Treble Maker

by Annabeth Albert

  “Not on campus, no. And not in any of the university apartments.” Lucas tugged at his shirt collar, knowing his babble was confirming this dude’s judgment about who Lucas was and where he came from.

  “Never tempted to spike the Kool-Aid? Sneak a cold one into the big game?” Cody’s eyes danced as he took another swig. “You’re missing out, man.”

  “And you’re going to miss out on the show if they toss you out for ignoring the rules and bringing in alcohol.”

  “Alcohol.” The kid feigned innocence, all big blue eyes and pouty lips. “Who said anything about alcohol? This is my special recovery serum.”

  “Whatever.” Lucas rolled his eyes. Hot as the guy was, his teasing was starting to grate. “It would suck if you got cut. You’ve got the best voice here.”

  A broad smile wiped out Cody’s smirk. He seemed to stand a bit taller. “The best, huh?”

  “Eh.” Lucas hadn’t really meant to toss that last bit in—it was the truth, but this kid’s ego needed no extra encouragement. “One of the best.”

  “The best guy? The best tenor? The best soloist?” Clearly enjoying himself, Cody relaxed back into the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, flask dangling from two fingers.

  “The best guy under twenty wearing red pants and stupid shoes.” Lucas didn’t mind the kid’s limitless ego, but he did mind him having fun at Lucas’s expense. That, and the kid’s shoes really were stupid. No dude—no matter how hard they were going after hottie of the month—ever needed sparkly silver combat boots. The kid had bigger feet than Lucas’s own sturdy size 11s. Which, of course, made Lucas think about where else the guy might be bigger . . .

  “I’m twenty-three.” Cody’s satisfied smile didn’t waver.

  No way was he twenty-three. Cody’s face was so smooth he probably never needed to shave. Lucas scratched at his own stubbly jaw.

  Coming over here had been a terrible idea. He needed to end this, get back to his group, and try not to embarrass them royally when it was their turn to rehearse on stage. Cody did indeed have a terrific voice and his stage presence was amazing, but Lucas’s group, the M&Ms from Mount Monticello, were in this to win it, too. Mount Monticello was a tiny school located in equally tiny Austerity, Iowa—not where anyone would expect to find glamour or national talent—but the M&Ms had been racking up awards at regional contests for decades. A show like Perfect Harmony was priceless exposure for the whole college. Plus a win would be the best gift he could ever give his dad.

  “Wanna know a secret?” Cody leaned closer, and Lucas’s brain stuttered. He literally forgot to think for several long seconds, his eyes locked on those lips, his nose filled with the scent of artificial apples and . . . garlic? “There’s no booze in here—just Earl Grey tea, cayenne pepper, lemon, and crushed garlic. See for yourself?”

  Cody shoved the flask under Lucas’s nose. Sure enough, there was no bracing whiskey odor, just a lingering scent of bad Thai food.

  “Ugh. I might hurl.” Lucas tried to keep his voice indifferent and slightly repulsed. Tried to tell himself that feeling honored that Cody wanted to share anything with him was ridiculous.

  “It’s the flask. Anything tastes better out of something pretty.” Cody winked at him. “And don’t knock it until you try it. Isn’t your throat raw from all this—” He made a sweeping gesture to indicate the bubbling chaos around them. Next up on the day’s agenda was a stage run-through of the groups’ individual numbers. Contestants were practicing vocals and dance steps using every method and space available. Lucas had sung more in the last forty-eight hours than he usually did in a month. Not that he’d admit that to the double entendre king, who managed to make raw throat sound like the sexiest thing ever.

  Cody kept the flask right there beside Lucas’s mouth. This was a test of some sort, one Lucas had no intention of participating in. He raised his hand, intending to push it away, but stopped at the brief flash of uncertainty in Cody’s eyes. That little hint of vulnerability in the guy’s expression was all it took to get Lucas to accept the flask, fingers brushing against his as he accepted the metal container.

  Lucas didn’t bother wiping the flask off—that was part of Cody’s unspoken challenge. He probably expected Lucas to drop it in horror, running away from the queer germs, like a fifth grader on the playground. But Lucas wasn’t scared of gay cooties—he was what he was. This was as close as his mouth would ever come to Cody’s. He knew who he was—and what he wouldn’t—couldn’t—do. The warmth of Cody’s fingers lingered on the stainless steel like invisible fingerprints. He imagined that luscious mouth leaving behind an imprint as well, a little trace of heat for his lips to find—

  “Ugh!” The vile concoction hit Lucas’s tongue, putting an end to his fantasies. Maybe he should make a quart of the nasty stuff for next time his dick needed rapid deflating. Ginger and garlic clogged his sinuses. His eyes watered.

  Cody laughed—just like Lucas’s cousins had, that time they’d tricked him into tasting brandy. Like back then, his first reaction was violence. Lucas’s fists clenched, drawing back—

  “Lucas! What the heck, man?” Winston came loping up. He’d stuck his tie in his pocket and had unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Winston hated their costumes and had complained all morning about having to wear them for the rehearsal. “It’s almost our turn.”

  “Sorry.” Lucas coughed, trying to clear his throat of the drink and his brain of the anger, and trying to summon up gratitude that the M&Ms had sent their most laid-back group member after him.

  “Lucas.” Cody said his name like it was the answer to a Jeopardy question. His eyes went wide and a strange smile played on his lips. “I should have known.”

  “What?” Anger returned in a rush, making his voice rougher than the stupid tea had.

  Cody laughed like there was a joke Lucas wasn’t getting—and undoubtedly it involved him and his clumsy feet. The groups had been rehearsing in LA for two days, but clearly Lucas’s reputation had already been cemented: Watch out for that one. He can’t stay upright.

  “Nothing. Only that I should have known you’d have the perfect angelic name, choirboy.” He tapped Lucas’s shoulder as he walked away. The contact lasted a fraction of a second, but it sizzled down Lucas’s arm.

  “Come on. O’Malley’s going to have a fit.” Winston made an impatient gesture.

  Lucas sped up to catch up with Winston’s longer strides. His brain felt clogged, like the stage’s giant industrial fans were sucking all the oxygen out of the air. He tugged his tie off as he followed Winston, resisting the urge to look back at Cody. No guy—no matter how distractingly sexy—was going to keep Lucas from giving 100 percent toward an M&M win.

  Chapter Two

  The craft service people had taken over the lobby of the theater, cramming in folding tables and chairs amid the Art Deco walls and long benches covered in faded velvet. Yesterday, the food tables had been wedged into the backstage area. In the morning they’d had doughnuts and coffee in the rear of the theater. The show got a good deal on the eightysomething-year-old theater, but Lucas was glad he wasn’t the one in charge of logistics for a hundred-plus performers and a TV crew in the ancient building.

  “Anything good left?” Cody’s smooth voice sent a ripple up Lucas’s spine. “Man. These lines are almost as bad as being back in band camp.”

  “You went to band camp?” Lucas bobbled his plate, sending chips scattering across the white tablecloth of the craft service table. Red-faced, he scooped them back up, glancing over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching.

  “Until I got into show choir, yeah.” Cody reached around him to grab some taco chips. Their arms bumped, and another mosquito-zapper buzz shot through Lucas.

  “Sorry.” He moved out of the way. “Having trouble picturing you as a music nerd.”

  “No kidding.” Cody laughed, like Lucas had paid him a compliment. “It’s amazing what a difference a few years in LA, a decent haircut, and tattoo joints can make
.”

  Tattoos. Lucas risked letting his eyes perform a quick scan of Cody’s body. There was a hint of black ink poking out from the short sleeve of Cody’s shirt and another hint just beneath one of his collarbones. Good-bye, any hope of making his feet and voice work together. He’d be obsessed the rest of the day, speculating what the tattoos looked like and where else Cody might have ink. . . .

  “Where are you from originally?” He spoke fast, trying to outrace his fantasies.

  “Iowa.” Ninety percent of the cheer dropped out of Cody’s voice. “Des Moines area.”

  “Really? I’m from Iowa, too. Austerity—up in the northwest corner.”

  “I know.” A hint of a smile tugged at Cody’s lips. “Says so on your vest.” He tapped the insignia patch on Lucas’s vest.

  “Oh. Yeah.” Lucas coughed. Time to stop talking. Grabbing the nearest sandwich, he didn’t bother to check what was on it. He’d happily suffer both tomatoes and mustard if it meant getting away from Cody and his own inability to shut up.

  Even with his eyes averted, he could sense Cody looming over him. It wasn’t like Lucas was short, but he’d been taller than most guys freshman year of high school and then bang! Everyone else shot up and Lucas clung to five foot ten, while his body tried to find places for what his mom called “baby fat” to go.

  “Oh. My. God. What is that girl wearing?” Cody asked.

  Grateful for a distraction, Lucas followed Cody’s gaze to an all-girl table. The soloist who had the verse after Cody in the opening number was wearing some sort of shimmery full-body leotard. Not for the first time, Lucas wished such a display did something for him. Nope. The glittering curves didn’t inspire even a twinge of physical interest. The girl group called themselves Divas Unite. Lucas gave wide berth to anyone who voluntarily labeled herself a diva.

  “Guys in my group are going to want to send her a thank-you note,” Lucas said.

  “Is that so?” Cody tilted his head, his eyes narrowing.

  Heck. Lucas had said too much. Or not enough. Cody gave Lucas a slow appraisal that made Lucas’s breath hitch. Cody was all icy-blue eyes and rings in strange yet beautiful places, and those lips . . . Ducking his head, Lucas scooted his plate down the table. He grabbed a fistful of celery and carrot sticks, even though he’d rather load up on the huge platter of cookies.

  “Dude. Just take a cookie. Or four.” Cody reached around him, taking one of each of the kinds. “Not like your mommy’s here to care.”

  Lucas wasn’t sure he cared for Cody’s tendency to treat him like he was fourteen, but there was a certain appeal to the guy’s lack of a verbal filter.

  “No, thanks.” Temptation was easier to resist altogether than to ration. Despite a ton of psych classes, Lucas’s brain stayed stuck on all-or-nothing thinking. One cookie led to ten cookies . . .

  “Your loss.” Cody’s head shake made his dark hair dance across his forehead. Rivers of hot fudge weren’t nearly as deadly to Lucas’s willpower as Cody’s sly smile. “But we wouldn’t want you stumbling around later because of low blood sugar.”

  Lucas made a noncommittal sound and grabbed a diet soda. If he was stumbling around after lunch, it wouldn’t be because of blood sugar. Why wouldn’t Lucas’s feet obey his orders to trot over to his friends? He’d listen to their jokes about leotard girl. He’d smile like he knew what in the heck they were talking about and he’d file his own distractions away. But instead, he stood there, pretending to scan for a table, waiting to hear what snark came out of Cody’s mouth next.

  “Geez. This whole thing reminds me of the trailer for that new Steve Carell and Will Ferrell movie, where they get trapped in backin-high-school hell.” Cody made a dismissive gesture toward the clique-filled crowd of Perfect Harmony participants. “Next they’ll be assigning us lockers and handing out hall passes.”

  “The school buses are bad enough.” Lucas hated that the show was using rented buses to transport the groups back and forth from the hotel to the studio. The cracked leather seats and years of stink made Lucas’s stomach churn.

  “Nah. I’ve got some fond memories of buses. Late at night. Taking the long way back from away games.” Cody winked.

  “I haven’t seen the new Ferrell movie.” Lucas’s voice sped up again, trying to outrace what that wink was doing to his insides. “Saw they’ve got it on Pay-Per-View at the hotel, though.” He really didn’t need to be thinking about what sort of things Cody could get up to in the dark. Blood rushed south. He was going to need the world’s longest cold shower as soon as they broke for the day.

  “You wanna watch it tonight? You could come by. I’m in 637.” Cody said it offhandedly, but his eyes shifted around, something cautious in his gaze.

  “Uh . . .” No way on earth could Lucas handle being alone in a room with Cody. Not to mention the chances that the invitation was either a hoax or some sort of strategy to get ahead on the show.

  “Or not,” Cody said. “It’s no biggie.”

  Whatever brush-off Lucas had planned fled after he saw the delicate roll of Cody’s shoulders. To anyone else, that shrug probably looked like another careless gesture from a brash kid. But Lucas saw Cody’s eyes, saw the way they skittered away at Lucas’s hesitance. And maybe it was all part of some sort of take-out-the-weakest-link competitive strategy. And maybe public—or private—humiliation loomed. And maybe—make that surely—Lucas would kick himself later for being delusional that he could be friends with this guy.

  But none of that was enough to keep Lucas from nodding. He struggled to contain the warm flutter in his chest. “Yeah. I might come by.”

  “Dude, it’s like you’re not even trying.”

  “I am.” Lucas sank into the desk chair in the far corner of the room. Like that would help him escape the wrath of Chuck O’Malley, fearless leader of the M&Ms and current bane of Lucas’s existence. The argument had started on the bus on the way back to the hotel and continued in the elevator, and O’Malley seemed prepared to keep it up all night. “It’s not easy.”

  “You sound like crap, too.” O’Malley paced, wearing down the carpet in front of the beds in Lucas and Winston’s hotel room. O’Malley’s bright red hair had more spike than usual and his freckles stood out against his pasty skin.

  “No, he doesn’t.” Winston threw his sweatshirt on his bed. Lucas shot him a grateful look. “He sounds the same as always. When he stays upright.”

  “Gee. Thanks, man.”

  “You did take out a stage lamp.” Winston loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. His closely cropped black hair was sweaty and he looked ready for a shower.

  “And Trevor,” O’Malley added. He flapped his gangly arms impatiently. Taller than both Lucas and Winston, he liked to use his height as a weapon.

  Lucas rubbed his sore knee and waited for the lecture to end. He’d had three wipeouts, including the one that had sent poor Trevor skittering across the stage. The dance steps for their signature song were even more ambitious than the group opening number. Apparently, last year’s winning group had done all sorts of crazy choreography, and Winston and O’Malley were all over trying to duplicate it.

  As far as the group was concerned, his lack of coordination and grace had him skating across ice more suspect than the crust on the campus lake in March. He was there because of who his dad was, how low his voice could go, and the fact that the group hadn’t been able to find anyone better. But he’d heard the rumblings. Some guys wouldn’t mind doing without an ultralow bass if it meant the M&Ms looked better on camera.

  The show did a ratings-booster thing, after the first episode round, where groups could ditch a member in favor of picking up one from an eliminated group. Considering a cappella’s reputation for having a collegial, almost familylike atmosphere, this was a diabolical move on the show’s part to introduce drama.

  And it was working—worry dogged Lucas even harder than O’Neal. Every gripe session felt like another strike on an invisible chart. He could feel eac
h X lining up next to his name, counting down toward his elimination.

  “Stop acting like I can’t sing,” Lucas said. “I got a lot of accolades at Spring Fling last year. And the regional judges always have good things to say about our low end.” The M&Ms didn’t win championships, but they didn’t get booed off the stage either.

  “Exactly. What gives, man?” Winston’s mouth pursed with concern, but his brown eyes looked like he couldn’t give a crap. This was why Lucas had lingered in the food line letting Cody talk his ear off. Lately, hanging out with the guys who were supposed to be his friends was anything but friendly or relaxing. He was almost more tired of Winston’s fake concern than of the outright mockery of the others.

  Things didn’t used to be like this. Before they’d made the TV show, Winston had been Lucas’s laid-back buffer against the more . . . strident leadership of the group. O’Neal had always been insufferable, but Lucas had Winston and his other buds. Being a part of the group meant singing for dorm parties, volunteering at the local school, and getting to perform in the end-of-term musical showcases. The local spotlight was the perfect size for Lucas, but apparently the rest of the group had been craving the bright lights of the TV show.

  The fact that all the guys seemed eager to try fancy dance moves instead of their tried-and-true configuration of a semicircle behind the soloist was proof they’d been struck with some kind of hit-it-big fever. Sure, for competitions and big year-end shows they might do some jumping around or simple choreography, but they’d always stuck to basics: stand up, sing, and sound good.

  “Maybe if we wake up early, I can walk you through the steps again,” Winston offered. With his compact muscles and athletic coordination, he wasn’t struggling with the dance moves.

  “Sure.” All the practice in the world wasn’t going to fix Lucas’s feet. Lucas’s stomach twisted around itself. He hated this feeling, like a cloud of judgment hovered overhead, finding him lazy and lacking.