Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88218 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
By the time they’re done with the right lighting, the set designer has filled the space with some of the ornate crap I have lying around the house so the room looks lived-in. I always need a clean and neat space to think, and all those horrendous art pieces I bought distract me, so my music room is the barest of them all. Or, was. Now it looks like some futuristic alien threw up on the place.
The worst part is they moved Bill, and he’s not happy. I can tell. Duck statue or not, he belongs in my main room where he can watch all my party guests and pass judgment. Before I can go move him back, the producer from earlier approaches and taps my shoulder while holding up a signed check they had couriered over.
“Oh, and get him to sign this.” She shoves a release form into my hands.
“On it.”
Mason’s in the kitchen, clearing away the dishes the contestants left lying around.
“There are production assistants for that,” I say.
He looks at me over his broad shoulder. “It’s okay. I needed something to do with my hands. I’ve been waiting for the network execs to say they don’t want me for the show.”
“You’d be wrong.” I hold up the check for him.
He pulls back and then does a double take at the figure. “For one appearance?”
“I should take a cut. Like I’m your manager.”
“I’m not doing it for the money. You can keep all of it.”
“I was joking. And you’re not turning it down.” I fold it up and put it in his shirt pocket and then pat his chest. Unlike last night, I don’t let my hand linger.
We have a group meeting before we start filming, and the producer tells everyone in the room they have to pretend to be meeting Mason for the first time. Oh, the joys of “reality” TV.
It’s a bit ridiculous introducing Mason to them again as if they didn’t spend all yesterday with him, but we move through the first few people quickly. They saved Isla for last, and I have to say, she’s a good little actress. She fangirls all over Mason and screams with more enthusiasm than she showed when she actually met him.
I get the sinking impression the show is setting her up for the win.
She has some talent, there’s no questioning that, but she needs so much training. It’s possible for her to get there with time, but I fear if she takes out this competition, they’ll slap Auto-Tune on all her albums and not care so much about quality.
Not that we can talk. Hello, boy band.
Like she did yesterday, she fumbles through the song, which is “More Than Words” by Extreme. Mason gives the same advice he gave her yesterday, and she tries again but stops halfway through.
“I can’t relate to the song,” she complains.
Shocking. Does she really think we related to every Eleven song?
“It’s by old dudes singing about wanting sex instead of the words I love you,” she says.
Wow. Umm. Okay. “That’s, uh … an interesting interpretation, but it’s not actually accurate at all. It’s saying actions speak louder than words. Small gestures of affection. A warm smile. Doing something for the other person to show them you care about them.”
Just like Mason always does for me. Like covering me with a blanket when I fall asleep on the couch. Wanting to protect me. He’s done it the whole time I’ve known him.
It’s my fault for confusing that for real love.
Isla stares blankly at me.
Mason steps in. “You don’t need to relate to a song to sing the crap out of it.” He pauses and turns to a producer. “Shit, am I allowed to say crap? Fuck.”
Everyone snickers.
“I’ll try that again.” Mason walks across the room and drags two stools out from behind the bar and moves them over to where the microphone is. “Denver, join me?” He picks up a nearby guitar and then turns to Isla. “Don’t relate to the lyrics. Relate to the music.”
“What are you doing?” I ask when Isla steps aside so only he can hear.
“Figured I need to earn my keep.” He strums the guitar a couple of times and then looks at me.
My heart’s in my throat because even though I’ve performed with Mason countless times, this is different. This is just me and him.
He smiles at me. “Ready?”
I nod. I know how to follow his lead. Those first few years of performing together where we were all still green, I always looked at what Mason was doing because he was confident but not conceited like, uh, other high-maintenance members might have been. Not mentioning anyone by a name that starts with an H.
As soon as Mason starts playing, I get goose bumps before he even opens his mouth to sing. It’s like it was years ago, us doing our thing and the rest of the world barely existing.