“All right, ladies and gentlemen. That was Greed!” Troy’s voice said. “Give him a hand.” But they hadn’t needed any encouragement. Some were yelling and cheering. Others were on their feet.
Greed breezed past her, ripping his headset off, with a curt, “That’s a wrap on sound check, boys,” and dropping it near Farley’s foot as he passed. “And on who is going to be performing live.”
Farley grumbled as he bent to pick it up.
Oakley withered under Greed’s triumphant gaze. Over his shoulder he called, “See ya, Oakley M. Wouldn’t want to be ya, Oakley M.”
Commotion in the wings behind her made Oakley whirl around. Farley jumped into action, ready to take down the intruder. In seconds, Farley had Clyde in a half nelson.
“Oakley! Oakley!” Clyde waved at her from his choke-hold. Something small glinted in his palm. A thumb drive? “I have your track. You wanted that one track, right?”
Oakley jogged over to where Farley had Clyde by the neck. “It’s okay, Farley.”
Farley released him, and Clyde dusted himself off. Farley stayed on high alert, saying, “Mr. Levy won’t let unauthorized people backstage. Security risk.”
At Levy’s name, Oakley shuddered again, but there was no time for dealing with murderers right now. The voting was about to start among the audience. If she made it through, she needed this track—seriously needed it.
“You have the song?” She was breathless. When Clyde nodded, she hugged him really quick. “You’re amazing. You are the best, the very best! Is it a good quality copy?”
“Hello.” He looked wounded. “It’s me here.”
Of course it was. Clyde would never allow low sound quality to exist in the world if he were in charge.
Over the sound system of the studio, Troy the announcer spoke. “All right, guys. It’s time to get your votes in. Check the secure website and add your vote: Oakley or Greed. Make your vote count! The winner goes on live television tonight.”
Oakley couldn’t let herself think about what was going on. She needed a distraction, so she asked Clyde about his method, hoping against hope he would know the exact length, and that it would be close to the Jerica song she’d chosen. That was the only way Farley and the sound crew would even consider letting her swap.
“It was no sweat, really.” Clyde didn’t let the voting distract him. “I downloaded the copy I found and stripped the vocals in my studio.”
Bless him. Bless Clyde’s music-obsessed heart.
“You don’t know how long it is, do you?” Oakley wished upon every star ever that it would be close to the length of the Jerica song.
“Three minutes and fifteen seconds.”
“Yes!” Oakley snatched it out of his hand and jogged it over toward the tech crew booth at the back of the stage in the dark, leaving Clyde in the wings. “Thank you!” she hollered. At the booth, she pounded on the door until someone answered, frowning.
“Three fifteen,” she said through excited breaths. “It’s within one second of the Jerica song.”
“We don’t really allow changes at the last minute. Licensing and things.” He frowned again and then nodded as if conceding.
“Come on. Nobody wants to hear Jerica again if I make it through.” Which in itself was a total long shot at this point. Greed had really done better than Oakley, and she knew it. Well, other than nailing that last few notes—and singing it better than Jerica ever had—Oakley didn’t have a chance, based on song choice. “Please? I mean, you know nobody wants to hear that ‘Love Me Tenderly’ song ever, ever again, let alone twice in one night.”
He held very still, taking deep breaths. It looked as if he was in a major internal battle, like which do I hate more? The idea of losing my job for playing an unapproved song, or the idea of listening to that awful song again?
“Fine,” he said at last, the dark side achieving the upper hand. “But if it’s an obscure song, chances are the judges won’t have context for voting on it. What’s it called?”
Something bumped her. Farley. He was at her side, annoyed and practically breathing down her neck. “You can’t just go wherever you want backstage. There are rules. Mr. Levy has rules.”
Oakley answered the tech booth guy’s question instead of engaging Farley. “‘Your Kisses Take Me.’”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a Girl Crazy song. It was on their unreleased album. They cut it right before their tragic accident.”
“Still never heard of it.”
Farley inserted himself. “I’ve never heard of it, and I have been with Mr. Levy for thirty years. Even in his Girl Crazy days. Even before.”
What a shame, Oakley thought but didn’t say aloud. Instead she spoke only to tech crew guy. “It’s the right length. It won’t mess up the show-time.” Oakley pleaded with her eyes. “If I fail, I fail on my own. This won’t be on you.”
“Fine.” The guy accepted the jump drive from her hand at last. “But I just got word. There’s no time for a second sound check with it. You’ll just have to wing it when you get on stage.” He held the jump drive like it was poisonous. “It’s your funeral, kid.”
Funeral. That word hit too close to home. Wing it. That phrase made her feel almost worse. Oakley was not the wing-it type. Oh, dear. Maybe she should tell him never mind and stick with Jerica Jones.
“You’re wavering. I can see it.” He eyed her. “The Jerica song is tried and true. It’s what everyone will be expecting.”
“It’s not what this audience expected.” She pointed at them. Then, she had an idea. Oakley shook off all the arguments still hanging between herself and tech booth man, gave Farley the slip and dashed toward the stage.
There, in the lights, she stood in front of the live audience. Every ounce of her lack of stage presence was on full display, but desperate times …
“Guys?” she called to the voting studio audience, sans microphone, sans dignity. She had to make a broad appeal, a last-ditch effort. “I know I let you down earlier.”
“You were good, Oakley.” It was the guy with the Marry Me, Oakley poster.
“No, I was all right. Barely. Not good. But if you’ll give me another chance, I’ll prove I can be good.”
“Is there a problem, Miss Marsden?” Troy the announcer said. “This isn’t kosher, for you to be interrupting voting.”
Troy was handling her outburst like a professional, but she could picture the mayhem she was causing behind the scenes, where the studio audience couldn’t see.
These are my fans, she said. They’re here to cheer for me, not watch me fail.
Confidence, for the first time she realized what that meant. It meant believing that you could do it, and that others wanted you to succeed, too.
“Yes, there’s a problem, Troy. Can you let the tech crew know that I don’t think I can use that Jerica Jones song, even though I already sound-checked it. Sorry.” Her voice went out over the microphone to the live audience. “Sorry, guys. It’s just that my range matches Jerica Jones’s too perfectly, so I wasn’t brave before.”
From the audience, a roar lifted. “We want you singing Girl Crazy songs, Oakley! More Girl Crazy!” It was the guy with the poster again. “They match your voice better.”
“A Girl Crazy song is a great idea, actually,” she said, her microphone still on. She couldn’t believe they hadn’t cut it yet. She looked out at the guy who had spoken. “But not ‘The Eyes Have It.’”
The audience looked at each other in confusion. What other Girl Crazy song was there? The band had cut only two singles.
“It’s going to surprise you. Hang onto your socks.” She grinned, trying to fake confidence. “Give me one more chance. I’ll be true to myself. I’ll be true to you.”
The audience cheered. She thanked them and waved before leaving the stage.
“No more stage entrances, Miss Marsden,” Farley greeted her in the wings, a frown on his face. “Unless you get the votes and go on live.”
“I’m
sorry I had to give you the slip, Farley. I won’t do it again.”
Seriously. How had she even done it in the first place? She couldn’t believe she’d been so gutsy. It was the boots. The boots and Hudson’s confidence in her. And the audience’s expressions of faith in her.
“You’d better be pretty confident in this track.” The crew guy from earlier walked up, brandished the thumb drive at her and looked at her with a disbelieving eyebrow raised. “You’re sure?”
About a track she’d never even heard? “I am. Absolutely.”
Clyde, don’t fail me now.
***
“You did it!” Hudson threw his arms around Oakley as she went backstage to the families’ waiting rooms where the film and interview crews milled, blocking the hallways and eating pre-packaged sandwiches that looked really, really dry. “I can’t believe how great you sounded.”
“They fed the sound check back to these rooms?” She followed him down another brick-walled hallway, this one smelling of shaving cream.
“Yeah. I was in the soundproof room during your performance. My parents are there, too.”
“Seriously? How did they get there?”
“I called them on your phone. I hope that’s okay. They have their own reasons for wanting to be here tonight.”
Oh, right. Probably to spend as much time with Hudson as possible after such a long absence, but also the off-chance of seeing Roman Levy, she guessed. And maybe to protect Hudson from Roman. Surely they’d thought through the potential hazards themselves.
They walked back to the soundproof room, where Hudson had all her extra bags and things set up for her, as well as a bouquet of flowers. Flowers!
“While you were back here, were there friends-and-family cameras on you?” she asked.
“Not yet, but they said they’ll be filming tonight, so if you make it, we should expect those.” He handed her a bottled water, after taking the cap off for her. “Should we invite Brinn and Clyde to be back there with me and my family, too?”
She drank thirstily then exhaled in relief. She’d done all she could to fix her error. It was all she could do.
“Inviting Brinn and Clyde is a great idea.” He was always thinking of other people. Anyone who claimed rock stars were self-absorbed jerks had yet to meet Hudson Oaks.
After using Oakley’s phone and texting Brinn with the invitation, Hudson put his hands on each of her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I knew you could sing, but Oaks!”
“What?”
“What I mean is, you have one of those voices. The unforgettable kind.”
His eyes penetrated hers. He seemed to really mean what he said. He also seemed to really care about her, to think that she was good enough to be here tonight, and to believe in her. Confidence flowed through her most of all when she let it sink in that Hudson Oaks, the best singer she’d ever heard, liked her voice.
“I agree.” A man’s smooth voice interrupted their eye-lock. “Unforgettable.”
In walked a guy Oakley remembered from her original audition. Bald head, so bald it was shiny, and a slick look about him all around. Nice clothes, a broad smile on a tanned face.
“You’re that judge from my first audition,” she choked out. Were judges supposed to be back here? Wasn’t it like the groom seeing the bride before the wedding? “Um, are you allowed to be backstage like this?”
“Nice to see you again, Miss Marsden. But I’m more interested in your friend here.”
The judge wasn’t looking at Oakley. His eyes were trained on Hudson’s face. “Well, well. If it isn’t a dead ringer for Hudson Oaks.”
Hudson stiffened as if he’d touched an electric fence. “Roman?”
Part III: Still Oakley’s Story
Scene 1: “The Answer to Our Life”
“Roman Levy?” Hudson coughed. “I’ve seen you on the TV show. It’s nice to meet you.”
He wasn’t covering his alarm very well.
Here he stood, the man Oakley had been dreading meeting ever since this morning’s talk with the Oaks family. Hudson’s old agent, and possibly the murderer of his three friends.
And good heavens. He was my judge at the first audition in Portland.
Wow, but this guy had his fingers deep into the pie of this TV show. He wasn’t taking the approach of a show’s creator going hands-off once the program was up and rolling. No, Roman Levy seemed to be overseeing all aspects, from creation to production, from directing Blue in how to run it, to actually doing the judging of the contestants—not to mention telling Farley what the rules were. From the look on his overly tanned face, this was his kingdom, and Hudson had trespassed.
Not that Hudson could be Hudson, so far as Roman Levy would know. Hudson was long dead, right?
Oakley gulped. Please don’t let Hudson give himself away. Not before Mr. Torres gets the final pieces of evidence he needs.
Oakley had no idea how many that would be—one? Two? Fifty?
There was no knowing how much still remained to prove Roman had caused the plane to go down.
And she still didn’t know it from looking at him. Except that she had a feeling that stirred her, and that made her mind jump to what might be termed an illogical conclusion.
She was experiencing one of Hudson’s hunches. Can I trust that? She was a hunch novice.
“N-n-n-nice to meet you. Wow. What an honor,” Hudson stammered a little. She wasn’t sure if it was an act. “I’ve never met a big producer before. I recognize you from the internet on my smarty phone.”
Oakley would have facepalmed at the phrase smarty phone, but she was too busy trying to keep herself from staring at Roman Levy, the man who had allegedly tried to kill Hudson, and who had succeeded in killing three of his friends. Who else had he stepped on—or bumped off—in his ascent to glory? Her mind went on three roller coasters. They all came to a halt at the station called Please don’t let Hudson give himself away by asking a too-pointed question. Or punch his lights out.
“You are the best impersonation of a ghost I’ve ever seen.” Roman Levy walked a slow circle around Hudson, grinding his palms together as if he was grinding stones into powder. “Hey, you wouldn’t be willing to sing me a few bars of a song, would you? You have a good look, kid.”
Oakley watched as Hudson clamped his mouth shut. The air all around them sparked with tension, and Oakley held her breath. Hudson’s jaw pulsated, and Roman stepped closer and slid his glitzy glasses to the end of his nose.
When Giselle and Hudson’s parents had warned them about Roman Levy being a crook and crashing the Girl Crazy plane for insurance money, Oakley had taken it with a grain of salt. The criminal charges, she’d figured, had initially sprung from a place of pain. Grieving families wanted an explanation, any explanation, for the terrible loss.
But now, Roman Levy stood before them, and Oakley got a sick feeling in her stomach. This looked like a guy who would do anything—and probably had—to achieve the success he now wore in his perfect tan, his Botox-smooth forehead, and his high-dollar suit. But sometimes important people, or people who needed to look important, dressed the part.
She would follow Hudson’s lead, since she didn’t know the guy at all, and Hudson had known him years ago. Maybe he’d been a good guy back then. Maybe he was now. Maybe he was really who he claimed to be: someone who wanted to help young people achieve their dreams of singing and performing for the world on the radio.
“That is one uncanny resemblance, eh?” He continued his slow walk around Hudson, eyeing him up and down. Fear of the impossible gripped Oakley, that Roman was going to sniff out the truth that Hudson was really here, and hadn’t died.
And that Hudson’s body could now still die—and with today’s DNA options, it would be very easy to prove the identity of the long-lost rock star’s body.
A shiver rolled up and then down and then back up Oakley’s spine.
“I’m not really interested in being a star, if that’s what you’re asking, sir. I�
�m just here for Oakley. She’s my girlfriend.”
“That’s right,” she said, confirming that statement and status for the first time. She didn’t have time to think about how the label felt when she was the one to put it on herself. “He’s awesome. He brought me flowers and everything.” She grinned, but she hoped Mr. Levy couldn’t see the strain behind it.
With all her heart she wished they’d already found the last piece of that puzzle Mr. Oaks had claimed Ignatius Torres still needed, whatever it might be. She wished with all her soul that this guy was already sitting in a jail, instead of looking at Hudson like he was a piece of meat.
Dead meat? Oakley didn’t know, and her heart clutched. His family had just reclaimed him. If he had ill intent, it had to be prevented. Roman couldn’t take that hope away from them again!
She glanced down at Hudson’s hand. His fist looked like it was clenched hard enough to crack a brazil nut.
“I asked, do you sing, kid?” Roman stopped circling, and started walking a slow pace back and forth in front of Hudson. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“That’s Pete Townsend.” Up walked Clyde, with Brinn on his arm. “He goes to my school. Doesn’t sing a note, but he’s half-okay on guitar.”
Oakley saw Hudson’s fist relax, and Clyde’s presence dialed down the tension in the room.
“Is there something you wanted, Mr. Levy?” Clyde asked. “Good to meet you, by the way.” He extended his hand. Roman ignored it.
“I like that—Mr. Levy. People all call me Mr. Levy these days.” He eyed Hudson really closely. “Almost nobody calls me Roman nowadays.” His eyes narrowed on Hudson.
Oakley’s insides tipped over, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out. Hudson had used the name Roman the first second he’d seen the guy. And it looked like Mr. Levy was asking the obvious question: why would Hudson have used that name if he wasn’t really Hudson?
“Isn’t that your name?” she said, throwing in her own jab, weak though it was. “I mean, sorry. Sometimes we teenagers goof up and call people by their first names. We need to learn manners. My mom is always all about manners. Manners are so important, don’t you think? I’ll work on teaching Pete here some.”
My 90s Boy Band Boyfriend: A YA Time Travel Rockstar Romance (Teen Queens Book 2) Page 28