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Chapter 12
Trenton
Thenextfiveweeksflew by as Ali and I lived and breathed rehearsals, performances, and results shows, leading to the night before the final reveal show, when the male and female contestants would be combined as the final twelve.
She was sitting at my kitchen counter, sipping a glass of wine while I prepared dinner. I wasn’t a master chef by any means, but I made a mean chicken Florentine.
“It’s starting,” she said.
I turned to look at the television, where we had theSing Battleguys’ performance show on. She’d watched every girls’ show, but she hadn’t bothered with the guys. When she’d suggested we might want to watch to scope out the competition, I jumped at the chance. But mainly, I’d simply jumped at the chance to spend some downtime with her, even if it did involve the show.
The more we hung out, the more I liked her as a person. She was talented, driven, and shrewd—traits that would benefit her in the music business. But she also had a softer side that she didn’t willingly show, like when she’d flushed with embarrassment at walking into the men’s room at the club and how warm her eyes became when she talked about Georgia.
I stirred the sauce on the stove as the first male contestant took the stage. I hated to say it, but I nearly winced when he started singing. If all the male competitors were like this guy, the final lineup would be six women.
I looked at Ali to see what her take was. Her lips were pressed together. “Not the best song choice for his voice.”
That was a nice way of putting it, but I didn’t buy it. The song was in the guy’s range—he’d simply botched it. Even though the show wasn’t live, the director only allowed one take per contestant, so the pressure was the same.
I noticed her glass was almost empty. “More wine?”
She held it out. “Thanks. I’m nervous. It’s not even results night, and I’m already nervous.”
I frowned as I refilled her glass. “Why? You have nothing to be nervous about.”
“I’m not nervous about getting voted off, but the show is going to change after this. I don’t like not knowing because then I can’t prepare.”
The higher-ups hadn’t told us exactly what to expect beyond having to meet certain guidelines in addition to winning votes to move on to the next show. Evan had been tight-lipped on the subject, as he should have been. We were pals, but I wouldn’t want to use our friendship to gain an unfair advantage.
“Having a partner was a surprise, but that has worked out, right?”
She sighed. “Yes, but…” She trailed off, but she didn’t need to finish the sentence. We got absolutely no feedback from the judges, nor did we know what percentage of the audience votes we’d been given. In past seasons, the judges would critique the performances so the contestants could improve, but this season, the celebrity partners were supposed to provide that guidance. We hadn’t been sent packing, so we’d obviously been doing okay, but it weighed on Ali that part of her overall score was based on something outside of her control—me.
I appreciated her independent spirit, but sometimes, it chafed that she resented having a partner. Someone with thinner skin would have taken it personally. And hell, I did sometimes. If those stupid memes had taught me anything, it was that my skin wasn’t as thick as I’d thought it was.
Though she’d tried to hide it from me, she’d let it slip that some online trolls called her a no-talent hack who would’ve been voted off already if not for me. Taste in music was subjective, but those people were assholes who wouldn’t know talent if it punched them in the face. Ali’s style might not have been everyone’s cup of tea, but objectively speaking, she had talent. For fuck’s sake, the girl could sing opera. She had a degree in the shit.
Ali was getting her first taste of fame’s brutality. If I could shield her from it, I would, but that wouldn’t help her in the long run. If she was going to have a successful career, she needed to find a way to tune out the negativity and focus on what mattered—the music. Easier said than done. Those stupid memes were proof of that.
The chicken was nearly done, so I reduced the heat on the burner and crossed to her. I took both her hands in mine. “Everything is going to be fine,” I assured her. “We’ll simply keep doing what we’ve been doing.”
She stared at our clasped hands, and I wondered if she was thinking the same thing I was. We’d been dancing around the attraction between us, mostly ignoring it and failing—at least, I was. Countless times when she was pouring her heart and soul into the music, I’d wanted to sweep her up in my arms and kiss her. But she was the one with everything at stake—if she felt like being romantically involved would hinder her success on the show, then I would respect her wishes.
“You’re a great partner, Trenton. I wished I felt differently about the whole duet thing.”
I shrugged, faking nonchalance. “It’s okay. I get it.”Sort of.I’d always enjoyed being part of a group. Granted, by the time Misdirection had broken up, we’d all outgrown the boy band, but I missed the camaraderie and partnership.
“I also wish…” Pulling her hands out of mine, she looked away. Then she hopped off her stool and walked around the counter to the stove. “This smells delicious.”
I watched her for a moment, tempted to ask her to finish her sentence, but prying wasn’t my style. If she wanted to tell me something, she would when she was ready. I hoped that time would come. I smiled. “Wait until you taste it.”
The next night in his dressing room, Evan winked and poured me a shot. “Don’t tell. It’s probably bad form to have a drink before the show. But damn, I need it. I might hand over the reins after this season.”
I snorted. “No, you won’t.” My buddy was all talk—Sing Battlewas his baby.
“You’re right, but you could at least let me pretend for a little while.” He downed his shot. “Are you worried?”
I pressed my lips together. “No.” I hated to say it, but neither Ali nor I had ever stressed about not making it to the next show. Our voices meshed perfectly, and we had undeniable onstage chemistry. Offstage, too. The more time I spent with her, the more difficult it was to ignore—and the more I didn’t want to ignore it. Her sipping wine, barefoot in my kitchen while I cooked the night before, felt right. I wanted that every night.
