about the whole America’s Sweetheart angle, but I’m not. “Your audition,” I say. “You had the best audition of anyone that day, probably anyone all year, but you don’t even bother to mention it?”

  Dillon runs one hand through his hair. “It was an audition. It went well. That’s what I told you, and now I’m in some kind of trouble for it?”

  I stare at him. He really doesn’t know. He honestly thinks that Gavin Holloway pushes his chair back and gives every singer a standing ovation. And then it hits me what I’m mad about. I’m not mad at Dillon, at least not really. I’m mad because he’s so good and so amazing and so clueless and for the past couple of years I’m the only one who’s known that. But now everyone in that audience knows it too. Heck, after the episode airs tonight the whole world is going to know it, and he’s not going to belong just to me anymore. I feel a hot tear roll down my cheek, but Dillon reaches up with his thumb to wipe it away before pulling me into his chest and wrapping his arms around me.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rumbling in my ear. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”

  I bury my face in his chest and inhale him, the strong, spicy scent that’s all his. “It’s okay.”

  I hear something clicking behind him, and we turn to see a cameraman and a tech standing there, listening to every word.

  “Let’s go,” Dillon says, putting one arm around my shoulder and leading me back into the dark theater.

  “Keep it rolling!” The tech calls, but we ignore them as we walk back through the door.

  I feel a heaviness in my heart that I’ve never felt before as we take our seats. It’s already started. Even if I wanted to, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  ***

  Ri
ck Figueroa paces in the front of the stage like he always does during rehearsals. I had no idea what an executive producer did for a show. Apparently they do everything, and even though we’re only a few weeks in, Rick already looks five years older than when we started. One of the techs in headphones walks up and points to something on a clipboard which Rick initials, and then he turns to the next crisis.

  “Okay!” he finally shouts to the rest of us who are fidgeting in our seats and checking our phones. “We’re down to forty-five of the best singers in this country. And this week, it’s our job to get that number down to thirty.” He motions for an assistant to join him on stage. “Because this is still the judges’ decision and the public voting won’t start until we’ve gotten it to the top ten, we’re not showing everything live—the show this week will only be snippets of some of the performances. And the fun part…” He looks at something on the clipboard. “…is that every single contestant is going to sing the same song.”

  The same song? He can’t possibly miss the unhappy murmurings from the seats below, but he holds one hand up before they can get too loud. “The song is ‘Someone to Watch Over Me,’ and it’s been sung by everyone from Sinatra to Amy Winehouse, so every single one of you is bound to find an arrangement that you can use to your advantage. Look on the internet, search your music collection, but you have until tomorrow to come up with a recorded arrangement to use on the show.” He claps his hands. “Class dismissed!”

  I glance at my phone—it’s eight o’clock. We’ve been here since eleven this morning with only a couple of breaks to grab a bite to eat. At home, I might be getting ready to go out with Alicia—maybe hit a bar or go see a band, but now I’m going to take the elevator up to my room, put on my pajamas, talk to my roommate Hailey a little bit and watch TV. I look around as I reach the lobby, but I don’t see Dillon anywhere—he must have already gone upstairs. I’m pushing through the crowd to the elevators when a hand grabs my arms and pulls me into a bank of slot machines.

  “What the…?” I start, annoyed, but then I see Dillon in front of me with a mischievous look on his face.

  “Shhh,” he says, pulling me deeper into the casino. The bells and shouts from the slot machines have almost become a backdrop to these past few weeks, along with the ever-present smell of stale cigarette smoke. He grabs me by the hand and leads me through the twisting, turning pathways of the machines that line almost every inch of the casino floor. “We’re making a break for it.”

  I stop and pull him toward me. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, we’re getting the fuck out of here,” he says. “Ditching the chaperones. Having a night on the town.”

  “You’re crazy,” I say, but I follow him through the casino and out some double glass doors on the other side. “What about Mia?” It seems like I haven’t seen him without her by his side in forever.

  Dillon’s eyes narrow. “No Mia. No Sam. Just you and me—like it used to be.”

  It’s a warm night, and as we stand there, I’m hit by the beauty of the desert breeze on my skin after so much time in overly-conditioned air. We’re at some kind of back entrance to the hotel, but there are still a couple of cabs lurking nearby. “Where are we going?”

  “Think of it as a research trip,” he says. His eyes are shining with excitement, and I know that even though he’s working toward the only goal he’s ever had, Dillon’s as stir-crazy as I am right now. He opens the back door of a cab for me and follows me inside.

  “Fremont Street,” he says to the driver and sits back in the seat. I can almost see the tension leaving his body as he smiles at me. “So are you having a good time?”

  “Yeah,” I say, watching the neon lights go by in the window. “Or I was until they catch us and toss us off the show.”

  “Taking an unscheduled field trip isn’t grounds for getting kicked off,” he says. “It might be grounds for a stern talking-to by Rick Figueroa, but they won’t kick America’s Sweethearts off the show.”

  “You sound pretty sure of that,” I say.

  “I am,” he says. “Plus Luke is covering for me, and I made a deal with Hailey to cover for you. We’ll be back before they miss us; don’t worry about it.”

  I look over at him. We haven’t had much of a chance to talk about everything since the audition show aired. “So are you okay with the whole America’s Sweethearts thing?”

  “I guess,” he says, glancing at me. “There are worse people to be in a fake relationship with.”

  “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  “Only the ones I’m fake in love with.”

  I can’t help the flash of pain I feel in my chest when he says that. So close to how I really do feel—that everything we do and everything we say is totally fake. I know they’re trying to make it look like we’re together, but the deeper we get into the show, the more I feel like I have to work hard just to keep things the way they are. And that I wish things were different.

  “This is it,” Dillon says, looking out over a street with a neon sky. He pays the driver and we get out, but I can’t do much more than look up at the show that’s going on above our heads.

  “This place is insane,” I say as we start walking down the street. There’s neon and flashing lights everywhere, with thousands of people crowding the street, spilling out of the stores and casinos and watching the street performers on every corner.

  “I knew you’d like it. Come on; the place I’m looking for is just up here.” Dillon grabs my hand, and even though I know it’s just so he won’t lose me in the crowd, I love the moment of connection with him, the feel of his skin on mine. He’s just wearing an old band t-shirt and jeans, but I can see every girl’s head turning as we pass so that they can get a better look at him.

  “This is it,” he says and leads me up a flight of stairs next to a huge casino. We push through a big wooden door, and it’s like we’re in another world—one made up of soft lighting and crushed velvet, red leather booths and sky-high hair.

  “Where are we?” I ask, taking in a scene that looks like it could be out of Vegas in the 1960s.

  “Only the best piano bar in town,” he says. “If Rick wants us to sing a torch song, then we’re going to learn from the people who do it best.”

  We slip into a booth that’s lit by a single candle in a glass jar and order a couple of drinks. There’s a piano player in the background, and I feel safe and enclosed here. When our drinks come, I grab mine and sit back in the booth, truly relaxed for the first time in weeks, and lean my head on Dillon’s shoulder. I can feel him pause for a second, and then he lifts his arm and pulls me tight to him so that I can feel his heart beating in his chest. If anyone could see us now, we really must look like America’s Sweethearts.

  After a few songs from the piano, a woman in a slinky red dress steps onto the tiny stage in the corner of the room, and there’s a smattering of applause. She nods to the piano player who launches into an old-fashioned ballad, and when she starts singing with a smoky, almost husky voice it feels like I’ve been transported back in time. Dillon sits up as soon as she starts singing, leaning one elbow on the table, and doesn’t take his eyes off her until she’s done. The clapping is enthusiastic by the time she finishes her last song, and I can see the admiration in his eyes as she walks off the stage.

  “Did you see that?” Dillon asks as he pays for more drinks. “Did you see how she had everyone in this room completely at her mercy by the third bar? That’s power and control. I wish I could sing like that.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “You have the entire country in your hands.”

  “Not true,” he says.

  “Totally true,” I say. “They love you.”

  Dillon looks at me from under the dark fringe of his lashes. “Not everyone does.”

  I swallow hard as my heart skips a beat. “You’d be surprised.”

  He reaches over and brushes some of the hair off my face, and it feels like I c
an hardly breathe. The moment shifts between us and the air feels thick and heavy with anticipation. I can’t help it, I lean into him, meet him halfway and feel his lips brush mine, gently at first, but then with more force as Dillon pulls me toward him.

  Kissing Dillon is as great as I thought it would be, better than I imagined it could be. It feels like we belong together as his lips part, and I feel the tip of his tongue darting against mine. I inhale sharply as I realize what I’m doing, what I’m going to give up if I let this follow its natural course and fall into bed with Dillon. I’ll be just another one of the girls who roll around in his sheets for a night and that he doesn’t want to see in the daytime. I can’t. I can’t do it.

  “I can’t,” I say, pulling back and putting one hand on his chest.

  Dillon looks at me with his dark eyes flashing. “Why not? I thought…”

  “I just can’t.” I grab my bag and pull myself up out of the booth. I don’t even know if Dillon’s following me. All I can feel is the tingle of his lips on mine, the sensations overwhelming me until I’m not even sure where I am under the neon canopy above the street.

  “This way,” Dillon says, touching my arm briefly, but not holding on. His voice sounds flat…angry almost.

  There’s a line of cabs at the end of the street and just as we reach one I see a flashbulb go off. And then another as someone shouts, “Dillon! Savannah! Over here!”

  “Get in,” Dillon says, pushing me in front of him as the crowd begins to realize who we are. He slams the door as more flashbulbs go off and gives the cabbie the name of our hotel. We sit in the back seat, miles away from each other, not saying a word as the cab leaves Fremont Street behind and heads for the strip.

  Chapter 8

  Dillon

  “I don’t need someone to tell me what pants to put on,” I say as the stylist piles more jeans into my outstretched arms.

  Jasmine looks around the stack of clothes in her hands. “Um, sweetie, I disagree. Your mom’s not here to dress you so I’ve been hired to take on the job.”