Treble Maker

by Annabeth Albert

Or okay, the second to the last thing he needed was a lecture from Trevor, because Dawn was currently holding up the absolute number-one thing he didn’t need. Her hand swung back and forth, like a clock clicking down to what promised to be his most humiliating moment ever—even worse than when he’d taken out the entire woodwind section with an ill-timed half-time show skid that ended up with his uniform pants split, angry flutists, and a dressing-down from the director in front of the crowd.

  “Everyone else has already agreed to this. Come on.” Dawn tossed the scrap of silky fabric at him. “And honestly, I think you’ve got a good shot of winning.”

  “Gee. Thanks.” He still wasn’t exactly sure what Dawn was up to. But she said prime spots for Saturday’s taping were on the line, as well as an extended promo feature. And if there was one thing the group needed more of, it was exposure. If—okay, because—this was their final week, Lucas knew Cody and Ashley would kill for the chance to get one last shot at extra promotion.

  But they weren’t the ones Dawn had recruited for her little plot. And they weren’t the ones whose parents were due in Los Angeles in a freaking hour. His folks had said they’d go to their hotel, then call him to set up dinner, which he was so not looking forward to. And he really didn’t need the pressure of this stunt. However, he also couldn’t shake the image of how withdrawn Cody had become.

  Lucas had no idea how to make things better between them—if that was even possible. He’d been a judgmental dick and Cody was . . . well, Cody was Cody. Didn’t matter what Lucas did. Cody didn’t want to be with him. Oh, Ashley and Raven kept saying he did. Raven kept telling him to apologize, to try to talk things out with Cody. But Raven hadn’t been the one to see Cody’s face as he’d walked away from Lucas on Sunday.

  Lucas wasn’t sure there were enough apologetic words in the dictionary to make up for the pain on Cody’s face. Worse, he was pretty sure Cody didn’t want him to try. The girls were right, though—he had been pretty terrible to Cody. And even if there wasn’t a chance of them getting back together, he still wanted to make things better for Cody. If music was all Cody wanted, then Lucas wanted to give him his best shot. He owed him that much. Heck, he owed himself that much. He couldn’t keep hiding behind fear.

  This won’t be so bad, he lied to himself. He took a breath that felt like it came from his toes, pulling every last bit of his courage up with it.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “You really screwed up this time.” Ashley sounded almost gleeful as she joined Cody in the line for lunch. They’d spent the morning rehearsing the group number scheduled for the middle of the show. Neither of them had a solo—no big shocker there. Cody was stuck in a flock of other tenors linking arms and slapping hands like a high school production of Oklahoma! on steroids.

  One of the PAs had pulled Lucas away right as rehearsal began. He’d been gone all afternoon, and Cody could only assume the producers had cast Lucas in one of their notorious “mystery” segments. His absence should have been a relief, but instead it was simply one more distraction.

  “Whatever.” Cody grabbed a soda. His head pounded. Better make it two sodas. He hadn’t slept well last night—hell, all damn week. The room was too empty, too quiet, too filled with reminders of Lucas. It hadn’t taken much effort to figure out that Lucas had unofficially moved to Trevor’s room. “I told you. I asked for a different song. I tried—”

  “Not about the song.” Ashley stacked lettuce on her sandwich until Cody couldn’t see the bread anymore. Craft service had laid out a picnic-themed lunch, getting into country week with red-and-white-checked napkins. “About Lucas.”

  One of the members of the all-girl group was creating a sandwich, too. Her survey of the cold-cut collection was lingering a tad long, and Cody guessed her ears were fine-tuned to hot gossip. Great. Exactly what we need—more gossip. Not that the Divas needed any more ammunition to shoot down the other groups—the Divas had scored the pimp slot at the end of the show and their stars had prime solos for the group piece.

  Cody glared at her until she took her damn smoked turkey and slinked away.

  “Since when do you care?” he asked Ashley, not bothering to cover his frustration. He wasn’t sure when the whole damn group had become Team Lucas, but even Ashley was playing nice in rehearsal, shooting Cody pissy looks, like he knew how the fuck to fix things with Lucas. But she hadn’t seen the sneer on Lucas’s face, hadn’t heard his stupid assumptions. Much as he missed him, Cody wasn’t about to grovel.

  Cody added a bag of chips to his tray. He was limiting himself to stuff he could put in his bag or juggle in his hands because there was no way in fuck he was eating in here. They’d crammed tables into the backstage area, but not enough. Some groups perched on set pieces and others claimed strips of floor.

  “Is it because you blew Dane?” Ashley added more vegetables to her sandwich, motions as slow as a Norah Jones song and every bit as frustrating.

  “I didn’t blow Dane.” Jesus. Why did everyone assume the freaking worst of him? “Don’t you think we’d have a better song choice if I had?”

  “Dunno. How good are you?” She laughed. “Did you tell him that?” She nodded in Lucas’s direction. Great. Might as well tag him for this conversation and be done with it.

  “Doesn’t matter.” And it really didn’t. Ashley finally moved, so he snatched up a premade sandwich, not even looking to see what kind.

  He and Lucas hadn’t talked in three days. All he knew was that he ranked somewhere below used chewing gum on the list of things Lucas wanted to touch. If he’d wanted to know what went down with Cody and Dane, he would have asked by now. And it was just as well—their days on the show were numbered and Cody had nothing left to offer to him. What was he supposed to say? Please stay; there’s room enough for two in my van? Fuck that shit.

  “What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” She swiveled, her eyes narrowing. “Wait. You like Lucas. I mean you really like him. Are you in love?”

  “Let me go.” He shook free.

  “You need to fix this.” She stared him down like he should . . . what? Go beg Lucas’s forgiveness for not doing the thing Lucas thought he’d done? Not happening.

  “I like you better when you’re with him.” Ashley’s hawklike look morphed into a calculating smile. “And I think you like you better when you’re with him.”

  “You got a point?” Cody asked. Ashley was right, but no way in hell was he admitting it.

  “If you love him, fight for him.”

  “What if I can’t be what he needs?” Damn doubt monkeys waging war in his brain made him blurt out his biggest fear. What he deserves. What if I’m not enough? What if he keeps up his stupid assumptions? What if he pushes me away? What if I lose the only part of me I’ve ever liked?

  “Oh, honey—” Ashley reached for him, but the rattle of metal folding chairs cut her off. In the front of the room, a group of PAs were climbing onto chairs, motioning for people to quiet down and listen up.

  Thank fuck. Cody was about to lose it. And if she’d hugged him, he would have been reduced to a sniveling mess.

  “Everyone into the theater! We’ve got a surprise for you!” Flanked by a camera crew, the redheaded PA addressed them via megaphone.

  “Surprises from this show never end well.” Ashley’s face wrinkled into a frown.

  “Word.”

  “We’ve heard the complaints.” Dawn’s overly bright tone played to the cameras. There was always at least one camera for all big meetings like this, but today’s cameras were set up more like they were for the show taping. “Your moaning about the performance order and promo placement hasn’t fallen on deaf ears. So this week we’re going to do something a little different to pick the order you’ll perform in for the taping.”

  “Thank God.” Cody joined the applause. Their shitty song choice was likely to doom them, but still, a good slot might save them. And at the very least, it would mean more viewers. No
matter what the reality singing show, the final performer of the night was always the highest ratings-wise and the most likely to move on. The judges knew this and always seemed to go easy on the later groups—plus there was the benefit of being the last thing the judges saw before elimination votes were cast. A memorable performance in a ratings-friendly spot might be enough to get them a reprieve. One more week.

  “You’ll have to earn the privilege of picking.” Dawn’s minions nodded in unison with her. “One-on-one. Your strongest performers pitted against each other.”

  Oh yeah. They had this in the bag. Some of the other leads were strong, but Cody could take any of them. Bring. It. On. He rubbed his palms against his jeans. Might help if he were wearing better clothes, but he could outsing any of them even wearing a trash bag. Feet tapping restlessly, he waited to be called to the stage.

  “So without further ado, I bring you . . .” Dawn made a big sweeping gesture with her arms. “The Bass Off.”

  “The fuck?” Cody didn’t realize he’d spoken until both Raven and Ashley jabbed him.

  On stage, the minion PAs unfurled a large “Bass Off” banner to much applause. And out strode each group’s low-note singer, all of them decked out in silk prizefighter–style warm-up robes. Lucas was the last out, and his bare legs and feet stuck out of the robe. His expression was resolute, battle ready, like he expected a swift uppercut any second.

  “We’ll use this as a teaser and offer it in a Web bonus feature, too. We’re going to answer the question”—she made another motion with her hand, and all the voices behind her joined in—“how low can you go?”

  The audience erupted in catcalls and shouts.

  “And did Web bonus feature sound good? Because the Bass Off will determine performance order, but the winning group will also get an extralong intro package and a Web-only bonus feature that’ll go up on the show’s site and YouTube.”

  This brought a ton of applause, but Cody’s hands remained fisted at his side. He needed that bonus feature. A good video would draw more viewers to his own stream, which would yield more hits and more leverage for gigs.

  If they’d asked him to sing, he knew in his bones he could do it. Back when he was seven, an older kid had dumped Cody in the pool and told him to swim. Somehow, Cody had made it to the side of the pool and spent the rest of the summer swimming with the bigger kids. Lucas had the same startled, holy shitballs expression on his face, but unlike Cody, Lucas looked like drowning was an option.

  God, why had Lucas even agreed to this? Oh, right. Because he was Lucas, and he didn’t pitch a bitch fit about anything unless it was his precious principles. Cody’s insides warred between sympathy for Lucas’s discomfort and a bit of twisted pleasure. But sympathy kept winning out, especially given how miserable Lucas seemed. His usual rosy skin had been replaced with a sickly dead fish color. If this were a real prizefight, Cody would put all his money on the other guy.

  But he’s your guy.

  And right now, his guy looked decidedly DOA. Forget revenge—this was just going to be fucking painful to watch.

  “Go Lucas!” Jeff whooped.

  “He’s had four years of collegiate a cappella.” Raven nodded her agreement with Jeff. “I know he’s nervous, but we do wacky stuff like this all the time. I think it’s the dancing that makes him mess up. And the TV cameras.”

  And the whole singing in a robe thing couldn’t be helping. Mr. Modest had to be hating this.

  “Now, keep in mind, we didn’t have much practice time,” Dawn explained to the crowd. “But everyone did pitch in with the arrangement.”

  “Hey, who gets to decide the winner?” One of the guys behind them yelled as Dawn finished the introductions.

  “That would be me.” Michelin Moses stepped onto stage in a “Bass Off” T-shirt that looked like a preschooler had designed it. A little jolt of hope raced up Cody’s spine—at least it wasn’t the other guest star. And any dude with a baritone as well-known as Michelin’s had to appreciate Lucas, right?

  “Who better to judge than pop music’s deepest voice?” Dawn gushed. The contestants behind her applauded. Cody loved how Lucas didn’t try to disguise his jaw-on-the-floor reaction to sharing the stage with the superstar. Fanboying seemed to distract him from some of his nerves, a little color returning to his cheeks.

  One of the production assistants unfurled a “Bass Off” banner across the judges’ area. Michelin took the center chair, propping his legs up on one of the other chairs. He stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles.

  “Impress me.” The crowd applauded him with a chant of “Bass Off” and “How low can you go?” coming from the rear seats.

  “Gentlemen—and lady—assume your places!” Dawn announced. There was a bit of shuffling around up on stage, with mock fight poses clearly playing to the camera. Then all eight contestants tossed off their robes.

  Holy fuck. Shit just got real. Lucas stood up there in red silk boxers with pink hearts on them—and nothing else. All of the other guys were in similar shorts, and the girl from the Divas was in pink silk boxers and a sports top. As the only all-girl group, the Divas were also the only group to rely on female voices for their low end and beatboxing. The petite girl looked a bit overwhelmed to be sharing the stage with the seven dudes. A flush swept across her caramel-colored skin. Next to her, Lucas leaned in and whispered something in her ear that made her laugh.

  Classic Lucas. Trying to make the girl feel better even while he was clearly terrified, too. A warm sensation bloomed in Cody’s chest.

  “We give you ‘Super Lover’!” Dawn proclaimed, tossing her arms wide. Of course the show had chosen Barry White because maximum humiliation was clearly the order of the day.

  “Poor Lucas,” Raven whispered, and Ashley echoed her.

  “Geez. I was hoping they’d give them ‘The Hobbit’ piece. Lucas could kill that.” Jeff itched his nose. Whatever confidence the other three had in Lucas seemed to ebb, replaced by pinched faces and clenched hands.

  “This is gonna be brutal.”

  “Sssh.”

  A short bass singer whose black hair matched his black silk boxers stepped forward. The other performers arranged themselves in two lines. They waited for a signal from Dawn and the camera crew. The stage lighting changed, spotlights going up as the house lighting dimmed.

  Cody’s breath caught in his throat. His stomach flopped. He didn’t only want Lucas to win for the group—he wanted Lucas to do well for Lucas.

  As directed by cue cards, the groups in the audience yelled encouragement.

  “Have fun!” Cody yelled. He knew Lucas. If he overthought things, he’d freeze up. Relaxing enough to get out of his head seemed to be key to Lucas doing his best. Cody glared at the rest of the group, daring them to make a snide remark. Ashley smiled knowingly at him.

  “You can do it!” all four of them yelled in unison.

  The black-haired guy blew a note on a pitch pipe, and the theater got quiet as the singing started. Even after these last few weeks hanging out in a cappella land, Cody still got a weird rush at how the voices could mimic a full band. In this case, eight superdeep voices meant he felt the bass thumping all the way down his spine. They’d arranged it for an old-school feel, really playing up the cheese factor. They started the song together, then the vampire-looking guy stepped in front of the others and took a verse, while the other singers receded to more background harmony. Vampire guy wasn’t half-bad and got some cheers.

  Come on, Lucas.

  The girl was next—she was more of a low tenor than a bass and it showed, but she got better toward the second half of her verse.

  “Hey, no fair,” Jeff hissed.

  “What?”

  “Pretty sure Lucas and one of the other guys gave her a power boost.”

  Cody laughed. More typical Lucas. Cody would have sat back and watched her flounder, but of course Lucas came to the rescue. The next dude, a chubby kid with bad skin and boxers with lips on them, mad
e Cody’s teeth vibrate. He was the real deal.

  Come on, Lucas. No way could he see Cody through the stage lighting, but Cody tried to beam him encouragement anyway. You can do it. Next two guys faltered—one bungling the lyrics while the other didn’t get low enough. Cody joined in the applause for him.

  “You’re mean.” Ashley jostled his arm.

  “Yep.”

  Then it was Lucas’s turn. Cody felt his smile freeze in place. Come on, Lucas. Lucas didn’t falter as he came in strong, a lush, low note that put the previous guys to shame. As his verse swelled, he blew the roof off the place, rattling Cody’s teeth—he’d blow the bass on cheap speakers no problem. And when the hell had Lucas found showmanship? He added a wink on the refrain that made his delivery seem more polished. He’s having fun. Stupid song, stupid contest, stupid costumes, but Lucas was having fun, digging down deep to infuse joy into his performance. And sex appeal. Somehow, Lucas had found a way around being half-naked on stage singing one of the ultimate straight make-out songs to connect with the song.

  It was a ridiculous moment for Cody’s chest to tighten, but it did. He felt his nerve endings crackle with new awareness. Lucas gave an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle as he came into the refrain. One of the silliest songs of all time and Lucas was managing to sell the hell out of it. He dropped the final refrain so low Cody’s ass shook.

  “Dude, was that a low C?”

  “At least.”

  He had no idea what the last two guys did because his brain was still short-circuited by Lucas’s last note.

  His chest expanded. Pride. Cody was used to being the best musician in the room. It was how he’d rolled for almost ten years now. Even if he didn’t get big contracts or the respect he wanted, he knew he was the best. But being proud of someone else? It felt weird—like wearing someone else’s jacket. It was strange and wonderful—and nerve-racking. The number ended with a huge racket of applause and groups shouting for their favorites.

  “I can’t hear y’all.” Michelin egged on the crowd, cupping his ear and motioning for more. “Who should I pick?”