by Hanna Dare
CONTENTS
Copyright
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Epilogue
Author page
Author page
Copyright © 2016 Hanna Dare
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the expression written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-0-9949592-7-0
Cover Design by James, GoOnWrite.com
Editing by Larks & Katydids
The Man Who Told the World
Sing Out Book 3
Hanna Dare
CHAPTER ONE
Conor hadn’t meant to trip Emerson onstage, but he wasn’t entirely sorry it happened.
They were in the final rehearsals for the group number that was to kick off the Singing Sensation live show tomorrow. It was supposed to be a big deal because it was their first performance together as the official Top Ten—though Conor wasn’t sure how different it was going to be from a few weeks ago when they’d performed together as the Top Thirteen or Fourteen, but he’d learned not to argue with everyone’s enthusiasm for numbers.
The song they were performing was Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats’ “Son of a Bitch,” except the show’s version was “Son of a Gun.” Conor wasn’t the only one to roll his eyes at that. Still, it was a rollicking, fun song—about alcoholism, Conor pointed out, but only to Jesse—and Toby had been given the lead. What was a big deal, for Conor and everyone else, was that this marked Toby’s return to performing on the show after being in the hospital.
His illness hadn’t dimmed his enthusiasm—or maybe it was that Toby was finally free of the pain of his ulcers after weeks—but he was all over the stage. Toby was a big guy and he made himself an even bigger presence when he performed, totally unafraid to be goofy or over-the-top, shaking his wild, dark hair and dancing with an uncoordinated looseness. He made it all work by being the most musical of all the contestants and by unabashedly loving everything he sang, no matter what. Conor had been so caught up in watching Toby that he’d forgotten the dance steps he was supposed to be doing in the background, so that he stepped forward rather than back, and straight into Emerson.
To be fair, Emerson was also working very hard to always be on camera, even during rehearsals, and he’d gradually been edging further and further over until he was practically in front of Conor.
“Sorry,” Conor said as Emerson stumbled, reaching out a hand to steady him.
Emerson shook him off. “You did that on purpose!” Emerson was a couple inches taller than Conor and he used that to glare down at him with sharp and angry eyes.
There was an aggrieved call of “Cut!” from the director, and all around them, activity stopped. Emerson crossed his arms and moved closer to Conor, getting in his face. He may have been taller, but they were both skinny and Conor was not going to be intimidated.
“Emerson, calm down. If I was seriously trying to sabotage you, I’d go after your belt buckle. I know it’s the source of all your strength.”
Emerson, who played up his country-music-loving image by favoring big belt buckles and lots of denim, didn’t dim his glare. “Yeah, joke all you want, y’all’ll be yucking it up when you get sent home tomorrow night. That’ll be hilarious.”
Conor had an urge to yell back that Emerson’s face was hilarious, but this was all getting ridiculously schoolyard. Fortunately, Jesse came over at that moment, inserting himself smoothly between Conor and Emerson.
“C’mon, Em,” he said, with his easy smile. “Conor apologized. Rehearsals are for making mistakes.”
“Not this rehearsal.” The tiny hurricane that was Crystal, the first assistant director, butted in. She glared at all of them. “This rehearsal is to prove that you won’t make any mistakes on live television. Now we’re going to have to do at least two more run-throughs to get you back to that level of trust.”
There was a collective groan from all ten of the contestants, and more distantly, from the stage band behind them.
“And try to look like you’re having fun,” Crystal added. “Or I’ll make your lives even more miserable than they already are.”
She stalked off, talking into her headset, and Matty, the third assistant director, whose main job seemed to be following Crystal and apologizing for her, offered them all a weak smile. “She’s such a kidder! But big smiles, guys, seriously. Please.”
They all shuffled back into their positions, Emerson shooting Conor a final scowl before moving away.
Conor shrugged to Jesse. “So much for us being BFFs now.”
Emerson had dramatically, and impressively, stood up for Conor when Kai, one of the show’s celebrity judges, had strongly suggested that Conor keep sleeping with him to avoid being cut from the show. That Conor had slept with Kai at all was something Conor mostly blamed himself for, but Jesse kept reminding him that Kai—despite being a disturbingly sexy rock star—was more than twice Conor’s age and a judge on the show, so the blame was entirely on him. Conor was starting to realize that being eighteen and a half didn’t give you a magic pass to adult wisdom. Also that adults probably didn’t add the half onto their ages.
Jesse patted Conor on the shoulder. “Being a stand up guy doesn’t mean Em’s not still a jerk.” Jesse narrowed his eyes, surveying the contestants. “I expect we’re going to see a lot more tempers going off these days.”
Jesse was very competitive, and he had a plan for everything—how to win Singing Sensation, how to make it as an R&B singer, how to accessorize with cool hats—and Conor knew that when he looked at these people, many of whom he called friends, he was also measuring their strengths and weaknesses. Right now, Jesse was mainly focused on Jean-Michel, the only other R&B guy remaining. The other guys—Toby with his goofy, multi-genre style; Emerson, doing country music; Zane and Conor who were both described by Jesse as “sensitive boys with guitars”—weren’t Jesse’s main competition. Yet.
As for the girls, Jesse, who was a serious student of past Singing Sensation seasons, didn’t like their chances. Plenty of women had won the show, but more than two making it into the Top Five was rare, because the main TV audience for the show was teen girls. And both Jesse and the show’s producers believed in playing to the audience.
Conor didn’t like the competition aspect of all this. He wanted to spend his life making music, and all this artificial drama rubbed him the wrong way. Also, he’d never won anything in his life. But he figured the longer he stayed on the show, the better his chances of getting to realize his hopes for the rest of his life would be. He could get a recording contract or an offer to join a band, or… something. He knew he didn’t want to go back to his small town, or to high school. He’d spent a large part of his life being invisible; now that he’d been here, onstage in front of everyone, he didn’t know how well he’d do going back to hiding himself away.
Jesse patted his shoulder again, more of a swat this time. He knew Conor’s tendency to get distracted by his own thoughts. Just before the music started up again, Jesse leaned in to whisper, “Get your head in the game, C
onor. Things are heating up.”
Conor felt like he was burning up. Jesse was holding himself above Conor on the bed, the only point of contact their mouths. But the slow, deep kisses were more than enough.
Who was he kidding? It was nowhere near enough, not when Jesse was shirtless and his smooth, brown skin was gleaming in the dim light of the single bedside lamp. Conor let his hands run up Jesse’s arms and onto the hard planes of his chest.
It hadn’t been very long since Jesse had first kissed him, and had revealed that not only was he not entirely straight, but that he liked Conor, in a way that definitely went beyond friends and roommates.
Things since that first kiss hadn’t gone exactly as Conor might have imagined—in his more private moments. While there were make out sessions every night in their room, Jesse didn’t seem to want to progress beyond kissing, and when Conor’s hands moved lower than his waistline, he usually called a halt. Just the other night, in the midst of a dizzying series of kisses, Conor had cupped the front of Jesse’s pants and Jesse had actually jumped back from his touch, nearly falling off the bed completely. Conor had apologized and Jesse had apologized, and they’d both quickly moved to their respective and separate beds, Conor left feeling confused and horny.
Jesse, who previously had had no problem walking around their shared room in his underwear, or less, had taken to wearing jeans up until he actually went to sleep. His excuses to Conor were usually about being tired, or worried about rehearsals the next day—but Jesse was only three years older than Conor; there was no way he was that tired. And even through the jeans, Conor could tell that Jesse’s mind wasn’t entirely on the show.
Conor might have worried that he was pressuring Jesse, but Jesse was almost always the one to start things. Tonight in fact, he’d pulled Conor onto his bed as soon as Conor had come back from the bathroom, with Conor dressed in his not exactly seductive sleepwear of sweatpants and an old Beatles t-shirt.
Well, there was nothing wrong with kissing, and Conor also thought that it wouldn’t be wrong if he impressed Jesse enough with his kissing that Jesse would want to go even further. Conor had kissed only two people before Jesse, but one of those had been a rock star. He set about to recreate as best he could the sweet choreography of tongue and lips that Kai had used so effectively. At the same time, Conor’s thumb circled one of Jesse’s nipples.
Jesse groaned into his mouth and his whole body seemed to melt into Conor’s. He lowered himself down and Conor could feel his weight pressing against him, the long length of Jesse’s body, his heat matching Conor’s own. Conor reached out, spreading arms and legs to wrap around Jesse and bring him in even closer, hips arching up—
Jesse pulled away, flopping back to lie beside Conor, not touching despite the narrowness of the bed. They were both breathing raggedly.
Jesse finally spoke, clearing his throat before managing a normal tone, “We should probably get some sleep. Show night tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Conor lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He took a breath and then raised himself up to lean on an elbow and look at Jesse. “Did you want to, um, finish? I mean I don’t have to touch you… but you could, you know.” He gestured vaguely at Jesse’s jeans.
Jesse looked away, seeming embarrassed. “Nah, I’m good.” He added quickly, “But you can. I mean, go ahead.”
“It’s okay.” It all felt weird and formal. “I guess I’ll go to my bed.”
Conor got up carefully and moved across the narrow gap between the two single beds. Jesse reached across, but only to turn off the light.
“Good night, Conor.”
Maybe taking things slow was a good idea. It wasn’t like Conor had a lot of experience with all this, but what experience he did have involved the sex happening almost immediately, with the relationship part of things just getting more and more messed up. It certainly hadn’t gone very well with Kai. And with Derek….
Conor abruptly rolled over on his side, facing away from Jesse.
“You okay?” Jesse asked from his bed.
“Yeah,” Conor said, not trusting his voice with saying much more. “G’night.”
Conor lay there for a long time without sleeping, his eyes burning as he gazed out into the dark.
CHAPTER TWO
Despite Emerson’s spiteful predictions, Conor was not cut on performance night. Nor did he trip anyone or otherwise mess up during the group number. At the end of the night, Oksana, a tall, deep-voiced girl from Long Island, was sent home. George, the sourest of the judges, had been complaining for weeks about her breathy and overly dramatic style, and he was finally able to convince the other two judges to go along with him.
“She’s a musical theater type,” Jesse whispered in Conor’s ear as they watched Oksana perform her farewell song. “Getting out now may actually be a good thing for her, career-wise.”
Conor kept his face attentive for the ever-watching cameras, even as he whispered out of the side of his mouth, “Are you reassuring me or yourself?”
“Myself, but you might as well get something out of it.”
“Thanks.” And then they were all moving to the center of the stage to hug the crying Oksana as her song finished.
The next day, the nine remaining Singing Sensation contestants were taken to a media event at an L.A. radio station. They were going to be on The Moz and Raj Show which was broadcast on satellite radio as well as local airwaves, so the producers made it seem like a big deal. Of course, Conor had learned that the producers would expect them to act like it was a big deal if the Singing Sensation house got a new brand of cereal in the kitchen.
The radio studio was big, with long, black leather couches for the guests to sit on, and headphones for all of them. It was being filmed not just by their regular Singing Sensation cameras—people that Conor actually felt comfortable around by now—but the radio station had video for their website, so there were more than a few black-clad crew members prowling around them, pointing cameras at their faces.
The hosts, Moz and Raj, seemed completely at ease, coming into the studio and sitting down in front of the microphones only a couple minutes before going to air without any sense of haste. Raj was stout, with a colorful pressed shirt straining over his stomach, and thick, dark hair styled into a stiff wave, while Moz was rangy and lean. There was something weird about his hairline—plugs, Conor assumed—and he had one of those glowingly fake tans that seemed so popular in L.A. They didn’t greet the contestants, just the Singing Sensation producers who had accompanied them, chatting amiably until the red on-air light was turned on.
“Look at them,” Moz said after they’d all been introduced on-air, “like lambs to the slaughter.” A sudden sound effect of sheep baaing came through the studio’s speakers. “The last ten standing. Or sitting.”
“Nine,” Raj said. “That tall chick got cut last night.”
“The one with the rack? Too bad. We’ve got some slim pickings here in studio today.”
Beside Conor, Darleen let out an annoyed huff of breath.
Moz turned to the nearest of the girls, Madison. “So, when they do those makeovers on you, do they get into underwear choices? Maybe bring out a push-up bra selection?”
Madison, who was sixteen and sometimes still got flustered talking to adults under normal circumstances, only managed to giggle nervously in reply. Conor bristled, but before he could say anything, Emerson leaned forward to one of the microphones.
“I just want all the ladies out there to know that on the boxers or briefs question, I’m strictly a briefs man.”
There was some laughter and then the DJs made fun of country music in general and Emerson specifically. They went around the room, ribbing the different contestants, usually with fart sound effects as punctuation. Conor could feel a tension headache building from the amount of jaw clenching he was doing.
“So what about the hat?” Raj asked Jesse. “I have to ask, man, what is under there? Unfortunate Jheri cu
rl experiment? The tragedy of male pattern baldness?”
“If he’s a baldy, the big man over here has hair to spare,” Moz said gesturing to Toby. “Why not help a brother out?”
Jesse took off his hat to shouts and whistles from all, revealing his closely-trimmed black curls. He smiled slyly and spoke into the mike, “For the ladies listening but not watching, the hair’s all there and waiting for you. I just keep it under wraps as a little treat for when we’re alone.”
There were more hoots. Conor tried not to roll his eyes; he could understand Jesse playing a part, but did the part have to be so ridiculous?
Moz finally turned his sneer over to Conor and Zane at the end of one of the couches. The two of them had similar taste in music and singing styles, and, unfortunately, today they’d ended up dressing alike, in jeans, white t-shirts, and vests. “I guess you two would appeal to the girl demographic that finds Justin Bieber too sexually threatening now. Teen girls are probably drawing pictures of them with heart eyes.” He turned to his sidekick. “What do you think, Raj? Aren’t they wispy and adorable?”
“If they have the dance moves they could start a two-man boy band.”
“That sounds like a sex position you might get to try out in prison.”
Emerson put in helpfully, “Conor can’t dance. At all.”
Conor had enough. Ignoring Emerson, he raised his chin towards the DJs. “Teen girls are responsible for making just about every big musical style popular. Rock ’n’ roll? The British Invasion? They’re usually there first and the old guys show up a decade later and act like they get to decide what’s cool. People should pay attention to teen girls, unless they want to, you know, have their relevance recede.” He stared pointedly at Moz’s hairline.
Moz grinned at Raj. “Redheads, man.”
“You don’t have to tell me. Remember my ex-wife?”
