Peace began to wash over her.
Before she could return to the dressing room her phone rang again and the tension returned with a vengeance. Why couldn’t people leave her alone? Before she could throw it across the room a photo appeared on the home screen. She and Michael Manning locked in a passionate kiss. Michael. The guy had her heart. She took the call, silently chiding herself. Peace is yours. Take it. Own it. She found her most intimate tone. “Hey, sexy.”
“Hey, pretty girl.” Michael chuckled. “I’m higher than a kite, and you’re not here.”
“Mmmm.” Kelly closed her eyes and let her shoulder lean against the cool wall. The hallway was still empty, the moment hers and Michael’s. No one listening, no one taking pictures. “Where are you?”
“Morocco. Plushest hotel room ever. Just finished a meet and greet.” His voice was deep and slurred, the way he sounded when he first woke up. “A fan gave me the weed. It’s amazing.”
Kelly considered what else the fan might have given him. The fan was a girl, no doubt, like all of Michael’s followers. But how old? And had she followed him back to his hotel room?
“You there?”
“Hmm?” Kelly forced the thoughts from her mind. He loves me only. Truth. Stay with the truth. “Sorry. Just picturing you there . . . the room.” Her tone changed as she imagined him. “The bed.”
Michael groaned. “Don’t do that to me. Two weeks till I see you.”
“Then you’re home for a while.”
“In Nashville, yes. Unless you have a better idea.” He breathed deep. “Seriously, this is the greatest pot.”
Kelly was stuck back at the Nashville part. “I’ll be in New York City for the show.”
“I don’t have a place in the city.” His throaty chuckle filled her senses. “But if the most beautiful girl in the world lives there, then maybe I should look.”
She giggled. There was no way to measure the joy he brought her. Around him she felt young and beautiful and on top of the world. Like she always would be. “I might have a spare bedroom.”
“Mmmm. You asking me to move in with you?”
“Maybe.”
Before he could answer, the sound of other voices crowded the line. “Hold on, boo.” Frustration replaced the sleepiness in his voice.
“Is . . . someone there?”
“No. It’s housekeeping.” He was either nervous or much more sober. He cursed under his breath. “I have a privacy sign on the door.” He hesitated. “Hey, I like the live-in idea.” The calm in his tone returned but not the happy high. “I gotta go, okay? Get these people out of my room. I’ll call you later.”
She was about to explain that she’d be on camera for the next several hours, but he ended the call. A wave of uncertainty ran through her. Michael’s reputation had been scandalous before they started dating. He wouldn’t have fans in his room, right? Not when someone could catch him smoking, take a picture, and sell it to TMZ in an hour.
Either way she couldn’t say anything—it was one of his ground rules. Implicit trust. Michael loved his fans and he loved smoking. Two nonnegotiable aspects of their relationship. Kelly closed her eyes again. What had he told her? He wouldn’t touch another girl as long as they were together. When one of us is ready to move on, we say so. Love is freedom. No chains. When it ends, it ends. Until then, we trust.
Yes, that was truth. They had to trust each other. If he said the voices were housekeeping, then that’s what they were. She only wished she could be with him, with the good weed and the great room and the view of Morocco.
At first she worried about how much pot Michael smoked. But not anymore. Kelly had come to love it as much as he did, though she smoked only a couple times a month. Everyone in the industry smoked, but there was a cardinal rule for people in the brightest light, people like the two of them.
Don’t get caught.
Not in bed with her much younger boyfriend and not intoxicated. Not looking too fat or too thin or too old. Nothing that could be plastered in the tabloids and harm her contract with Fifteen Minutes.
Who were the voices in his room?
Breathe, Kelly. She gave herself the order, but she struggled with the reality. If I had some of that weed, maybe.
Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit . . . honor God with your body.
What was this? She stood straighter, looking over her shoulder and down the hall as if she expected to see someone. Enough. The voices in Michael’s hotel room, the voice taunting her with outdated Bible verses. She took a deep breath. You are successful and young and beautiful and famous. There. That was the truth. She opened the door to the dressing room and swept back to the chair, a smile on her face. For the rest of the day only one set of voices mattered.
The voices of the contestants.
REESE WEATHERLY WANTED to turn off her phone and bury it out back behind the stable. Zack’s tweets were that frustrating. But she couldn’t. Other than one rushed conversation and a few short texts, Zack hadn’t talked to her. Very busy and all. Lots of demands. But somehow he’d had time for Twitter, time to update his followers and answer people who tweeted him.
People like this Zoey girl, whoever she was.
Reese took her phone out back, walked to the far fence and leaned against the worn wooden slats. She stared at the cloudy sky as if the answers might be there. Zack didn’t mean anything by the tweets. She knew that. He couldn’t help what other people said about him. Still, her heart hurt. It ached even while another part of her celebrated the fact that he’d made it through. She had seen this coming. The fact that Zack had made it this far was no surprise. Sometime in the next few hours he’d sing for the celebrity judges.
But Zack’s tweets were making Reese feel something she hated, something she had never felt around him. Jealousy. Reese pulled up the Twitter app on her phone and checked it once more. Zack had updated again.
In line waiting. Jesus, shine through me in front of the judges!
Reese could hear his voice, picture him standing in line, praying and telling the world about his faith. Despite the tension, her heart relaxed. He was keeping his promise, making the journey about Jesus. She went to her saved searches and clicked @ZackDylan. That brought up a host of tweets aimed at Zack—most of them from Zoey, @songleader. She was relentless.
In line behind @ZackDylan. Oh. My. Word. Girls you’re gonna wanna know this guy!
Reese read down the list of the others from Zoey.
How am I supposed to sing with @ZackDylan warming up in front of me? The guy’s voice is as gorgeous as he is!
Hey everyone! Follow @ZackDylan. I’ll be home in no time. He’s gonna be famous. Longer than #FifteenMinutes!!
Conversation with @ZackDylan. Zack: “I have a girlfriend.” Me: “I don’t see a ring on your finger.” #allisfairinlove
Reese stared at the tweets, confused. Was the girl serious? She didn’t care that Zack had a girlfriend? Of course Zack had told Zoey he had a girlfriend. The girl was either obsessed or immature. Maybe both. Reese clicked Zoey’s profile for the sixth time. Long blond hair, cheerleader. Another few clicks and Reese could read everything Zoey’s friends tweeted to her in response. Most of them gushed about how they agreed with Zoey, how Zack was “so hot” and how they couldn’t wait to hear him sing.
All of them loved Zoey’s tweet from earlier today. The one where she had attached a photo of her and Zack. Reese tapped the app a few more times and saw the tweet again.
Here we are, me and the next #FifteenMinutes winner. That’s right, @ZackDylan. #BeJealous
Reese clicked open the photo and stared at it the way she had ten minutes ago. If she squinted at it long enough, she could convince herself that Zack looked uncomfortable. Disinterested. She stared at the photo until she couldn’t stand it another moment. She clicked out of the tweet. Zack was doing the girl a favor, taking a photo with his first new fan. Nothing more. Reese checked his Twitter profile. Zoey might’ve been the first, but she wasn’t a
lone. Zack had gone from two hundred followers to nearly a thousand in a few days.
Word was getting out.
Knots twisted at Reese’s stomach. She had to stop looking, had to stop thinking about Zack at the auditions with girls like Zoey squealing over him. It wasn’t that she was worried. Not at all. Zack loved her and no one else. A few days away weren’t going to change that.
But could they change him? If he made it far enough, would he be the same Zack? The one who loved watching her help little Toby find confidence on the back of a horse? The guy who cared about the progress his sister was making and who worried every day about his family’s horse farm? Would that Zack still exist?
She stared at her phone as another of Zack’s tweets came across. I’m next. Pray for me! Here goes . . .
Reese looked at the words. Slowly, methodically, she turned off the phone and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. Zack wanted everyone to pray that he’d sing his heart out for the judges. Reese stared at the sky and did what Zack had asked her to do.
She prayed for him.
Not that he’d be the best singer or that this would be his brightest stage moment ever. She prayed for something else, something that mattered more.
For God’s will, whatever it was.
That above all else.
chapter 6
Chandra Olson sat back in her seat while her makeup artist worked a brush full of loose powder over her cheeks and forehead. Auditions were under way. Touch-ups for the camera happened after every ten singers or if any of the judges needed a break. This one was called by Kelly Morgan. Her recent Botox injections were making her shinier than usual. At least that’s what she said.
Chandra kept quiet, taking in the moment. Analyzing it.
The judges on the panel for the tenth season of Fifteen Minutes had been handpicked by the show’s infamous producer, Samuel J. Meier. Over the past decade, national singing competitions had come and international contests had gone. But Fifteen Minutes remained. The show had topped the ratings chart every year since its inception and after ten seasons everyone knew the reason for the show’s success.
The reason was Samuel J. Meier.
Tan, blond, and fit, Meier was in his late thirties, a machine with a net worth in the hefty nine figures. Everything Meier touched turned to gold. He had produced five successful pop artists, all of whom had multiple records with platinum sales. Meier hadn’t only produced the artists, he’d written most of their music.
His talent was world-renowned, his name synonymous with pop music success. When the first singing competition show came around, Meier quit working with artists and started Fifteen Minutes. The show debuted the next year. In an interview Meier once explained why he created a singing competition when one already existed. Simple. He could do better. Fifteen Minutes drew the best talent and the best production, delivering polished emotional pieces on the contestants’ lives and making America feel personally connected to everyone in the top twenty.
Meier had explained a number of times that success was an intangible. There was no way to figure out the formula for what worked and what didn’t. But this Meier knew . . . He needed to stay ahead of the curve. Over the last decade a number of singing shows had come along and tried to knock Fifteen Minutes off its platform. Meier managed to keep the edge. One way, he had told reporters, was through the judges he chose. They had to be as likable as the finalists. No one scandalous or scantily dressed. The panel would never have someone whose reputation was in any way tarnished, no one who had ever been labeled by paparazzi as a failure or a joke or a has-been. Fifteen Minutes paid its judges well and expected articulate commentary and feedback. Meier kept certain judges, but he also liked bringing in newcomers.
Chandra closed her eyes while the artist dusted her brows. She and Kelly Morgan were new this year and after six weeks on the road they were friends. As far as that was possible. The panel was rounded out this year by longtime judge Cullen Caldwell, a colorful Australian-born hit songwriter whose expertise and talent analysis were unprecedented. Cullen added a level of credibility and eccentricity. He used Down Under slang and spoke with a charming Australian accent. He kept his head shaved and owned an entirely white wardrobe with accessories in bold colors. His spot color today was a red sweatband that accentuated his white jeans and V-neck. The combo would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. Somehow Cullen pulled it off. Women were crazy about him.
The judges were expected to bring something to the table. Cullen brought expertise and sarcasm. Not the sort of sarcasm that demeaned contestants but the sort that drew a laugh from the home audience and even the other judges. Cullen was funny, no question.
Kelly Morgan brought her famed history, musical flair and her ability to spot talent. She could be hard-hitting, but over the last five weeks she’d found her stride with the contestants. Once the show aired, people would hate Kelly at times for her biting remarks. Meier would be fine with that. Kelly was pretty enough to pull it off. America would love her either way.
The compassion this season would come from Chandra. Meier had made that clear from the beginning. Chandra wouldn’t have done it any other way. In the last seven cities she’d been moved to tears a handful of times. She, more than anyone, understood the depth of the dream, the impossibility of it. The cost.
Kelly sat in the middle, and now she leaned in close to Chandra. “I’m not impressed with this group. That last girl was pathetic. She’d be laughed out of a karaoke bar.”
“The next ten might be better.” Chandra had to agree about the first several groups. No one really stood out. She’d done her part, done it as easily as she breathed, giving the contestants a sad smile and the suggestion that maybe there was another dream they could follow. Painting or writing. That sort of thing.
But as each dejected or devastated singer walked out of the room Chandra silently celebrated. They could go home unchanged, unharmed. Whatever life they’d left behind would be waiting for them. Nothing lost. No psycho fans waiting on the front porch for their unsuspecting parents.
Kelly pulled out a compact and checked her look. “Love that Botox.” She glanced at Chandra. “You use it?”
“No.” Chandra allowed a confused laugh. “How old do you think I am?”
The question seemed to catch Kelly off guard. She turned and stared at Chandra. “You could be twenty-five or forty-five.” The compact caught her attention again. “You know what they say. Black don’t crack.”
“True.” Chandra laughed. Inside she felt sorry for Kelly. The girl was a piece of work. So totally consumed with herself that she barely noticed anything about her surroundings or the people who made up her world. At least that’s what Chandra thought so far. “Twenty-five. I’m twenty-five.”
“Well, good for you.” Kelly added a fresh layer of lip-gloss, her eyes glued to her image. “You’ll be just as stunning in twenty years. Botox or not.” She stopped and looked at Chandra. “How many Twitter followers?”
The question felt jarring. “I don’t know. Ten million or so.”
Kelly shrugged and smacked her lips, her eyes back on the compact. “Me, too. That’ll double once the show airs.”
“Yeah.” Chandra wanted to think of something clever to say, something about how it didn’t matter how many followers they had as long as they were true to themselves. Nothing came to mind. Besides, Kelly wouldn’t hear her, anyway. She was going on about how her boyfriend didn’t know about the Botox and how she felt flabby if she didn’t work out twice a day. Chandra tuned her out. The sky behind them was brilliant blue. The judges’ table was set up in front of an expansive window that gave a stunning view of downtown Atlanta and an expanse of the day’s cloudless sky. The room was airy and spacious, and the table was made of chunky hundred-year-old wood planks from some local teardown. The feel of the set was warm and inviting, vintage and high-end.
Cullen was talking to Samuel J. Meier, who was nodding and frowning appropriately. The producer made
a point of being at every taped audition. Like a consummate director, Meier would give the judges praise and pointers, check the lighting and angles caught by the cameramen, and talk with the sound guys about music and production. Meier prided himself for being a hands-on producer, and today was no exception.
Whatever was being said, Cullen was upset. Chandra tried to hear the conversation.
“I thought we were looking for different stories this year. Something new.” Cullen snapped a document with his hand and slapped it on the table. “The best we can do in the next ten singers is three waitresses and two Christians? That’s not different. We can’t lose ratings, not if we want to stay on top. You know that.”
“Trust me.” Meier’s tone was respectful, clearly concerned about his top judge’s opinion. But he hardly looked worried. “The Bible series broke records on the History Channel. America will love these contestants.” He smiled, patience marking his expression. “You know the drill. It worked last year. It’ll work again.”
“I don’t know, mate. Have you checked the Fifteen Minutes hashtags on Twitter?” Cullen sat back hard, his red headband wrinkling with his brow. “More Jesus talk than ever.”
“Jesus talk brings in viewers, Cullen. Nothing new there.”
“Yeah, well, I want different. Rodeo blokes and strippers. Hot-air balloonists and medical students. That sort of thing.”
“We’ll have those. Don’t worry.”
Chandra could hear every word and she felt uncomfortable. Something about the way Samuel Meier spoke about his strategy troubled her. She held a finger up to Kelly, who was still talking to her compact. “Hold on.” She sat a little straighter. “Mr. Meier, excuse me. What’s this? A strategy?”