Music Notes (30 page)
If you think Layne should follow her heart and choose Beau, then choose
The Dangerous Door
.
And maybe when you’ve read your first choice, go back and read the other too. You can’t go wrong with either ending!
Beau stands before me wearing nothing but a pair of black boxer briefs molded to his powerful thighs and lean waist. He’s beautiful. The man is pure sex, and I long to wrap my body around him and purr like a cat. Beau steps closer until I can feel the heat of his body through the Colorado chill. His need is evident if you take into consideration the massive Boy Scout approved tent pitched on the front of his undies, but I can also see it in his eyes. Unfortunately, that’s not all I see. There’s hesitancy mixed with desire. Indecision. Uncertainty because of contracts, television producers, cameras, and imaginary lines in the sand. Even though he wants me–as much as I want him, I’m sure–he knows that by crossing this line, we are letting them win. Letting the headlines proclaiming us a couple, the gossips like Shawna Reece running their mouths and spreading rumors, they all become the victors in this game if we succumb to our desires and let go.
I know it. And Beau knows it.
“Layne?” he whispers, his voice hoarse with desire and claim. “I want you so bad. I want to be with you more than I want my next fuckin’ breath, but I can’t. I can’t strip this away from ya. You are doing this show for your son, to give him a better life. If we sleep together, then I ruin that for the both of ya.”
“Beau, if we sleep together, it would be a mutual decision. I would be a part of the destructive end results as much as you would. That decision wouldn’t solely be on you,” I tell him as he steps forward again, encompassing my nearly naked body in the warmth of his arms. Suddenly I feel more exposed than ever before, and I’m not talking about my lack of clothing.
The night is silent as I wrap my arms around his chest. He smells clean and woodsy from his earlier post-show shower and his warm breath feathers lightly across my forehead. His embrace is fierce and consuming, his skin against mine hot, as if he’s trying to hold on to some relevance of control by holding me tightly. God, what I wouldn’t give to strip the remainder of clothes away and have my wicked way with him, but I know he’s right.
We shouldn’t.
“I think you’re right. We need to stay focused on the last two weeks of the show. Then, we’ll see what happens.”
Beau’s light southern chuckle sends little flutters of butterflies soaring in my stomach. “Oh, don’t take my hesitancy as anything noble, darlin’. As soon as they sign off-air on the final show, I’m carryin’ ya off the stage and into the first storage closet I can find. I plan to show ya just how
bad
I want you,” he whispers in the night. The decisiveness of his words and the hard erection in his underwear both fortify his statement as certainty and genuine.
Beau’s kiss consumes me, pulling me under the water. But I don’t fear the drowning or suffocation. As long as Beau is the one sinking under with me, I know I’ll be okay.
After the world’s most delicious kiss that takes me higher than the clouds above the Colorado mountains, Beau pulls back ever so slightly and gazes down into my eyes. The hunger is still very much there, but he manages to reel it in. “Over and over and over again. We may be in that storage closet for days,” he adds with that cocky half grin I’ve come to adore. “Come on. I want to snuggle up with ya, but I can’t risk takin’ this into one of the bedrooms. I’m only human, and the very male part of me is already protestin’.”
Leading me towards an oversized chaise lounge on the deck, Beau indicates for me to take a seat. I watch as he slips inside and returns moments later wearing a pair of loose sweatpants and a faded t-shirt and carrying another shirt and a big, fuzzy blanket. He slips the large, worn t-shirt over my head before slipping behind me on the chaise, pulling my body snuggly into the apex of his legs and covering us both with warmth. The combination of his body heat and the blanket keeps the cooler night at bay.
There’s something almost magical about the moment. The cool breeze, the stars twinkling brightly through the calm night sky, and Beau’s body wrapped around mine like a fine mink shawl. He continually runs his rough hand up the outside of my thigh and back down to my knee, while the other hand is enveloped around mine. His kisses and the power of his words still consume my thoughts and dominate my desires.
But it’s Beau’s steady heartbeat that slowly lulls me into the best night of sleep ever.
Note to self: Cross Brazilian wax off the list. Cross it off with black permanent marker.
“Ladies and gentlemen, tonight on
Rising Star
, you’re going to hear an individual performance from each of our remaining four contestants, as well as a duet with their coach. When we open the voting lines at the end of the show, it’s up to you to determine who moves on to the final round next week. Will it be Ben, Jamal, Shawna, or Layne who is crowned the next
Rising Star
? Your votes will help determine their fate. We’ll get to our first performance of the night after this…” The camera pans to cover the four of us, front and center, on stage. My nerves have kicked into high gear, and listening to Becker state so matter-of-factly that for one contestant, the road ends this week isn’t helping.
While the show takes the necessary commercial break, the four of us slip backstage to prepare for our individual performances. I’m wearing a black dress with an intricate silver design weaved through it, representing the spider webs that I’ll be singing about this evening. Before the show’s prep work, I visited a salon and indulged in a little personal primping. While I was plucked, waxed, massaged, and exfoliated by a team of foreign women, I was able to relax and enjoy a bit of calm before the storm. Well, that was until they whipped out the wax. Apparently, a Brazilian wax isn’t what I thought it was. Leaving practically no hair and barely any skin in the nether region, I left the salon sore and slightly sticky from wax residue. Did you know Brazilian waxes are the equivalent of modern day torture devices?
Note to self: Contact the CIA and see about adding Brazilian wax to their list of techniques to make a man speak. Slap a little wax across their balls and I bet any man would sing like a canary.
As I wait to go back on stage, I’m not as nervous about my individual performance as much as I am my duet with Beau. I can belt out No Doubt with the best of them. It’s the romantic country-rock crossover ballad that I’ll be singing with my superstar coach this evening that has me all sorts of flustered.
I’m up first tonight for individual performance. As I wait for my cue beside the stage, I hear the clicking of heels behind me. I ignore her presence as much as I can. I refuse to let Shawna instigate me into a verbal sparring match right before I hit the stage.
Evidently, my ignoring doesn’t seem to faze Bitchy Barbie. “Break a leg,” she says sweetly, yet dripping with as much sarcasm as she can muster.
“Thanks,” I reply sweetly.
“Oh no, I mean really break a leg.” Blond Barbie struts away in her sky riser stilettos as I receive my cue to take the stage.
The lights are still low as I wait for my introduction. Even though I can’t see Beau sitting at the coach’s table, I can feel his presence. I know his eyes are glued to me, running up the length of my body from my black heels to my wildly teased hair. Goose bumps pepper my skin at the thought of him watching me, but not being able to see him in return. It’s exhilarating and intoxicating all at the same time.
Finally, Becker speaks the words I’ve been waiting for. The house band begins the opening notes of No Doubt’s “Spiderwebs” as I bring the microphone up to my mouth.
“You think that we connect, that the chemistry’s correct, your words walk right through my ears, presuming I like what I hear…”
The beat is up-tempo, the words quick off my tongue, and the stage calls me as I move with each line I hastily deliver.
“Sorry I’m not home right now, I’m walking into spiderwebs, so leave a message and I’ll call you back. A likely story, but leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
Two minutes later, my performance is ending. As I have for each week before, I wait for Becker to join me center stage. The applause is almost deafening, the smiles on the faces of the coaches–especially Beau–beaming. “Layne, let’s hear from some coaches. JoJo?”
“Wow, Layne. We’ve seen you rock the house. We’ve seen you cross over to the dark side and step into some country music.” JoJo gives Beau a bright smile. “We’ve even seen you tackle something a bit on the bluesy side. And tonight, you showed just how versatile you are as a singer and as a performer, by leading with that song. You nailed it, sister. ” The audience applauds again as her words soak in. What an amazing compliment from such an acclaimed artist.
“Felix?”
“Girl, you are the
Rising Star
.” His words steal my ability to breathe. I try to suck in air, but for some foreign reason, I’m unsuccessful. “Gwen Stefani is an icon. She has one of the most unique voices in music. It’s edgy and rocker-chick, and you stepped up to the plate and knocked it out of the freaking park. Hell, out of the state,” he adds.
After the applause dies back down, Becker turns to Beau. “Beau, she’s your girl. What did you think of tonights performance?” The way Becker said “your girl” didn’t go unnoticed by me or by Beau if the way his eyebrow raised and that half cocky grin strikes beneath his Stetson, is any indication.
“Ya know,” Beau starts, but seems to stumble on his words. “I thank my lucky stars every day that she picked me. I feel like I’m on the ride of my life right now, and the best part is, I know this is only the beginning for her.”
As Beau speaks those words, I get the distinct feeling that he isn’t entirely talking about my performance on the show. Tingles of awareness and exhilaration ripple through me at his implication. This is only the beginning of my music career, sure, but it’s also the beginning of something more. Something deeper. Something real. And
that
is the greatest praise I could ever receive.
“Layne, this has been a busy week for Team Beau. Last weekend you went to Denver with your coach and performed on stage. How was the experience?” Becker asks.
“Eye opening, to say the least. To feel that energy, that excitement was like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. I am honored to share the stage with such a dynamic performer.” The massive room erupts into applause at my mention of their beloved cowboy.
“Layne, since I have you here, the rumors are flying rampant this past week following your performance and stay with Beau. What would you say in response to those rumors?”
“That they’re just that–rumors. Any relationship made on this show has been professional and moral.”
“Thank you, Layne Carter. If you’d like to see Layne in the final three, be sure to cast your vote when the polling period begins. Up next, a duet between Ben Atwood and Beau Tanner.” And when the spotlights fade, I’m finally free to step off stage.
Later in the show, I walk out onto the riser on the stage and await my cue. After performing my song earlier in the show for votes, this piece is purely for entertainment. No votes will be cast. No comments will be made. Just Beau and I performing together on stage. Again.
The familiar melody of Jason Aldean and Kelly Clarkson’s “Don’t You Wanna Stay” fills the auditorium. I’m positioned above Beau on a riser on the opposite side of the stage. The choreography has us singing apart, yet slowly working our way towards each other until we meet in the middle of the stage.
“I really hate to let this moment go, touching your skin and your hair fallin’ slow. When a goodbye kiss feels like this…”
My mind is flooded with memories of kisses shared with Beau. The janitor closet, the hotel room, backstage in his dressing room. All of those kisses come flooding back in bright, Technicolor. Each one better than the last.
