Next In Line: A Cake Series Novel

by J. Bengtsson

  Next in Line

  J. Bengtsson

  Copyright © 2021 by J. Bengtsson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Image by Petra Van Raaij Photography

  Cover Model Devin Paisley

  A special thank you to my brother Mike Wheeler and his bandmates Matt Faulkner and Brandon Gambles for allowing me to use the name of their 80s metal band in my story. I hope I did the name proud.

  Contents

  1. Quinn: Fine Print

  2. Jess: Angel Line Tours

  3. Quinn: Enemies in High Places

  4. Jess: Runaway Rock Star

  5. Quinn: The End Pieces

  6. Jess: Special Kind of Destruction

  7. Quinn: Moral Support

  8. Jess: What if…?

  9. Quinn: Trending

  10. Jess: Noah’s Arc

  11. Quinn: I Did It for You

  12. Quinn: The Shark

  13. Jess: History Repeats Itself

  14. Quinn: Walk and Talk

  15. Quinn: Band of Brothers

  16. Jess: Dropping Clues

  17. Quinn: On the Rise

  18. Jess: Jesserella

  19. Quinn: A Familiar Voice

  20. Jess: Stowaway

  21. Quinn: The Unbroken

  22. Jess: Play for Me

  23. Quinn: Just Right

  24. Jess: All In

  25. Jess: Grape Soda

  26. Jess: A New Bottom

  27. Quinn: Testosterone

  28. Jess: The Drill

  29. Quinn: Eleventh Hour

  30. Jess: I’m with the Band

  31. Quinn: Run for Cover

  32. Jess: The Truth

  33. Quinn: Built-In Tragedy

  34. Jess: Jump Back In

  35. Quinn: Fragile Dream

  36. Quinn: Bucket Boy

  37. Jess: Ricochet

  38. Epilogue One: Jess

  39. Epilogue Two: Quinn

  Bonus Scene

  Meet the Real Sketch Monsters

  The Cake Series

  Excerpt: Like The Wind

  About the Author

  Also by J. Bengtsson

  Award Nominated Audiobooks By J. Bengtsson

  1

  Quinn: Fine Print

  “Quinn, you’re on in two.”

  I nodded, stretching my arms back to loosen the shiny brown vinyl jacket vacuum-sealed to my body. I’d been assured the suit was the height of fashion. It wasn’t. But what did it matter what I looked like, anyway? I wasn’t here to walk the runway. I was here to make a name for myself, and truth be told, I’d prefer to do that in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. The plastic suit was… well… not my idea. Rest assured, when the stylist sprang the getup on me during rehearsals, I’d protested loudly. I think my exact words were, “No way am I getting up on stage looking like a Slip ‘N Slide.” And that was when I learned my opinion was not required—nor appreciated. Apparently, there was a clause in the contract I’d hastily signed giving the show the right to dress me any way they saw fit.

  In hindsight, yeah, I probably should’ve paid more attention to the fine print, but at the time, if they’d asked me to sign over my left nut—it would’ve been missed, but I still had another. I’d been advised to hire a lawyer to look over the contract, but patience had never been one of my virtues, and I was convinced that taking extra time to comb over the document would just slow down the process of fame and fortune. Besides, the show had been around for fifteen years. If there was anything nefarious going on, I would’ve heard about it, right? Well, not quite right. I later discovered there was a gag order hidden in the fine print I did not read.

  But here was the deal: It wouldn’t have made any difference. Even if I’d known in advance they were going to make me cut off my rocker locks—another unfortunate casualty of the fine print—and turn me into a vanilla pretty boy, I still would have signed. Nothing was going to stop me from competing. This was my chance to make a name for myself, and I wasn’t going to let it pass me by on technicalities.

  Ignorance really was bliss. In the beginning, everything was fine—great, even—and I felt nothing but positive vibes as I was encouraged to stay true to the artist I wanted to be. I’d auditioned as the token rocker, and had then gone through four grueling elimination rounds as the token rocker. But with the live shows looming, suddenly the token rocker wasn’t good enough. The song I’d chosen—a stripped-down version of an Imagine Dragons song—was nixed by the show’s producers in favor of a more upbeat number by an artist I didn’t follow.

  Trust in the process, they’d said when I’d fought for my song. We know what we’re doing, they’d said. And who was I to question the producers of Next In Line, the most popular televised singing competition in America—a show that had spawned huge names in the music industry? They were the experts, I’d been told.

  Oh, man. I should have fought harder for my song… and for my hair.

  At this point, though, I didn’t have a lot of options left. I’d toured the country playing in dive bars and fairgrounds in a couple of no-name rock bands. I’d gone solo. I’d gone duo. I’d even considered a boy band for a hot Hollywood minute, but nothing caught fire until I stepped up to the audition table a couple of months ago and sang for my ever-loving life. They’d sat up, taken notice, and it truly felt like they’d heard me—just in the nick of time. I mean, at twenty-three, I wasn’t getting any younger, and in an industry that valued youth and looks over all else, I was pushing middle age.

  And so, I bit my tongue and learned the new sugary sweet lyrics. In rehearsals, the judges raved about the performance, assuring me the song was the perfect fit for my vocal range. I’d even been awarded the pimp spot at the end of the show, given to the singer they thought would make the biggest impact on the audience. That was good, right? So then why did it feel all wrong?

  The stage director pointed to me and whispered, “You’re on.”

  It was too late for second thoughts now–too late to make my stand. Willing my legs to carry me across the stage, I squinted into what I hoped would be the blinding lights of the rest of my life. If all went as planned, I’d be exiting left in seven minutes’ time, flushed with the thrill of accomplishment. The spirit of the crowd energized me, adding a spring to my step that bordered on boyish enthusiasm. Oh, shit. I had to get that under control right away. Skipping across the stage was not in line with the rock star vibe I was going for, although one glance at my boogie nights dance party outfit and I could be moonwalking across the stage and still no one would think I was cool.

  Easing back into a more relaxed rhythm, I allowed myself to savor the moment. This was the first time in my professional life there was even the slightest possibility I might be judged on my own merit and not on the triumphs of others. I’d never been more ready. Every party I’d missed, every girl I’d stood up, every person I’d flaked out on in pursuit of my dream had all been in preparation for this performance. Tonight was my moment to shine–my chance to step out from behind my superstar brother and claim the coveted spot beside his throne.

  Jake. My step faltered as I fought the frown threatening to crush my confidence. It wasn’t that I didn’t love or respect my brother. On the contrary, I worshipped the guy. To the outside world, Jake McKallister was a rock star, a survivor—a goddamn legend. But to me, he was the larger-than-life big brother I had the privilege, and pain, of sharing a bedroom wall with.

  Yeah, I went
there. Deal with it. I just found it easier to acknowledge my family’s history rather than watch people awkwardly stumble around it. Only a little kid when Jake was snatched off the street, I’d grown up in the aftermath of the tragedy. While other kids were happily playing in the sandbox, I was hiding under press conference podiums listening to my parents beg for my brother’s safe return.

  Look, I wasn’t going to go into the whole sordid tale. Everyone knew—or thought they knew—Jake’s story. How he’d barely survived after fighting his way out of the clutches of evil. And everyone agreed that was some next level shit right there. But surviving had never been enough for my brother. Somehow, he’d found the strength inside to rebuild his tattered life, make a name for himself in the music industry, and find a woman to help him heal. He was what true kings were made of.

  And therein lay the problem.

  Like Jake, music was in my blood. From the time I could talk I was singing and from the time I could walk I was banging, strumming, or clanging on anything that made the ears ring. And, although my brother and I shared a love of music, that was where our similarities ended. As a professional, everything Jake touched turned to gold. But me? I was like that wide-eyed prospector migrating west only to discover he’d arrived at the river a decade too late. And because my brother had already staked his claim, no one wanted me anywhere near his homestead. I was universally dismissed in the music industry with little chance to prove my worth. Still, I kept trying, chipping away at the earth and hoping beyond hope that there might be one tiny nugget left for me.

  It was that nagging faith in myself that brought me here today, ready to roll the dice again. Look, I got it, this wasn’t the most prestigious way to stride into the limelight as a contestant on a reality talent competition. But there were some distinct advantages to a show like this—namely, no Jake. Add to that no naysaying music executives or loudmouth haters accusing me of piggybacking off my brother’s fame and you handed me an honest chance.

  Stopping on my mark at center stage, I looked out over the studio audience. My fate was in their hands. Up until today, it was the judges who decided which contestants moved on and I’d survived those elimination rounds with glowing praise. So much so that I actually thought I might have a real shot at winning this whole competition. But now that I’d made it into the top ten, the power had shifted to a voting audience of millions. If I could deliver the performance I knew I was capable of maybe, just maybe, they’d look past my lineage and find the true musician in me.

  Fuck Jake’s golden river!

  This right here… this was my pot of gold.

  “Please welcome our final contestant, Quinn McKallister. Let’s take a look at his journey to the top ten.”

  The overhead lights dimmed as the big screens came to life. For the next two minutes, the prerecorded story of my life would play out over the monitors, broadcasting onto television screens across the country. I dragged in a deep breath, nervous despite knowing I had nothing to fear. The producers had promised my participation on the show would focus solely on me, not Jake, and not the long-ago event that had shaken my famous family to the core. Any mention of my tumultuous past, I’d been assured, would be cleared by me first.

  Still, I had an uneasy feeling that refused to fade. This show was as much about the sobfest life stories as it was about the music. Spun right, even a stubbed toe could be worked into a message of empowerment and perseverance. So why show restraint with me? I shook that nagging thought from my head. Was it so hard for me to believe that I, for once, would be the focus?

  The clip began with lighthearted footage of me in the earlier rounds, bringing laughter from the live audience and a smile to my face. Right on. This was what I was talking about.

  But then, without warning, the video took an abrupt turn into doom and gloom, complete with a Humane Society musical soundtrack. Suddenly, the carefree tale of my rather boring suburban life became entangled in someone else’s tragedy, plunging me headfirst into a hard-luck life story that trumped all the others. Even the poor girl who’d survived a mountain lion attack while playing hopscotch on her front porch was sidelined by my backstory.

  The one they’d promised not to exploit.

  They’d lied.

  I steeled myself, knowing the deceit had just begun. As each second of ‘my life’ ticked by, I could feel my identity slipping away—my talent being cast aside by the famous brother who commanded attention just by being himself. My entire experience on the show was unraveling. Instead of the Jake, jerk, and hater-free experience I’d been hoping for, this was lining up to be like all of my other disappointing finishes.

  I should never have come on this show. Why couldn’t I just accept that there wasn’t enough room on stage for the two of us?

  Jake would always be king.

  The music shifted, delving into the deepest, darkest ‘beaten puppy’ chorus I’d ever heard, and even though I should have looked away, my eyes stayed glued to the screen. The camera zoomed in on a little boy’s face… my face. What the hell? Where did they get that video? In it, my arms were wrapped around my sister Emma’s leg, and I was staring into the lens with the most confused and frightened expression on my face.

  My hand began to shake at my side and my breathing faltered as I processed the shock of seeing myself so pathetic and broken. That footage was taken out of context! The producers were making it seem like it was me who’d suffered irreparable harm. This was all wrong. It wasn’t me who’d been imprisoned by a monster. It wasn’t me who’d come home beaten and broken. It wasn’t me who’d screamed into the wee hours of the night. It wasn’t me.

  I was not the damaged one.

  I was not my brother.

  But even as I reassured myself, bursts of memory came flooding back, clicking in my head like flares from a flashbulb—Grace and me left to fend for ourselves during Mom’s medicated sleep marathons, Emma and the bed tent, Jake’s emaciated shadow walking through the halls. All the things I’d actively worked to push out of my consciousness so that I could live in peace were now collectively banging on the windows of my brain. By coming on here and watching that video, I’d inadvertently uncorked the plug that had kept my past at bay. I wasn’t okay. I’d never been okay.

  Looking out over the mesmerized audience, it suddenly all made sense. All these years I’d thought Jake and I were the same, that we shared a similar talent, that people weren’t giving me a fair shake because they couldn’t see past my brother’s splendor, but maybe they’d just been humoring me because I was Jake’s traumatized little brother—the first grader who’d grown up in the eye of the storm and who’d conveniently misplaced all the gory little pieces of the puzzle so he wouldn’t have to face them all in one place.

  Anger bubbled up inside as I realized that these people felt sorry for me. I was the participation trophy in someone else’s victory lap—being cheered on like an out-of-shape runner at the end of a marathon. Good job, buddy! Keep on trying! No matter how I performed tonight, I would still move on to the next round… and the next… and the next. Not because I was the best singer in the competition, but because I had the sympathy of the masses.

  The video clicked off as spotlights illuminated the stage. The band began to play. I counted the beats, knowing the exact moment I was expected to jump in and join them on my guitar. But my heart was no longer in it. I didn’t want to stand up here and play a song I didn’t feel, for people who didn’t care.

  Trust in the process? That’s what they’d said. These people who’d promised not to exploit my family, while changing me into something I wasn’t.

  I missed my cue.

  As the music continued to play, I could already see panic setting in on the sidelines. I’d just shoved a wrench into their well-oiled machine. The band circled back around, trying to rescue me. But it was too late. I no longer wanted to be saved.

  I held up my hand to stop the music. The band members glanced around, whispering amongst themselves as the crowd f
ell silent. They might as well get comfortable back there because I wouldn’t be needing them anymore. With some effort, I peeled my reflective jacket off and tossed it across the stage before stepping up to the microphone. A sea of confused faces stared back at me as I began strumming my guitar. If they wanted a show, I’d give them a show, and it wouldn’t be the shitty paint-by-numbers version being forced on me.

  From the corner of my eye I could see the show’s producer, Andrew Hollis, jumping up and down on the side of the stage. Was he trying to get my attention or just throwing a tantrum? I imagined that Botoxed face of his turning bright red. Too damn bad, asshole. The liar had brought this on himself, pushing me past my boiling point until there was no stopping the fury ignited inside.

  With defiant determination, I launched into an original called “Undercover,” a song that spoke to the tragedy the room had just witnessed on the screen—a song that was raw and angry and dipped in pain. The audience sat transfixed as I dumped years of frustration into their unsuspecting laps. After hitting its highest plateau, the song tumbled back down, spilling out over the edge of the stage. When I crooned my last introspective note, the audience rose to their feet, trampling me in a stampede of cheers.

  This wasn’t my stage.