by Lacey Black
“So you want us to flirt?” Beau asks.
“Yes,” she confirms.
“It’s all about giving the viewers what they want, and right now…they want more of you two.” Six sets of eyes bounce between Beau and me. “We want you to tease the audience. Leave them speculating. Make them want to come back for more. That’s where tonight’s special performance comes into play,” he says with a big wolfish grin.
Oh, shit. I look around the room at the brightly smiling faces and twinkling eyes. Something tells me I’m not going to like this. Not one bit.
*****
“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Rising Star. Tonight, we have an exciting night of performances lined up for you as each contestant performs for your votes. All twelve contestants are ready to go this week, but at the end of the night tomorrow, only ten will stay. That’s right, this week the two contestants with the lowest number of votes will be sent home, missing out of their chance to be the next Rising Star. Are you ready?” Becker asks the audience who is on their feet, cheering.
“Tonight, we’re going to kick off our show with a special performance. Social media has been abuzz lately with speculation about a certain contestant and her coach. To set the record straight, let’s hear it for Layne Carter,” Becker says as the spotlight shines brightly, illuminating my position on the far corner of the stage.
After this morning’s meeting, I wasn’t a fan of their master plan. In fact, I hated it. I don’t want to be treated like a chess piece, strategically moved from place to place for the benefit of the network, for the show. But, here I am. About to perform a song that can only be labeled as “a cock tease.” There is no way that this song performance will set the record straight. In fact, it’ll probably only confirm everyone’s assumptions. Right or wrong, they’re going to be led to believe one thing after this song.
Beau met me in the hallway after the meeting. His attitude towards the entire situation appeared too casual. It was like he was happy to be a performing monkey for these yahoos. But then he looked at me and said, “Now, I get to touch ya and I don’t have to worry about what they’ll say.”
Everything inside of me melted at that moment. Being able to touch Beau or stare at him without worry of who’s watching is the only silver lining to this cluster-fuck idea. But the powers that be have spoken. The idea was planted and now they’re all sitting back, watching it grow like mold on cheese, ready to reap the benefits. Ratings gold.
The familiar beat to the song Beau and I just worked on all day starts up. I look out and see him sitting at the coach’s table in front of the stage. I bring the mic up to my mouth and start to sing the words that I reviewed in a crash course earlier.
“People are talkin’, talkin’ ‘bout people. I hear them whisper, you won’t believe it. They think we’re lovers, kept under cover. I just ignore it, but they keep sayin’ we laugh just a little too loud…”
I sing the rest of my part as the audience feeds off my every word, whispering to each other as if confirmation was just declared on live television. And I don’t blame them. If I were watching from the outside looking in, I’d believe that I was confirming a secret love affair to the world. Hell, isn’t that what the song practically screams? And it doesn’t help when Beau grabs the microphone he was secretly hiding underneath the table and stands up.
“I feel so foolish, I’ve never noticed. You’d act so nervous, could you be fallin’ for me? It took a rumor to make me wonder. Now I’m convinced, I’m goin’ under. Thinkin’ ‘bout you every day…”
Beau walks up the stairs at the end of the stage, joining me front and center. We sing Bonnie Raitt’s, “Something To Talk About” together for the entire world to see. I didn’t even get the opportunity to call my mom before tonight’s performance. A quick text message telling her that I had so much to talk about was all I could get in. I’m sure she’s practically foaming at the mouth to get to me after this little publicity stunt. Hell, she’s probably already picking out wedding reception venues.
The thing that no one will know is that even though this is for the good of publicity, the looks we steal are real. Singing with Beau is as natural as the conversations we’ve shared and the kisses we’ve stolen.
“Layne, Beau. We’ve heard the rumors about something going on between you two. What can you tell us about that performance? What does it mean?” Becker asks when the song is complete.
“Nothin’ to tell. I’m Layne’s coach and her friend. Everyone’s gonna think what everyone’s gonna think, ya know?” Beau remains cool and collected like always.
“Layne, anything to add?” Becker asks and holds the mic in front of my face.
“Just that I’m here to compete like everyone else and rumors aren’t going to keep me from this competition,” I add.
“Well, I didn’t hear a confirmation or a denial so you decide, America,” Becker says. He’s basically holding his big wooden spoon, stirring the pot of drama that has become my life. Good times.
*****
“Layne, you’re up next,” Gabby says from the doorway of the green room. Corie was first up tonight and did an excellent rendition of Colbie Calliat’s “Try.” I hope it’s enough to keep her here another week. Just the thought of dealing with these catty people without my friend and ally is terrifying.
With the exception of Ben and sometimes Maxwell, no one really speaks to me. Yet I hear plenty from them as they stand on the outskirts of the room, discussing my “relationship” with Beau. Everyone is so certain that I’ve slept my way to this point that it’s almost laughable. It doesn’t help that Shawna is running her mouth like a freight train with nothing in the way but wide-open spaces. She keeps everyone talking with her “insider knowledge.” I mean she was rooming with me for a short time, right? Apparently, that makes her the resident expert of everything in my life. Throw in a few first-hand encounters and you have all the makings for a healthy dose of the dramatics. Hell, maybe if I engaged in just a little piece of the crap they’re saying about me, I’d be much more relaxed and better equipped to deal with it all.
Note to self: If you’re going to pretend to sleep with a judge, maybe it’s time to sample the goods.
I’ve become accustomed to the talking. When I found out that Colton had a fiancée, I couldn’t escape the whispers. Even in a city like Chicago, they followed me everywhere I went. No one messed with me at Chaser’s, though. Whether because I was considered old news by then or because Tiffany put the fear of God in anyone who even thought about mentioning it, I’m not sure. But, I know that since I started at the bar, I haven’t had too much trouble with gossip.
Until now.
I wait for my cue before stepping out on the stage. Three weeks in and this has become like second nature now. I reach my starting position and smile brightly, waiting for the band to strike up my music. When the familiar beat washes through me and I’m bathed in bright lights, I forget everything. I forget everyone backstage, sitting in the audience, and even those sitting at the table in front of me. I let go and sing because that’s what I do–all I can do. When the going gets tough, I get lost in my music. When all else fails, I submerge my mind in the one thing to bring me comfort, besides my son. Because when it’s all said and done, these people will be gone, but the music will still be there. Deep inside me, wrapped around me like a blanket, embedded in my soul like a familiar tattoo.
I stand in the heat of the spotlight wearing my sky-high red heels, tight leather tank top and matching black leather pants. Add in a little bit of teasing from a big bottle of expensive hairspray, some dark, heavy eyeliner, and I look like I stepped out of a 1980’s Joan Jett video.
“Midnight, gettin' uptight, where are you? You said you'd meet me, now it's quarter to two. I know I'm hangin' but I'm still wantin' you…”
This is my favorite part of performing. The moment where I work the stage, engage the crowd, and just feel the beat, the rhythm. This song speaks to me better than any song I’ve sang
so far, so when I feel my spirits soar for the first time in I don’t even know how long, I know it’s as a result of this song. I feel playful. Energetic. Unstoppable.
When the song is finally over, I take in everything around me. If I go home after tonight, it’s not because I didn’t give it everything I have. It’s not because I did something I wasn’t supposed to do…even though I was pretty damn close. Multiple times. It wasn’t because I couldn’t do it at all. It was because now just isn’t my time. This show, this opportunity wasn’t right for my life at this moment. And that’s okay.
I look over at the coaches who all wear matching smiles. When I lock eyes with Beau, I feel it clear down to my painted toenails. They actually curl a little in the tip of my heels as I recall the forbidden kisses we’ve shared. Though those kisses can’t happen anymore, that doesn’t mean I can’t fantasize about them. Lord knows I dream about them all night and think about them all day.
If I go home tomorrow night, I’ll miss out on those stolen glances, illicit kisses, and the smoldering looks–just like the look I’m getting right now. If I go home, I’ll deal. Without Beau.
I hope that the fans will spare me for at least one more night.
Note to self: Elevator music isn’t so bad.
When I warily step onto the elevator at the hotel on Thursday night, luck is not on my side. I’m the only occupant with Drama Llama Barbie. She looks pristine in her black and white dress and her peep-toe pumps, hints of bright red nail polish from her daily pedicure poking through. Her hair is still up from tonight’s reveal show, but hers appears more natural. Like she was born with style and elegance. Her entire appearance makes her look like she stepped off the runway and decided to grace us mere mortals with her presence. Too bad she’s the Devil in disguise.
Note to self: Take the stairs. Your ass and your self-esteem will thank you.
“I don’t know how you did it again this week, but the fact that you’re still here is a poor reflection on this show. It’s supposed to be about finding the next big star. You shouldn’t even have made it out of the first round,” she says while examining her perfect French manicure.
This evening when they called my name, as the first contestant saved, was a shock–to me and a few of the other contestants. Audible gasps were heard, and while I didn’t turn around, I’m pretty sure I know where those came from. The look on Beau’s face as he looked on from his position at the table was one of pure excitement and joy. He seemed genuinely happy that I was safe for another week. Whether it’s because of my ability to perform on stage or our budding attraction towards each other, I don’t know. Though, I’m hoping it’s the former, and that the latter is just an added perk to me still being here.
“You don’t have to be jealous of me, Shawna.” I look her square in the eye and can see the moment her anger reaches boiling point. Smoke practically billows out of her ears.
“Jealous? Puh-lease! I’m not jealous of someone who’s sleeping with a coach. Not to overlook the fact that you’re sleeping with a male contestant too. I’m here fair and square because I’m the best, not because I’m a slut,” she says just before the elevator doors open, depositing us on the third floor.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not sleeping with a coach or anyone else. And as I recall, I beat you fair and square in the first round of eliminations. Which means I’m here because I’m the best. You’re here because you’re lucky.” And with that, I turn and walk towards my room.
If the daggers she’s shooting at me through her eyes could have actually killed me, I would have dropped before I even finished my little victory speech. The moment is short lived, though, as I make my way to my room. I hear the loud clank of a door behind me and finally breathe my first real deep breath since I stepped onto that elevator. When I slip inside my own room, her accusations hit me square in the chest.
Sleeping with a contestant? You’ve got to be kidding me!
If I were enjoying half the sex everyone around here thinks I’m having, I’d be in pretty good shape! Much better than the reality. Reality is that I don’t even own a BOB. When you have a toddler who sleeps in the same bedroom as you, battery operated toys aren’t exactly something you indulge in. No, when I need to scratch that itch, that’s when I find someone who isn’t looking for a relationship. The thing I’ve learned about working at Chaser’s is that there are plenty of men out there looking for a little no-strings-attached sex. Though, I rarely leave with someone from the bar. I prefer to visit an establishment a few miles away that I’m not employed by. There’s less risk of them making surprise visits while I’m on the clock.
Maybe the fact that I can’t even remember the last time I engaged in said activities is the real reason for my hostility. When I sit down and think about it–really, really think about it–I can’t even remember my last fling. Brad? Or was it Jax? Either had the same result. I met them at the uppity bar, a frequent hangout for after work executives or blue collared society, where I let them buy me a drink. That’s how it always starts, right? One drink that leads to another which leads to a few grazes with your hand or resting it on a leg. Then, you add in batted eyelashes and a few more casual touches. Finally, it’s out the door and towards the agreed upon meeting location. Most of the time, it’s at their house or apartment. Never at mine. A few have even taken me to a hotel–not the seedy kind that you pay by the hour, but definitely not the kind where the bellhop escorts you up to your room with your luggage.
Sex is fun. I’ve always enjoyed it; especially with someone I consider “my type.” Brown or dark blond hair with green eyes. A physique that doesn’t scream Curls for the Girls or Gym Selfie Taker, but does scream Gym Membership. Someone who dresses for their job and wears it comfortably whether it be at an office or out in the field somewhere. That’s why my attraction to Beau is so confusing. He’s nothing like my usual type. Except his body. His body is all hard muscle and bold lines. He screams sexuality. Sex that would be, no doubt, off the chart. Nuclear. Mind-altering. The kind that leaves destruction and a little devastation in its wake.
It’s too late to call Mom tonight, though I fire off a few text messages before heading to bed. We talked in great lengths last night after my performance with Beau. She understood my dilemma, caught between what the network wants and what I want. Ultimately, if I’m going to have a real chance at winning this thing, I know I have to play nice with the network holding the purse strings. I can’t deny them when they hold my future in their greedy little palms. All I can do is play along. And maybe enjoy the ride.
Lord knows stealing glances and touches with Beau Tanner isn’t going to be a hardship. Not one damn bit!
*****
“Two things,” Beau says from underneath that black Stetson hat. “First, I have a surprise for you, but I’ll get to that in just a few. I want to tell you what song you’re singing this week.”
“Bring it,” I tell him, bouncing in my seat. Last week, he told me he was working on something different for me.
“I know you’re not a fan of country, but I want you to give it a shot this week. I want to slow it down this week and touch on something softer for you. Have ya heard of Faith Hill?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of her, but I don’t know much that she sings. Wait, she’s married to the hot cowboy, right?”
Beau’s eyebrow shoots upward, disappearing completely underneath that hat. “Really?”
“Yeah, well, I may not know a lot about country music, but everyone knows Tim whatever-his-name-is.”
“Whatever-his-name-is. Oh my God,” he mumbles, eyes cast downward as he shakes his head in disbelief. “Tim McGraw is the definition of country music. I grew up listenin’ to him, singin’ his songs. He’s one of the main reasons why I chose country music.”
“Well, I don’t know about all of that, but he’s one of my favorite cowboys,” I tease.
“One of your favorites?” he asks with a big smile.
“Y
eah, he’s number two,” I reply without releasing the smile I’m holding in.
“Number two. Who’s number one?” he asks, inching just a little bit closer on his stool.
“Luke somebody,” I reply as straight-faced as humanly possible. Seriously, I should get an award for this performance. I’d like to thank the Academy… Never mind the fact that I don’t even really know who this Luke guy is, but everyone is always talking about him. Something about his amazing pelvic thrusts and ass wiggles.
“I quit,” Beau says dramatically as he throws his hands up in the air.
“You quit because I don’t know who Luke is or because you’re not my favorite cowboy?”
Beau walks around until he’s standing directly in front of me. When he leans forward, his scent invades my senses, teasing me in the best possible way. When he squeezes his hands on the edges of my stool, the outsides brushing against my ass, I almost melt into a warm pile of goo.
“I think you’re lying,” he whispers, his lips a breath away from my own. My breathing comes out in short little pants as I gaze into his smoldering eyes. They’re ablaze with something deep, something dark, and something very dirty.
“About what?” I finally manager to get out through the little pants I can breathe.
“About who your number one cowboy is. I don’t think Luke somebody gets you all worked up like you are right now. I think this cowboy is the only one who gets this kinda reaction from ya. And I think that I want to test that theory,” he whispers, his breath kissing my ear.
But he doesn’t test it.
Instead he pulls back and out of my personal space. I feel the void of his heat instantly and crave to plaster myself against him. Then the reality of the situation sets in. The camera hovers nearby recording our every move, our every word. Understanding sets in as to why Beau was whispering practically against my ear just moments ago.
