Unfiltered

by Payge Galvin

  “Oh my God,” Hailey says. “They’re not seriously doing karaoke?”

  I sip my water. All of the show people are on the lookout for too much drinking—bad for our image. “In a room full of competitive singers? Of course they are.”

  Everyone has their go-to song, and after a few good performances from some of the singers, I hear some people chanting Dillon’s name and look over to see him standing by the bar shaking his head while some of the guys try to drag him toward the little stage. About halfway there, he gives up and hops on the stage, looking genuinely embarrassed.

  A few people shout song titles up at him, but he looks down at the monitor and chooses one that we can’t see. By the time the first few notes come through the amplifier, I feel a shiver go up my spine and walk a few feet toward the stage. He wouldn’t dare. I’ve heard this song a million times in my headphones, fallen asleep to it so many times I lost count, but I’ve never heard it sung with such deep, rich tones as Dillon does when he begins.

  “What is this?” Hailey says beside me.

  “Truly, Madly, Deeply,” I say, unable to take my eyes off of him. “By Savage Garden. It’s my favorite.”

  “God, that’s so romantic,” Hailey says.

  “I know. Damn him.”

  Dillon finds me in the crowd and locks eyes for the chorus, which always gets me teary in the best of circumstances. Everyone up front turns to look at me as I struggle to keep my self-control. Having Dillon sing it to me is better than I could have ever imagined. I only wish he meant it.

  The song finishes and Dillon jumps down off the stage to deafening applause and finds me in the middle of the room. Without a word, he pulls me to him, leans down and kisses me so hard it takes my breath away —raising a new round of whistles and clapping from everyone around us. It’s one of the most romantic moments I’ve ever seen.

  If only it wasn’t all a lie.

  ***

  “You ready?” Sam asks, squeezing my hand in support.

  I look up and smile at him, knowing full well that the cameras backstage are capturing our every glance. “I will be.”

  Dillon and Mia are halfway through their song, a love ballad called “Up” by James Morrison. I try to keep the smile on my face as they stroke each other’s arms and look into each other’s eyes as they sing. I’d almost believe they were in love if I didn’t know better—apparently Dillon is as good of an actor as he is a singer. As if I didn’t know that already. They finish to a roar of applause, and I know that Dillon chose that song. It’s exactly right for the two of them; sweet but powerful and for two minutes onstage they made you believe that they could make it together. That should be me up on stage with him, not her.

  My song with Sam is raw, and even with the lyric changes that the network demanded, completely sexual. Too late to turn back now.

  “Let’s do this,” Sam says, the smile already plastered on his face as we walk out onto the stage.

  The choreographers helped us work out a slow dance routine to the song, and as the first bars of “Nobody” start, I press my hips against Sam as he starts to sing the lyrics. By the time we get to the end, the audience is in a frenzy of appreciative catcalls and whistles.

  “A new way of seeing America’s Sweetheart,” Sam says, lifting our arms together as we take a bow.

  There’s no judges commentary tonight, just a short huddle as all thirty of the remaining contestants gather back on stage. Sam is still holding on to my hand when Dillon and Mia walk out and stop about halfway down the stage. I can’t miss the look on Dillon’s face as he sees us, and I know he watched the whole thing either from the green room or in his favorite spot in the wings. Good. I want him to feel a little bit of what I feel every day.

  There are nervous glances all around our half circle as the judges make their final decisions. Twenty of us will be going home tonight. Gavin stands up and makes a short speech about how proud we all should be to have gotten this far and how none of us are losers, but every single person in this building knows that isn’t true. There’s only one winner of American Voice, and even though I didn’t know I wanted this just a few short weeks ago, winning American Voice is the only thing I can think about right now, besides Dillon Not to mention the only one of the two that might actually happen.

  There’s a montage of the first few weeks of the show on a huge screen behind us—from the first flyover shots at every audition to the duets we performed tonight. As it ends, Gavin stands up with his clipboard, and a hush falls over the theater as he begins to read the names of the ten who’ll be staying. If I don’t hear my name, I’ll be going home with everyone else.

  The blood is rushing so loudly in my ears I can barely hear what he’s saying. Two go by, then three and I hear Luke’s name called, followed by Sam’s. I reach over and give him a big hug, my heartbeat so loud I’m amazed they can’t hear it on the mic. Mia reacts with a squeal and jumps on Dillon when her name is called, and I know my chances of staying are getting shorter. We’re down to only four spots left when I hear my name and my knees almost give way with relief. I get to stay.

  Nine spots are filled when Gavin takes a dramatic pause and then calls Dillon’s name to thundering applause by the audience. He’s the favorite. He’s been the favorite since the first night the show aired, but I can’t be mad about it because he deserves the win probably more than anyone in this place.

  I turn to my right as the theme music plays and see the stricken look on Hailey’s face as I realize her name wasn’t called. I wrap her in my arms as she practically sinks to the floor, tears running down her face as I try to say anything to make this okay. But we both know it’s not okay.

  I feel Dillon’s eyes on me and find him in the crowd. His face is smiling, but there’s a wariness in his eyes that I haven’t seen before. I smile at him, and he has to grin back, because whatever’s going on between us, the important thing is that we’re still here. Amid the tears and cheers in the chaos onstage, America’s Sweethearts are still standing.

  At least for one more week.

  Chapter 10

  Dillon

  I get to the chorus, and I can feel the audience with me, hands swaying in the theater as I make that last push toward the end of “You Were Always On My Mind.” I’m glad the producers let me play guitar on this song—I feel so much more confident when I have it in my hand. I can tell by the audience reaction that it was a good choice, and as the band winds up the song, I point to them and clap my hands. Now that we’re using live music for the show, it can’t hurt to give the band some props in front of the live TV audience.

  I pull out my ear monitor as I walk to the mark—it’s good for singing with the band in a theater this size, but otherwise it drives me crazy. I’m not sure if all of these little changes now that we’re into the top ten are designed to help us or fuck us up.

  Gavin is already clapping when I step on the mark in front of the judges table. “Great rendition,” he says with a smile. “Willie Nelson would be proud.”

  “Thank you,” I say into the handheld mic.

  “Totally not what I expected when they said it was ‘80’s night’,” Jake says. “But it was a choice that made you stand out tonight. Nicely done.”

  I nod my thanks to him and turn toward Kurt. “I like that you’re thinking outside the box,” he says. “And that you didn’t just mimic Willie, but turned it around and put your own spin on it.” He points to the guitar. “Great playing too.”

  “Thanks,” I say as the audience cheers their appreciation.

  There’s a moment of silence when we get to Natalie. What I used to take for granted is no longer a sure thing with her. “I don’t know,” she says thoughtfully. “It was a little too slow for me. You might want to pick something uptempo next time, bring me along with you when you sing.” There’s some audience reaction so she turns around to look at them. “I didn’t say it was bad!” She smiles. “I just think you could do better.”

  “Thank you,
” I say again, handing the guitar to a tech and walking back to stage left where the chairs for the contestants are set apart. I always thought Natalie was with me on this, but these last few weeks, she’s been the one with the less-than-stellar comments. I can only hope that not too many people out there agree.

  We cut to commercial just as I sit down, and I see the judges put their heads together. They look like they’re talking about our performances, but I’d bet they’re discussing dinner plans. Doesn’t matter. The only things that matter now are the phone number that came onscreen when each of us was singing and how many viewers call to support each of us.

  Nobody is saying a word onstage, and I know that we’re all in our own private hell as we wait to hear who’s getting kicked off from last week’s show. The theme was Motown and I think I did okay with “I Want You Back” by the Jackson 5, but you never know. I look around at the other nine singers and try to predict who it will be. I’m not trying to be biased or anything, but there’s no way Luke is going—he did an amazing version of “Let’s Get it On” by Marvin Gaye that would have anyone, gay or straight, falling at his feet. Savannah’s looking directly out at the audience, and I can tell she’s crazy nervous. Even though things have gotten a little weird between us, I can’t imagine she’s going to be out of here. Her singing “Baby Love” by the Supremes has to go on the highlight reel when this whole thing is done.

  I can’t think any more because the theme music starts playing, and the cameras go live.

  I’m only half listening as Natalie gives us the same shit about how none of us are losers, about how we’ll get to come back for the reunion show, blah, blah, blah. I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin if she doesn’t hurry up and tell us who’s going. Finally, there’s a hush in the theater as Gavin stands up to read the names of the two who are leaving, and I think I actually shout ‘what?’ when Luke’s name is one of the two.

  He and Angie walk calmly to center stage, but I know he must be raging inside right now. There’s no way he deserved to be voted off! No way in hell. He smiles and talks with the judges and then somehow sings his farewell song as the montage of his performances so far play out on the screen.

  As soon as the camera’s turn off, I’m on him. “There’s no fucking way this is right,” I say.

  Luke looks calmer than I’ve ever seen him. “It’s cool. The people decided.” He looks around the theater, and I can’t miss the shine in his eyes. “It was great to get this far.” Luke punches me in the arm. “Everyone knows you’re going to win anyway. I just wish I was going to be here to see it.”

  “Shut up,” I tell him. “I’m going to protest.” I lean in closer. “There are plenty of other people here who deserved to go, who can’t sing half as well as you can.”

  “Don’t do anything,” he says. “I mean it. I’m going to go upstairs and move out of our room, and then I’ll see you on the reunion show.”

  I stop. “What do you mean move out?”

  Luke shrugs. “Once you get kicked off, they move you to a different hotel. So that you’re not a distraction to the people who are still on. It’s cool.”

  For the first time, I don’t want to be alone. I’m going to miss our late night talks, his advice. This is crazy.

  “It’s done,” Luke says, as if he can hear my thoughts. “We all knew it had to end someday. Today’s that day.” More people come up to give Luke a hug, so I lose him to the crowd.

  I’m heading off stage when one of the production assistants walks up to me. “Ms. Greer would like to see you in her dressing room.”

  Why in the world would Natalie want to see me? She’s made it clear she’s not exactly a fan. “Did she say what she wants?”

  “Nope,” she says. “Just that you should go as soon as possible.”

  I shrug. Almost anything’s better than going back to my room to watch Luke pack. It takes a few minutes to find her office in the labyrinth of sets and costumes that litter the huge backstage area, but soon I’m knocking on her door.

  “Dillon,” she says, answering the door in a robe. Not all that unusual I guess—theater people always want to get out of their stage clothes. “Good to see you. Come in.”

  “Thanks,” I say, closing the door behind me.

  “Sit down. Get comfortable,” she says, walking over to a bar set up in the corner. “Can I get you something?”

  “I’d kill for a beer,” I say, still wondering what the hell this is all about.

  Natalie walks over to a mini fridge and bends over, revealing a lot of thigh under her short robe. I’m starting to understand what’s going on. Might as well play it out.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have any beer. Whisky?”

  “That’ll work,” I say. “With ice.”

  “Coming right up.”

  I watch her as she pours the drink, her movements slow and catlike. I’m not sure what she wants from me, but I’m totally content to let her make the first move.

  “Here you go,” she says, handing me the drink and leaning against the desk in front of me. The slit of her robe opens, and I can see up her thigh—far enough to know that she’s not wearing anything under there. “You’re probably wondering why I asked to see you.”

  “A little bit,” I say, crossing one leg over my knee and taking a big sip of the drink. I’m trying to be cool, but my body is betraying me. Some of the contestants have made noises about Natalie hitting on guys in previous seasons, but I remember seeing her wedding pictures on the cover of one of those magazines that are always by the checkout lines in the supermarket. Not to mention the gigantic rock on her ring finger.

  “I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong impression during the last few tapings.”

  “If there’s another impression other than ‘you suck’, then yeah, maybe I’m misunderstanding you.”

  Natalie throws her blond head back and laughs. She reaches forward and puts one hand on my knee. “You don’t suck. Far from it. But you’ve become such a favorite that I have to plant some doubt in the minds of our viewers. Because if they think you’re a lock, then they won’t vote.”

  Her hand moves higher, and she squeezes my thigh, which gets a reaction out of my cock whether I want it to or not. I mean, this is Natalie fucking Greer we’re talking about, with her dainty hand working its way competently up my very own thigh.

  “And if they don’t vote,” she continues. “You don’t win.”

  I clear my throat, not trusting my voice at this moment. “Then I guess I should say thank you.”

  Natalie tilts her head to look at me thoughtfully. “I guess you should. And I have a few ideas on how you could go about doing that.” Without a lot of movement on her part, the robe slips off her shoulders revealing two very full, very fake breasts. They’re divine.

  I bite my lip in order to concentrate and force my eyes back to her face. “Look, uh…I really appreciate all of your help. But I don’t want to win this way.”

  She laughs. “Oh Dillon, don’t you get it? I’ve never heard a voice like yours—you were born for this show. You’re going to win no matter what.” Natalie reaches down and parts the bottom of the robe so that I get a glimpse of her pussy. Which has exactly the effect she wants on me. “I just thought we could have a little fun with the ‘no matter what’.”

  I’m unsuccessfully trying to hide my massive arousal when she slides into my lap and straddles me. The knowledge that only my jeans are between me and a naked Natalie Greer is almost enough to send me over the edge. I shiver as she runs her fingernails up my torso, pulling my shirt along with it and tossing it on the floor before leaning back to admire what she sees.

  “God I wish they’d let you do the show shirtless,” she says, running a finger down my chest and tucking it into the front of my pants.

  I’m trying to think of something clever to say, but my mind is a total blank.

  “You can’t be comfortable in these tight jeans,” she says, putting her hand on the bulge in my pants
and smiling as she traces the outline of my cock with her finger. She bends down and licks one of my nipples until it’s hard as a rock before leaning back on my knees. “Your hands are free to roam you know.”

  I can feel myself heading for a bad decision without a lot of power to stop it. Sleeping with one of the judges has got to be against the rules somewhere, but I’ve got a naked superstar in my lap, undoing my belt and who the fuck has the power to say no to that? “Yeah, it’s just that…”

  She unfastens the button on the top of my jeans and glances at me. “You’re not worried about Savannah are you? Because I know that whole ‘America’s Sweethearts’ thing is just something the network came up with.”

  “Mmm hmm,” I say. I don’t want to think about Savannah right now. We’re not a couple. She’s made that clear. I’m calling on all of the strength I have to push Natalie away, when the door to her dressing room opens and she leaps off my lap, grabbing her robe as her assistant takes in the scene.

  “Get out!” she yells. The assistant stands there red-faced for a split second, and then slams the door behind her. “Holy shit.” Natalie turns to me. “You didn’t lock the door?”

  I button my jeans as I watch her put on her robe. “No. I didn’t know—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Natalie starts pacing in her bare feet. “I’ll take care of her.” She walks over to me and looks me over as I shrug my shirt back on as the mood has definitely been killed. “Well, that’s a shame. Maybe another time.”

  “Sure,” I say, still blown away by what almost happened here. With what’s going to fuel my fantasies for the next several weeks at least. I may only be pretending to be one of America’s Sweethearts, but I’m not a fucking saint.

  I’m fastening my belt when Natalie grabs my arm and runs her tongue along the outside of my ear, causing my entire body to shake. “Promise me,” she whispers. “Promise me that we’ll keep this to ourselves.”

  “Of course.” I’m not sure which of us has more to lose. Her career would take a hit, not to mention that new husband of hers wouldn’t be so happy if something like this went public. On the other hand, I’d probably get kicked off the show. I wonder what it’s going to take to shut her assistant up, but that’s really none of my business.