Ardent Strangers

by Samantha Kately

  It’s now 7:40pm and the show is back. Me? I’m bouncing on the edge of the sofa as the first demo plays on the screen. Okay, so the first and last spots are gone. Only twenty-two to go…

  Agh!

  Three more demos and another ad-break and I’m hardly bouncing at all. Nine more demos of exceptionally good bands and soloists, along with three more ad-breaks, and I’ve stopped bouncing altogether.

  Arms wrap around me and I’m pulled backwards, falling into a wedge between the sofa and Agent Randall’s hard body. I fit perfectly beside him. Then I remember the deal—the waiting. I think of Nathaniel. I push myself up.

  “Eve, stay, please,” he murmurs behind me.

  “Fine.” I nestle back into his waiting arm, which snakes down my waist. He rubs his stubbly chin against the top of my head, giving me a reminder of who I’m leaning on, but I can’t afford to be too comfortable. “What happened to the no contact agreement?”

  “I’m preparing myself.”

  I shift onto my side so I can see him properly. “For what?”

  He brushes a kiss down my cheek, making me sigh in an embarrassingly happy way. “For when we lose. I seem to recall you were looking forward to the idea. Changed your mind?” He smiles, knowing damn well that I haven’t, because my mouth is following his, even as he backs away.

  “I think I’ll be sitting up now,” I mumble, grappling for the back of the sofa and jumping into my corner. He shakes his head, and I know it’s not the bank ad he finds entertaining.

  Original Star returns. Relief. Another seven demos later—some good, some average—and I’m slouched in my seat, my legs dangling over Aaron’s and onto the coffee table. He’s grunted countless times at the results and, truth be told, I can barely look at him. He wants this competition so badly. I’m nervous for him as well as for me. Although, come to think of it, he does seem rather fond of losing now that he’s started his ‘innocent’ seduction tactics a few minutes ago.

  “Alright, Australia, it’s time to reveal the top three spots,” Dan calls to the audience. As the crowd shouts out a jumble of names, Dan smiles into the camera. “Who do you think it will be?”

  “Probably not us,” Aaron mumbles to himself.

  We share a “Well, we gave it a go,” look and shrug.

  “I did warn you I was jinxed,” I say.

  “You’re right. I should have listened.” He rolls his eyes.

  “Told you.”

  A hush falls between us as Dan opens the card of parchment for the top three finalists. His eyes light up at what he sees. Unfortunately, Dan never reads the card aloud, because he says, “We will reveal all after the next ad-break, folks! Stay tuned!”

  The audience groan, Aaron grunts, and I sigh.

  It’s official. I hate ad-breaks!

  “Hey, Eve?” Aaron says.

  “Yeah?” I say tiredly, staring at the screen.

  “Maybe we were meant to make it on our own. You know, find a record label that fits us. Now that I think about it, we have rushed into this music thing pretty fast.”

  “Ha,” I say, half-smirking. “You’re worried about rushing the music?! In less than a week we’ve had a fling that’s already been and gone!”

  “About that. I’ve come to realize that losing the final twenty-four might not be such a bad thing.”

  “And why is that?”

  “No more waiting.”

  I keep my eyes glued to the television. He’s said the very thing I’ve wanted to hear, but now it’s like there is no turning back. I should be strong. The waiting plan is solid, reasonable, considering the amount of time we’ve known each other. I’m close to confessing, I want you. But I’m scared. This could turn out horribly.

  How do I say that?

  His large feet uncross, rub together, and re-cross on the coffee table. My eyes dart across to him and back to the television, but I can still picture all of him, still relaxed across the sofa, except for his mouth which has formed a hard line.

  Oh. He’s waiting for my response.

  “I…” I can’t speak.

  Dan Groen’s smile beams across the screen. He’s outside, walking down a city street, his voice slightly puffed as he says, “Get ready, folks. We are about to spring an unsuspecting visit on our top three act. Who will it be, nobody knows? Except me.” He points secretly at the camera, then to the next street corner.

  The sofa dips and Aaron sits beside me. He leans forward, intrigued by the revelation that the Original Star host might come knocking at our door. A camera is following Dan down a street. The host turns into a driveway with a picket fence and a weed infested garden. It’s not ours.

  I slump back against the sofa, while Aaron remains hunched forward, rubbing his steepled hands against his mouth. Whether he’s actually watching the show or not, I can’t tell, but I have an urge to run my hand down his back to see what happens. I’m about to do just that when I catch sight of the television.

  No sooner than Dan knocks on a yellow front door, a guy in his early twenties swings it open, smiling from ear-to-ear. He has a baseball cap, his blonde hair slicked back underneath. There’s some bling in his ears, and a tattoo at the base of his throat saying: ‘Touch me’. His jacket is oversized making his skinny jeans look disproportionate, but the crowd in the studio scream wildly. The guy has that clean-cut face that makes tween girls want to cry with giddiness. He has the opposite effect on me. There is something nauseating about him. Aaron is inclined to agree, given the sour grunt aimed at the television.

  “Rayne Wright,” exclaims Dan, “you are our number three man! Welcome to Original Star!”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” yells Rayne, bouncing onto the porch, picking up the shorter Dan and twirling him around, much to Dan’s delight. The two men slap each other on the back, then a flock of Rayne lookalikes fly out onto the porch, swamping him in hugs and adoration—three younger teenage brothers dressed in virtually the same gear, and his mum in glitzy makeup and a tight dress that she pulls off with youthful flair.

  Dan tilts the mic towards Ms. Wright. “How do you feel about your boy, here, becoming the next singing sensation?”

  She glances at Rayne, strokes her hair and grins, “I knew he had it in ‘im. Always knew my boy was somethin’ special, ever since he was a preschooler. Truly loved music.”

  Rayne is tearing up as they escort Dan and the camera crew into the house. Rayne is asked to perform his demo, and so he sits at the small keyboard in the minimal living room and plays a melody that repeats many times over, almost the entire song. But his voice is magic: pure and smooth and very R n’ B. Hearts must be falling in love with Rayne Wright all across the nation.

  A small interview begins with the Wright family and my eyes fall to Aaron.

  He hasn’t moved at all.

  There haven’t been many times in my life when I’ve actually felt my heart throbbing in my chest, but when it has I’ve imagined it striking my ribcage because it is so engorged with emotion. I felt it when my parents died, when I pulled out of the music degree, when Jeremy struck me and stalked me, and when Nathaniel and I were hanging from the bridge. Only a few momentous occasions.

  Like now.

  Taking a deep breath, I sit up beside him. He almost glances across at me but decides to cast his gaze at the front door instead.

  I’ve upset him. And all it took was silence.

  I stroke the back of his hair. He immediately sits up, ridged. I’m not sure if it’s out of anger or surprise, but I whisper, “Aaron. Are you sure you want this?”

  He looks over his shoulder at me, his gaze unwavering. “Yes.”

  I breathe, as if to speak. Again, I can’t think of a single word. We stare at each other, the television an annoying blur to what is possibly a life-altering moment, and then I’m in his arms, pulled onto his lap, still deciding whether we should wait. There is one more spot yet to be announced on Original Star, but more than that, I’m scared I’m about to get my heart brok
en, that I might be jumping into the biggest mistake of my life. And then there’s Nathaniel, untouchable Nathaniel, who I must let go.

  In the most tender way, Aaron rubs his thumb over my jaw, and I feel as nervous as if I was about to walk down the aisle. He frowns slightly. “I’m not sure you do, though.”

  I bite my lip, then throw my hands in the air. “I do, but I don’t. I want you to be ready. I want to be ready. I think we should wait.”

  “Wait for what? We’re out of the competition, Eve. There’s no deadline anymore. You can distract me all you want.”

  “And you said, not more than twelve hours ago, that you weren’t ready for a relationship, and I understand why.” I try not to mention his brother directly, but with the way his eyes cast to the floor we both know I’m talking about Damien. But there’s another reason I’m pushing back tears. “Do you know how hard it is for me to trust anyone after Jeremy?”

  “I’m not Jeremy.”

  “I know that. And what scares me more is that I actually trust you. That’s a big deal for me. I don’t want to lose that just because we moved too fast.”

  “How many people do you think begin relationships or elope after one or two dates?”

  I shrug, seeing his point. “A lot, I imagine.”

  “Exactly.” He grabs at my talking hands and holds them to his chest.

  “But we’re not eloping,” I clarify, in case he’s inadvertently proposed and I missed it.

  “No.” He smiles, then kisses me softly.

  “Okay,” I mumble through another kiss. I swing one leg on either side of his thighs and snake my hands through his hair, making myself at home. His eyes fill with mischief before the tip of his nose travels down my throat, breathing in what’s left of my floral perfume. Light kisses tingle my skin as his lips explore the small dips above my collarbone. He kisses my lips, his tongue soft but insistent against mine. I push off his shirt, breaking the kiss to disrobe him of his shirt. His hands tangle in my hair and slide to my face as his lips press down upon mine, as if he can never be close enough. And I want him closer. I do.

  His large hands skim my waist and yank at my sweater, sweeping it to the floor in seconds. A draught flows over my chest as he unhooks my bra. I push him back toward the cushions. One laugh-grunt later and he is flipping me beneath him, trailing warm fingers from my throat and down my chest. He snares my bra along the way, his mouth replacing where the lace had been. Aaron looks over my body in a way that makes me whimper in anticipation.

  I forgot how much he liked that particular sound, because he growls low and catches my mouth with his, claiming it with a fervor that I match. Another whimper from me, and he spreads my jean-clad legs with his knee. He is breathless, his eyes slightly hooded as he rests his weight above me.

  Knocking. At the door!

  I spring up, bumping my forehead into Aaron’s jaw. We both groan, holding our aching parts, then share a look of astonishment as we glance at the screen and back to each other.

  Damn. Our wooden door is on TV, along with the white Grecian pot on the porch, draped in ivy and roses. And now I can hear them, the camera crew, and the American accent of Hudson Wilmer outside.

  Aaron leaps up and grips his ruffled hair, then thinks to smooth it for the cameras. He scoops up his shirts and is dressed in seconds. Me? I don’t know where to start. I’m braless, topless, and my hair feels like a wire ball hanging down my back. Aaron is on it, dressing me, shoving my arms into my bra and the sweater back over my head. But as he dips his hands in his water glass and smooths his fingers over my hair I stare up at him, dying to know if this is it, if this is the moment we’re over.

  His deal had revolved around the competition—no distractions from the songwriting and rehearsing. I’m the biggest distraction of them all, apparently.

  “We’re on hold again, aren’t we?” I say.

  His mouth tightens.

  The door bangs again, and Hudson calls out, “Ardent Strangers, are you in there?”

  Aaron squeezes his eyes shut, rubs them, then stalks toward the door in all of three strides. I never see the door open, I only hear it a second before I slam my own bedroom door and slump behind it, breathing hard as I stare around my mess of a room.

  I’ve abandoned Aaron in our big moment. But I can’t be out there with those cameras and Hudson Wilmer Rock God extraordinaire, not while I’m a crying mess.

  Hudson’s voice sounds from the next room, “We only seem to have one half of Ardent Strangers, boys and girls. Aaron, don’t tell me you and Evangeline have had a lovers tiff?”

  Lovers tiff? The guy might be joking, but he also might be psychic.

  Aaron mumbles something, and my stomach churns as I picture a surly looking Aaron pretending that nothing’s amiss. The vindictive part of me thinks he deserves a little payback. For all his talk of not wanting to wait, in the end he put a music show before me.

  I wipe at my eyes and groan. He might have been the one who decided to enter the competition, but I had agreed.

  I groan again. This is his dream. Do I really want to trample on somebody’s dream? Especially Aaron’s?

  (But he did trample all over my heart.)

  “Now where has Evangeline fled to?” asks Hudson.

  “Excuse me a moment,” Aaron says.

  Footsteps thud against the carpet, moving closer.

  “We seem to be having some technical problems, boys and girls,” Hudson says grumpily. “Is she in there?”

  On the other side of the door, Aaron grunts in an affirmative way. The door pushes against my back, opening an inch. “Eve, are you coming out?” he murmurs.

  I don’t know what I expected him to say, but I thought it might be sorry.

  I bang my head against the door. It closes shut. Aaron is gone.

  A guitar strums from the next room. Then I hear it, our demo song played solo. Aaron’s voice sounds through the walls, a little rougher and earthier than I’m used to hearing. I feel as if I’m responsible for the care of that voice, and at the moment it sounds like I’ve mistreated it just like my piano.

  I jump up and stumble to the mirror atop my tallboy. My eyes are shiny pools of deep blue, my dark eyelashes wet. I look too pale, my blush streaked with tear lines. My hair is in matted tangles—a result of Aaron’s kisses earlier. Kisses I no longer have.

  Picking up the nearest t-shirt I press it over my face, dry it, and dust on some blush and lipstick, praying it’s enough. Honestly, I look a little feral, but I dart through the door, barely taking in the camera guy and the boom guy extending a large microphone towards the sofa where Aaron is singing. Alone.

  Hudson breaks into a smile at the sight of me. The camera flicks to me as I rush to the sofa and snatch up my guitar from its usual spot. But Aaron doesn’t look at me as he sings the end of the first verse, and he’s the one person I need to see. He begins the interlude before the chorus. It’s an eerie melody on its own, until I strum my guitar in an accelerated beat over his and the music bursts to life. I throw out my voice, scared that if I don’t it won’t come out at all. “I’m running now, I’m running now. I’m running low. I’m running low.”

  “I will find you,” he sings, looking up at me for the first time, a dark promise in his eyes. To all the world it must look as if he’s acting, playing out the stalker element of the song, but I know it’s part of our unfinished argument, that he’s as hurt by it as I am.

  For a second, I forget to sing. Aaron frowns slightly, but follows my lead as I add an extra four beats so I can come in on time. I belt out the high part, “I can’t run anymore. I can only slam the door….” As I meet Aaron’s eyes and become trapped by his intensity, my voice turns breathless, “But it’s not enough. You will always find me.”

  “I will always find you,” he sings, his rich voice hanging in the air.

  Silence presses around the room. Aaron and I are still staring at each other. Hudson finally steps between us, facing the camera, and Aaron gives me a gra
teful nod.

  “You see that?” Hudson points from the camera to Aaron and me on the sofa. “Now that’s what good looks like, people!”

  Looking down at my guitar I give a small laugh, while Aaron grunts lightly. But I feel like it’s impossible to lift my head. Not only is it hard to look at Aaron again, I think I’ve gone a little camera shy. Discovering that fact comes at the worst possible moment, for Hudson holds out his hand and I nervously shake it. His grip is hot as he guides me to my feet, directly in front of the cameras. Hudson might be in his early thirties, but small lines crease his eyes as he gives me a smile that makes my cheeks heat.

  “Evangeline, a pleasure…” Hudson says, as he leans down and kisses the back of my hand. There’s no question that I’m blushing. From embarrassment, mostly.

  Aaron grunts in the background. At least he’s not totally devoid of emotion for me.

  “Hi,” I say, remembering to look at Hudson and the camera.

  Hudson smiles at me, a genuine smile that is meant to ease my nerves. He holds his earpiece for a moment, then sighs. “Normally, I wouldn’t be one to bother with gossipy questions, but I have two of them.”

  “Oh?”

  “Firstly, there are many out there who are curious about your band name, Ardent Strangers.” He seems to notice that I’ve gone deathly pale, because he directs the rest of the question to Aaron, who rises from the chair. “Is there any truth to the name when it comes to the two of you?”

  I’m surprised when Aaron clears his throat. One, this is Aaron, confident in practically everything—except for now. Two, he’s actually going to give an answer. “Considering Evangeline and I met early Monday morning and it’s now Wednesday night, I think we can safely say that the ‘Stranger’ part is true.”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped.