“It is my first name.” He still hadn’t paid attention to Clyde or Brinn yet, and he pointedly ignored Oakley’s lame tangent about manners. “It is Roman. Yup, indeed. I haven’t used since the nineties, though.” He let that revelation echo around them, keeping his gaze focused on Hudson.
Oakley couldn’t take it another second.
“Was there something you wanted to speak to us about, Mr. Levy?” She slid her shoulder in front of her boyfriend, breaking Mr. Levy’s stare. “Is there a reason you came all the way backstage from your judging booth right before the live show begins? It must be important. How can we help you?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” He swiveled his gaze toward her. Oakley felt like she’d fallen into a grease pit. That had never happened to her before. It had to be part of the hunch—a hunch she still didn’t know whether or not to trust. Hudson wasn’t giving her enough clues. “I overheard you’re planning to use a Girl Crazy track for your live performance today.”
“You heard that?” She tried to ask this innocently.
“I did. And I’m going to advise against it strongly.”
“Why is that, sir?”
Oakley’s mind raced. She had so much alleged dirt on this guy. Like the fact he’d lied to the members of Girl Crazy about their parents asking for money. Like the fact that there were accusations that he’d downed the plane and taken the life insurance of two of the murder victims. In show biz, like politics lately, reputation could be everything. Some scandals could be gotten past, but murder was much more difficult.
Theft, almost impossible.
People in show business took their pocketbooks very seriously. Sherm had made that very clear to her time and again. It was what he explained every time he harped on the let your lawyer read your contract thing.
Yeah, with all that dirt, Oakley could throw it everywhere and make the air in here so filthy it could blind people—if that was the right thing to do.
Was it? And what would be the right timing? Not in front of only Hudson and her two high school friends. That would be like exploding all ammo when no enemy troops were nearby.
Oh, she didn’t know!
Well, she could drop in conversation that she knew he’d been Girl Crazy’s manager when the plane went down.
Or … she could play dumb. She aimed for dumb.
“But I really, really love Girl Crazy. Remember? I sang it before? I mean, I kind of stunk up the beginning, but people still liked it and stuff. It’s a great song. They were a great band. I love them. Seriously.”
Had she just said that aloud? If she’d aimed for dumb, she’d hit the bull’s eye.
And she hadn’t quit firing yet. “I mean, I know they say not to use unknown music, that the judges will vote me off the show. But I love it so much, I can’t see how they will refuse. I mean, I guess that’s you, too, right? You’re not going to vote me down if it’s a song by your former band and stuff. Wouldn’t it be awesome to relive the old days?”
Roman smirked. “You presume much. Often I’ve seen teenagers get caught up in a certain song that will never be a hit, especially with bad lyrics they’ve written themselves.”
Oooh! Oakley’s skin bunched up at the top of her spine. He was one to talk about bad lyrics! “Lunch Lady,” anyone? Come on! But she just kept her face a mask. “Is that so? Because remember? I rewrote some of ‘Sweet Sixteen’ last time, and I think it kinda worked. I mean, mostly. And stuff.”
If she heard herself and stuff aloud one more time, she’d gag on her own tongue.
“Here’s the bottom line, kids. On this show, if you want to be a radio star, you have to choose a song that will earn radio play.” He stepped too close to her, so close Oakley could smell the clove-scent on his breath. “And since you’re auditioning for the show, I feel it’s safe to assume you do, in fact, want to be a radio star. This is a friendly warning.”
Warning? Had he really just used the word warning? Her eyes flew upward and met his. In Levy’s glare flashed an unmistakable warning—one that said, Back off, kid. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.
Her hunch read it loud and clear.
“Now, if you’ll just hand over the recording of the track”—He glanced between Oakley and Hudson, and his eyes suddenly narrowed. His voice went into a tight hiss—“all recordings of the track.” To Oakley, it seemed like Roman suddenly thought of himself as the reincarnation of Voldemort, the way he spoke.
Hudson grabbed her hand and squeezed hard, communicating that it was taking all his will power to keep his mouth shut. Speaking any more than necessary might give away his voice. He had a very distinctive voice.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Oakley gave a simple shrug and flip of her hair. “I handed the only copy I had to your staffer. The guy with the black turtleneck and hands that look like they could squish a Great Dane.” It was a lie. She’d given it to the guy in the sound booth. But Farley had claimed he’d worked for Roman for thirty years. “You know—Farley?”
“To Farley?” Levy sprang back, suddenly pleased. But Hudson squeezed her hand—harder. “Very good. Very good. Well, I do wish you the best on your performance. You’ll be doing the Jerica Jones song, I believe.”
“I will?” It wasn’t that Oakley disputed him. It was that she genuinely wanted to know something: “Does this mean the votes have been counted? Did I beat Greed?”
Without missing a beat, Roman spoke into a walkie-talkie just like those of everyone else working for the show. “Farley, I need you in hallway four, stat.”
Fewer than ten seconds later, the door flew wide, banging against the brick wall.
“Here I am, boss.” Farley chugged into the room, and Oakley noticed for the first time that he walked with a distinct limp. “Already grabbed this from the sound booth.” He opened his meaty fist and showed his boss the thumb drive.
Aw, man! Thwarted.
Worse, she’d lied for no reason. A sinking on roughly the scale of Atlantis started in her tummy. Beside Oakley, Hudson began to shake—and it felt like a rage-shake, not a fear-shake. A glance at him showed his face had turned red, and his eyes looked like they could laser-slice someone into a thousand ribbons. His gaze wasn’t trained on Roman, though.
It was aimed right at Farley.
“I’ll take that.” Roman snatched it up from Farley. “She won’t be needing it. No one will.”
Beside them, Clyde sucked a sharp intake of breath, but Oakley stepped on his foot in her red, high-heeled boots, and he said ow instead of hey, that’s mine. Crisis averted.
With a fakey-fake smile, Roman turned to Oakley at last. “You’ll be going on live TV in seven minutes. You will sing the number by Jerica Jones.”
And with that, Roman walked off with Oakley’s best chance of getting three yes votes. She’d be betraying her promise to the audience, and she’d be letting her mom—who hated Jerica Jones, and the Boots of Amazingness, and Hudson down.
Most of all, herself.
***
The villain Roman Levy had their only copy of the track. Clyde hadn’t brought more than one. He shouldn’t have needed to. No one expected the creator and producer of the show would steal it personally.
Sheesh.
They’d followed Roman out to watch which direction he’d gone, and now they stood at the craft services table, as a cover for their useless spy efforts. Roman had disappeared, and so had the thumb drive.
Although all the tension in the world couldn’t have stopped Clyde from eating everything within reach; Hudson looked dark, touching none of the greasy muffins or dry deli sandwiches.
“Hudson,” Oakley whispered his name, in case spies of another side were listening. “Are you okay?”
“Considering the fact I may have just confronted the murderer of my three best friends and the nicest plane pilot anybody ever hired? Sure, I’m doing fabulous.”
Oakley would have run her hands through her hair in frustration but for the helmet of hairspray on it.
/> “Do you really think he did it?”
“I don’t know.” Hudson shook his head. “He’s not the guy I used to think he was. I’m not sure he was ever the guy I used to think he was.”
Clyde said through a full mouth, “He’s a liar. I can read liars like billboards.”
“Why do you say that?” Oakley genuinely wanted to know, even though she kind of doubted Clyde would have a valid reason, or anything stronger than her own lame hunch.
“Because he made no reaction when we dropped the fake name Pete Townsend. He was busy trying to disguise all his emotions. He was scared of getting discovered, I could tell.”
It made more sense than Oakley’s hunch. Well, marginally more sense. Sort of.
She turned to Hudson. “Well, points for this, though. It was strong of you not to punch him in the face.” She actually had been impressed with his self-control. “After meeting him, what do you think of your parents’ theory?”
She waited, listening hard. Hudson’s answer would determine how she went forward. She may not trust her own instincts, but Hudson was a practiced hunch recognizer.
“Oh, believe me,” Hudson answered at last. “I know they’re right. No question, Roman had something to do with the plane crash.”
Clyde bobbled his monster-sized cupcake. “Wait, are you saying he’s done something beyond being a jerky manager and giving you bad lyrics? Because that in itself is a grievous sin, as we have established.”
Oakley gave Clyde and Brinn the thumbnail version of Hudson’s parents’ suspicions. There wasn’t time for more. It was almost time for the show to start.
And I was voted onto TV! Oakley gulped, the tension rising again. Until she remembered she was being bullied into singing those insipid lyrics of Jerica Jones’s song—and breaking her promise, as well. Ugh.
“Wow. Seriously.” After listening to the explanation, Brinn dropped her arm, and nearly dropped her ham sandwich. “I knew there was something wrong about that jerk—besides the fact he took your song.” A low growl erupted from her throat. “I could just—”
“I know the word you’re thinking of: maim. But look, nobody’s maiming anybody here,” Oakley said, jumping in. “There’s been enough of that.” Her glance shot toward Hudson, and he slumped a little. “Sorry. We are really, really sorry for the band, Hudson.”
“Which is why I have to do something for them,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “I mean, I have to do everything I can for them. This has to be made right.”
Oakley couldn’t imagine how, but she recalled what Hudson had said a few minutes before about knowing Roman had done it, and she asked him what he’d meant.
“How do you know he did it? What are you basing that on?”
Was Hudson like Oakley, and just going on a gut feeling? She hoped he had more than that, and more than a Clyde-type instinct, too.
“When I was standing there hearing him order you to sing a song you hated, I flashed back to our conversation from that night in the rain. I heard it again in my mind, verbatim.” Hudson took an orange from the table and tossed it hard back and forth between his hands, like an angry game of catch with himself. “I remembered something. Something important.”
“What?” Oakley’s fingers and toes went cold with fear.
“Well,” Hudson said, “you saw that Farley dude.”
“The big guy? Mustache, serious limp?” Clyde drew a pantomime mustache on his face. “Really big guy?”
“He has one leg. And I know how Roman crashed the plane.” Hudson blinked three times. “Farley.”
Oakley’s hand flew to her throat, where it clutched against the crush of her windpipe.
Before she could breathe out the horrified word how, up walked Farley—again. All four of them turned toward him. All the blood drained from Oakley’s face, leaving it cold and clammy, like her hands.
“You’re on deck, Miss Marsden.”
She examined him, her hunch-systems on high alert. Farley didn’t look like a killer. Or a plane crasher. He was huge, but he was harmless. Well, not exactly harmless, but also not malicious. Then again, if this guy had an act and was fooling her into thinking he was all right, she relinquished her claim of being a judge of character forevermore.
“The rest of you stay here in friends and family room six, please. Wait here. The crew will be in shortly with cameras and mics.”
Where was Farley taking her? She didn’t think she’d be up so early in the show’s lineup. Oakley gripped Hudson’s hand hard. “Should I go with him?” she hissed through her worry. Hudson gave a sharp nod. Oakley had no choice.
Live TV was waiting.
***
Under lights that seemed a thousand times hotter this time, and with the once-screaming crowd now silenced, Oakley planted the heels of the Boots of Amazingness on the top tier of the tri-level stage. Her earpiece itched, and her sweating palm might let the microphone slip right out of it onto the floor with a clunk. Farley breathed down her neck. He didn’t strike her as dangerous, but maybe she was fooling herself. He could be waiting to strangle her.
Anything could happen. This was live TV.
“You’ll be singing Jerica Jones.” A meaty finger poked into the center of her back. It could have been a gun. Its circumference felt similar. “Got that?”
“It seems like I have no choice.” Her voice cracked. The frogs were back—in full force. Her knees knocked, but the Boots of Amazingness kept her upright. At least there was that.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Troy’s dulcet voice hollered over the loud roar of the crowd, “all the way from Wood River, Oregon—Oakley M.!”
The thumping beat of the Jerica Jones hit reverberated in the auditorium. The crowd had hated her first version an hour before, the one where she’d tried to sound exactly like the pop star who made the song a hit. And she sent an apologetic shrug to the guy with the Marry Me, Oakley! sign.
They might never forgive me.
“Tender is your kiss.” She hung on the i of kiss in a way that might make Jerica frown. Also, Oakley refused to chew on the r of tender, lifting the song from the gutter that lay between country music and pop, where Jerica had ground it into dust with the sharp spikes of her stiletto shoes.
“Tender is my heart.” Oakley gave a vocal flourish on the word heart. It was her own touch, her own style added to the song. And then she gave it an even bigger change—she switched up the lyrics, the cadence, the way the rhyme covered two lines instead of ending on the predictable end of a couplet. “Give me one more sign, and I’ll soon reveal a part … of … me.”
A gasp lifted from the judges’ desk. Not only did they look taken aback by the way Oakley lifted the song’s melody an octave, they’d also noticed her switcheroo on the lyrics. The female judge elbowed the skinny-tie guy with the man bun, and they started whispering during that dratted early guitar solo.
Oakley was going for it. Big time. No looking back, no regrets. Improvising, writing the words as she went, going for it.
If they were going to force her sing Jerica’s melody, she’d at least make it her own lyrics and style. It was the only way to be true to her audience in any fashion under the circumstances.
She had to be herself. Fully.
Take that, Roman Levy, you old crustacean.
The guitar solo ended. It was time to sing again. “Pure and fine our connection. I will risk your rejection. I’ll risk it all. For you.” The words were just flowing now, making more sense to her as she let them pour from her mouth, not the original, but words that reflected how she felt about Hudson. “You came across miles and years.” He’d come farther to be with her than anyone else she’d ever heard of. “Even though our love’s impossible, you’re with me, and you’re here with your kiss I can’t forget.”
The words told the story of how she felt about Hudson, and she knew she was being like those yahoos on TV dating shows who bared their souls before cameras, but here she was. Singing with her eyes closed, caring for him so
much.
If she could see him now, she’d probably cry. It was a good thing Hudson was secreted away in the friends and family room. She pictured him in her mind’s eye as she continued to let her heart open and share with him the things she’d felt so intensely, even over a short time. With her eyes still shut, she pictured Hudson’s face, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he was laughing, his killer smile, the way he bit his lower lip when he was thinking, the gaze he gave her when he was coming in for a kiss, and the earnest look when he was determined to find out the truth about something.
He was amazing. In next to no time he’d embedded himself into her soul. Well, she ought to take into account the fact that her mom’s affection for him all Oakley’s life had prepped her to love him in a uniquely weird way. It was almost like an arranged relationship, but weirder. For sure.
“I’ve known you just days, but those days are more than always.” How her lyrics matched up with the rhythm of the original song was nothing short of a lyricist miracle. “I’m falling, falling far. It’s tender. This falling. Tender, tender, tender is our new—found—love.”
She punched the final note, taking it into her head voice, and making it scrape the rafters of the studio, even though most of her time she spent as a serious alto. With this feat, she’d shown them her range, and she knew with all her heart she’d nailed that note. Take that, Jerica Jones.
Oakley broke into the broadest smile, one so wide her lips might have split, and opened her eyes at last.
What would the audience do? She’d betrayed them—lied. But she’d still given them something new. And it was connected to Girl Crazy, even if the audience had no way of knowing it. She’d written it for the Girl Crazy lead singer. She wished she dared tell her listeners that truth. But it wasn’t the moment.
A long pause ensued, silence reigning in the theater. She’d either stunned them in a good way or a bad. She couldn’t tell.
She couldn’t breathe.
What did they think? What did the judges think?
The three yes votes awaited her. Or the four no votes.
My 90s Boy Band Boyfriend: A YA Time Travel Rockstar Romance (Teen Queens Book 2) Page 29