Eight
EIGHT
I’M BEING HAUNTED BY AN ALCOVE
Deacon and Don Sparrow show up about a minute before the livestream is supposed to start. The mood in the room shifts the second they walk through the door, every head turning toward them, spines straightening, eyes widening, low whispers laced with excitement filling the room. I’ve been in the same room with people far more famous than the Sparrow brothers but even I’m dazzled.
Deacon’s arm is slung around a young blonde woman wearing a super short slip dress with fishnet stockings and stacked combat boots. I’d guess she was his daughter but the way his hand is grazing her ass says otherwise.
Don looks exactly as nondescript as he did in the coffee shop, like any other forty-something man in Nashville. I instinctively move to go say hello to him but Jasmine hurries both him and Deacon onto the stage to intro the competition.
“Don’t worry,” Kick says, sidling up next to me, “I’m sure they’ll hang around for autographs afterwards.”
I flash him a squinty-eyed, close-lipped smile, the face equivalent of flipping the bird. “It’s cute the way you think you’re so cute.”
He starts to say something back, but the livestream is starting. Deacon Sparrow is immediately magnetic behind the mic. It’s obvious why he’s the front man, all personality and charisma even just walking up onto the stage. Don stands to the side, quietly supportive. Based on my internet research, Don’s the real brains behind the band and writes all the songs, or does since my father left the band, but Deacon is the undeniable showman.
“Hey there everybody, I’m Deacon Sparrow,” he says into the mic, spotlight shining on his face. He’s weathered and handsome, lines around his eyes and a five-day beard, his brown hair streaked with enough grey to be sexy before tipping into old. His t-shirt and jeans hang on him just so, obviously picked out by a stylist to look effortless, thrown together, maintaining his cool guy appeal. Don’s the step-down version of Deacon. He’s just as handsome, but dimmer, like he puts in fifteen percent less effort in being famous. I wonder how my father would have looked next to them if he were still here. If he’d be on stage with them, intro’ing the competition.
“We want to thank y’all for tuning in to our big livestream event tonight for our Grand Total Tour this summer. Tickets are selling fast by the way so get ‘em while you can. It’s a little last minute, but we thought we’d do something a bit different for this tour. As most of you know, we got our big break on a tour with The Beaumont Brothers when we first started out, so we thought, hey, this summer we’re gonna do the same for another up-and-coming.”
Deacon looks over at Don, who nods in agreement.
“We kept the contest word-of-mouth around town here in Nashville but still got over five hundred video submissions. We know Nashville is Music City but wow! So many great artists submitted songs making it really hard to choose our top five, but we did and they’re all here tonight. I know you’re going to love them as much as we did! Now, don’t forget, as soon as the livestream is over, voting begins. We need your help to pick who you wanna see with us out on the road this summer. ”
Deacon cups his hand over his eyes and looks out past the cameras and the lights. “Jasmine, who’s first tonight?”
“Shades of Grey,” she calls back before turning around and giving Cheddar a look like I told him that already!
Shades of Grey is waiting on stage, standing behind Deacon and Don, ready to go. They wave when Deacon turns around and finally notices them.
“Oh, cool, alright. Check ‘em out and give ‘em a vote if you like what you hear,” Deacon says. “Shades of Grey, everybody.”
Deacon and Don leave the stage and Shades of Grey’s lead singer takes the mic.
“I bet they’re embarrassed,” Kick says, back in my ear, whisper-shouting over the loud rhythm of the kick drum, “all showing up in the same color.”
I elbow him away from me and keep my focus on the band while also keeping an eye on Deacon and Don’s movements around the room. They’ve got their heads together with Jasmine, not even paying attention to Shades of Grey. Deacon’s arm-candy hovers next to him as she swipes through her phone.
Kick shuffles closer. “I like your look, though. Very nineties cool girl. You look incredible.”
He’s smiling with his eyes. That damn sparkle that’s slowly wedging itself between my temples like a popsicle brain freeze.
“Shut-up, please. I want to hear this.”
He runs his thumb and finger across his lips and mimes zipping them shut. I’d be charmed if I wasn’t trying so hard to mentally take him out at the knees so he won’t be able to perform.
Shades of Grey, while ridiculous looking, are amazing. Fully pop, their singer is boisterous, like Tigger hopped up on Pixy Stix. The band is tight, perfectly in sync with each other. And they all look like they’re having the time of their lives, which, I imagine will be very vote-getting. Most bands let the lead singer do all the wooing, content to play their part getting the notes right, hitting the beats. This band is all in, including the drummer who’s smiling and singing the lyrics even though he’s not mic’d.
At a glance, none of the other contestants seem to be intimidated by Shades of Grey’s performance. I’m doing my best to maintain my confident veneer while avoiding eye contact with Kick and stuffing down the waves of nerves rolling through me. I’m worried Don or Deacon or even Jasmine will hear something of my father in my voice, worried what Kick will do when he hears my song about him. I’d switch to a new song but I’m already rehearsed to perfection. If I switch now, I could flub the lyrics, forget the bridge, crash and burn in front of Sparrow. As much as I’m sure to be wildly embarrassed, I have to keep the song I planned to perform. It will be worth it when I get on the tour.
Thirty seconds into The Hopkins Family Band’s song, I relax a tiny bit. They’re talented, sure, but not the kind of act to open a Sparrow tour. royalties are good, but not as good as Shades of Grey. They’re a bit too eclectic, like a rock band with a grudge. And the lead singer’s chewing gum while she’s singing.
Cass, via Zoe since Cass’s hands are occupied doing Zoe’s hair, has been texting me throughout the audition, rating each act on a scale of one to five for stage appeal, vocal appeal, and song choice. So far, no one’s fared over a three-point-five.
Every time a new text comes in, Kick hovers over my shoulder to see what we’re talking about.
“Nosey much?”
“I just can’t imagine what would be so important it would tear your very serious concentration away from the competition.”
“If you must know, my best friend and I are discussing the pros and cons of our fellow competitors.”
His eyebrows jump and he tries to read my screen before I shove it under my arm. “Got a list in there about me?”
“I don’t want to break your heart, but not everything is about you. ”
Until you hear my song about you , I think.
I hate how relaxed he seems, how unrattled. The other artists are antsy, eyes roaming the room, blowing out big breaths, shaking out their arms and walking in circles. Kick’s leaning against the air all liquid and loose, like he does this kind of thing every day, like he can’t wait to be done and go get midnight pancakes.
royalties finish their song and Kick lightly bumps my shoulder with his fist.
“I’m up next. Can’t wait to see what you write about me on your little list.”
“I’m pretty sure it will start with dumb and end with ass,”
He laughs like I’ve started another inside joke between us.
He and his two bandmates step up onto the stage, forgoing the makeshift stairs on the side since the stage is only a couple feet off the ground. I can’t help but admire the way his body moves as he steps up, bends over to pick up his guitar cable, adjusts his strap over his shoulder. I notice his bass player and drummer match each other—same thick dark hair, same wide-set eyes, same bulging biceps, same brown skin. Twins.
I make an effort to wipe all emotion from my face so none of my churning thoughts will be visible. It’s a challenge because I have what my mother says is a see-through face. I wear my emotions right on the tip of my nose, good or bad.
Kick’s black Les Paul is visibly weathered. I hope it’s because he bought it second-hand and not because he’s played it for years. He plugs it into the amp and strums it a couple times before he smiles into the mic like he wants to make out with it. I know how the mic feels. A tingling sensation stings my cheeks and I smash my teeth together.
“I’m Kick Raines.” His voice low and flirty and rough. He looks away from the camera and finds me, looks me right in the eye as he says, “This is ‘I Kissed Her In An Alcove.’”
My entire body goes rigid, like I’ve died and rigor mortis has already set in. This absolute dude of a guy wrote a song about the alcove ?
He lands a hard strum on his guitar and the song kicks into high gear. I’m still trying to determine what genre they’re doing—Pop? Rock? Alt-folk-rock-tinged-with-pop?—when Kick starts to sing. From note one, to no one’s surprise, Kick Raines drips charm and sex appeal and boy next door and aloof rock star—a fangirl smorgasbord of hotness. My mouth drops open against my will and I hope I’m obscured enough by the bright stage lights that he doesn’t see me. Because Kick’s voice.
Kick’s.
Voice.
It’s liquid smoke. A crackling fire. The kind of voice you want whispering dirty things into your ear as he unbuttons your jeans.
On stage he’s all energy and joy, a frenetic knee-jerk of wildness that’s mesmerizing to watch. He’s stomping the stage with his black sneaker and making eye-contact with every single person in the rehearsal space, especially the camera. He’s attractive and attracting, all of us unconsciously shifting closer to the stage, mesmerized by his charisma.
I squint into the darkness across the room and see Deacon and Don are watching him. Slip Dress is whispering in Deacon’s ear and motioning to Kick like, look at him .
Honey, we are all looking at him.
My cheeks burn, but not in the good way. Kick’s more than my competition, he’s everyone’s competition. I want to hurl him WWE-style off the stage, slam him over the head with a metal folding chair. Want to hang him by a wedgie from the top of the Batman building. Want his voice to crack or a guitar string to break, something, anything to give me even the slightest chance at winning.
Somehow I hear the lyrics through the smoky sex haze the room is now engulfed in and wow I am in so much trouble.
It was just a part y
Time to kick back
Had no idea I’d meet her
My heart too black
But she told me she was interesting
By the way she didn’t care
Told me I should want her
Think she liked the way I stared
He smiles into the camera as his arm pumps up and down on his guitar.
Then I kissed her in an alcove
We took it fast we took it so slow
To party people we put on a show
When I kissed her in an alcove
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Cass: THIS is the guy from Jackson’s party?
I grimace and look back at Kick. He’s reached the lead-up to the bridge and he’s spinning, his guitar chord wrapping around his legs like a serpent. Then he reverses, spinning in the opposite direction to unwind himself and it’s obvious he’s rehearsed this move. I wish I could say it’s not working for him but it. so. is.
I can’t process the lyrics, too stunned by the theatrics of his entire performance, his face, the way he leans into the microphone like he wants to put a baby in it. He keeps glancing my way and I worry people will know I’m the girl in the alcove. When I look around the room, everyone here is the girl in the alcove, too busy drinking him in to care what he’s saying. He is so going to win this thing.
As his song comes to a close, my knees start to quake. I don’t know if I can beat him. If I was voting, I’d vote for him. I don’t know how any person with eyes and ears and repressed sexual desire wouldn’t.
I look down at my buzzing phone .
Cass: This is still Zoe. Cass says do not spiral, she can feel you spiraling.
Cass: She says sure, he wrote a song about you but yours is better
Cass: IT IS BETTER (she said this in all caps)
Cass: She says you’ve got this. He’s good but you’re great.
Cass: She just yelled for you to get on that stage and BLOW THEM ALL AWAY
On Kick’s last note, the entire room loses it, cheering and clapping like they just witnessed a star being born. Cheddar’s got his pinkies in his mouth, whistling. Even Jasmine’s grinning and clapping. I politely clap long enough to look like I mean it before crouching down to pull my guitar from its case.
It’s time for Mari Gold to show the world what she’s made of.