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Chapter 7
Ali
IwassurprisedwhenTrenton texted me to ask if I wanted to rehearse at his house. I’d figured we would spend most of our time at the studio, but it made sense to go off-site. There wasn’t enough space to accommodate twenty-four pairs at once, so scheduling time was bound to be a nightmare. We were fortunate that we had another option since Trenton was local. I was grateful he trusted me enough to invite me to his home.
In the Uber on the way to his house, I reviewed the list of songs I’d selected as possibilities. It was tricky because as we’d been warned, there would be competition for the best songs. On top of that, being forced to choose duets really limited our options. Ordinarily, I would have wanted to save some of my preferred songs for later rounds, but they might not be available by the time I made it that far. And Iwouldmake it that far.
The car pulled to a stop in front of a relatively modest house. The only ostentatious thing about it was the wrought iron gate blocking off the driveway, but that was ubiquitous in this neighborhood.
“Do you want me to wait until you get inside?” my driver asked, which was rather thoughtful of him. He was under no obligation to waste his time waiting around for me when he could be earning more fare money. I appreciated the gesture.
“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” I climbed out of the car and waved him off. Once he’d driven away, I slowly walked toward the call button that I needed to press to summon Trenton to open the gate. I hadn’t been nervous on the ride over because I’d been focused on preparing for rehearsal, but a flood of anxiety hit me.
Big-girl panties, I told myself and instantly regretted my choice of encouragement. That was how I’d mustered the courage to go to the hotel with Trenton.Chin up, I thought instead, but it didn’t have the same ring to it.
Before I could press the button, the gate made a clicking sound and swung open. He must have been keeping an eye out for me. Gulping, I trudged up the sloped driveway to find him waiting on the front porch, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and in bare feet. It was the kind of look I’d expect a celebrity to don for one of those home-tour shows—come on in and see my crib!His hair was casually tousled. On someone else, I would have assumed it had been styled to look like it hadn’t been, as if he’d just rolled out of bed.
While I might not have known what his just-got-out-of-bed hair looked like, I definitely knew what his in-bed hair looked like. My mouth became dry, and I had second and third and fourth thoughts all at once. Perhaps meeting at his house wasn’t a good idea. I wasn’t even inside yet, and it already felt way too personal.
He leaned his forearm against the post as he watched me, all hot as hell. “You made it.”
“Yes,” I said, “I didn’t tell the Uber driver this was your house.”
He furrowed his brow. “Thanks.”
“I figured you don’t want people knowing.”
He hadn’t specifically told me to keep his address a secret, and after I said it, I realized it was common sense not to share people’s addresses. Besides that, it wasn’t as if I would tell an Uber driver I was going to my aunt Cathy’s house, so why would I tell him I was going to Trenton’s house? I had no reason to divulge that kind of information. I’d been trying to show Trenton I respected his privacy and that he was right to trust me in inviting me to his home, but instead, I felt like an idiot.Not a great start.
“Come on in,” he said. “Do you want something to drink? Coffee?”
Following him inside, I held up a bottle of water. “No thanks. I’m sticking to water.” Caffeine dehydrated the body, diminishing the moisture around the vocal cords. For as much as I hated it, I was off caffeine until the competition was over. I already missed it and had found myself nodding off in the car on the way there.
The foyer was nearly empty. The only piece of furniture was a narrow table that had a set of keys lying on it. I pictured him throwing them there after coming home from a hard day’s work–though for him or any other successful musician, many of his hard days were on tour, which meant he wouldn’t make it home to toss his keys.
“I have a sort-of studio,” he said. “I figured we could work there.”
“What’s a sort-of studio?”
“It’s not a true studio, but it gets the job done. This way.” I followed him farther into the house and into a back room, where the “sort-of studio” moniker suddenly made sense. Acoustic panels lined the walls of a large room. Since it was on the first floor, I assumed it was designed to be a home office. A prefabricated sound booth occupied one corner, and there was an array of instruments along the opposite wall.
“Your sort-of studio is better than any studio I’ve been in.” Truth was, I’d never been in a music studio. I didn’t write music, so I had no original tracks to record. That was the primary reason I’d never recorded any demo tracks to pursue a music career before. It also madeSing Battleperfect for me, since I was expected to cover well-known songs. If I won the competition and thus a contract with a music label, they would set me up with their in-house songwriters.
“Thanks.”
I walked over to a keyboard, which was turned on, and played the opening notes to “Für Elise.” After years of piano lessons, the song was indelible in my brain. “I didn’t know you played.”
“How would you?” he asked.
I removed my hands from the keys, realizing I might have been too forward. This was his space, and though he’d invited me into it, I shouldn’t take liberties by touching his instruments. Some musicians were picky about that. “Good point.”
“Piano was actually my first instrument.” His voice seemed gentler. “My mother was a music teacher at an elementary school, and she gave piano lessons in the evenings for extra money. I was her guinea pig, otherwise known as her first student.”
“That sounds nice.” I’d also taken piano lessons starting at a young age, but even though my mother knew how to play, she couldn’t be bothered to try teaching me. Instead, she put me in music lessons for various instruments hoping I would find one that suited me. It took until I was thirteen for her to accept that I would not be a musical prodigy. Good thing my sister came along to fulfill that role.
Trenton shoved his hands into his pockets. “It was.” He didn’t elaborate, and I didn’t press. Though I wanted to know more, I recognized that his childhood memories were none of my business.
It was too bad, though. The more I learned about him, the more I wanted to know. He’d been the stoic member of Misdirection and then a quiet and private solo artist, but there was a lot more to him than the strong, silent, brooding musician he appeared to be. For instance, he had a sense of humor. Who knew?
