The Stage (Phoenix Rising #1) (11 page)

Instead, I walk away without saying a word.
Please don’t call my name
, is my mantra as I go inside, through the hallway, and into the bathroom, locking the stall.

My brain is spinning. The near fight, the producer telling me I’m switching teams, Kenny trying to kiss me, Kolton not even trying to hide whatever-this-is from everyone else.

Leaning against the cold metal stall, I pull my phone out of my pocket and swipe the screen. Adrenaline pumps through my nervous system and I take a deep breath of that too strong fake-flower bathroom scent. I need to know why he’s doing this, what his personal reason is, and why he’s so adamant about helping me.

It’s so weird to see Kolton’s life reported on this page. His birthday, March 10, 1986. He’s twenty-eight years old. I skim the first part, all things I already knew like songs, awards. There’s so many, I can’t even focus on one over the others. As I click “Early life” it takes a minute for my mind to absorb what my eyes have just read.

“Flight 257… 1990…Four-year-old Kolton Royce…plane crashed into the river…lone survivor…“Miracle Boy”…severe burns…” and a link that, if I click it, will take me to an article. My finger hovers over the link, but I turn off the screen instead.

Kolton survived a plane crash?

It feels wrong to read any further—although I know he’s seen all my footage. It’s only fair that I know, too, but I’m scared of what I’ll see. I turn the phone back on and tap the link before I can chicken out. The picture pops up before the article. A little boy, swollen, four-years old, burned arms covered in gauze, his chin bandaged, wearing an oxygen mask. Kolton’s green eyes with one red fleck looking at the camera. His face, but just short of being a baby. My heart beats too fast in my ears and I feel dizzy. Overwhelmed.

How sad is that? He’s an orphan, just like me. So
this
is his personal reason, the reason he’s helping me. We are both survivors, we’re both burned. My chest is aching for him—because I know what it’s like—the emptiness of it all. Things are starting to make more sense. Some of my anger toward him is dissipating like smoke in the wind. It’s because of the fire that he feels so protective of me. How can I even look at him now that I know why he pricks that little wounded part inside me every time he stares into my eyes? It’s because he has a wounded part, too.

Chemistry

I
t’s night time when they call us out to the stage for some “New Team” footage. I’m not surprised by those of us still on the team. My heart drops a little when I realize Gypsy-Dress is one of them. As we make our way out to the stage, I see Brianna made it, Tarise, Sam and four others I don’t really know. I walk up to Brianna and shake her hand. “Congratulations,” I say.

“You, too,” she says. “I’m glad to see you here.”

“Please tell me you’re not being sarcastic.”

“No, not at all,” she giggles. “Like I said before, some of these people really think this is their shot. Just take it for what it is: some good exposure.”

The vibe in the room is edgy. We’re all waiting for Kolton to come in so we can do this and go. When he walks in, he’s stone faced. Joyce is with him, and I can only guess she’s talked to him about losing me to team Selma.

“Hello,” she says. “I’m Joyce McKim, an executive producer of the show. I wanted to take a minute to explain the next round to each team. Rather than have you compete against your own team members in the next round, we’ve decided to have Team Kolton compete against Team Pulse. Team Danny will compete against Team Selma.”

“Who chooses the winners?” asks Sam, the guy who reminds me of Harry Connick Jr.

“That’s an excellent question,” Joyce says. “The other two team leads will vote on the winners.”

“What if it’s a tie?” asks Tarise.

“We have a guest celebrity judge coming on who’s neutral. They’ll be the deciding vote.”

A current of nervous energy moves through the eight of us. All the while, Kolton is standing next to her, his forehead beading sweat. He knows this is being filmed, I’m sure, so he’s got his “celebrity face” on, but I catch him looking at me more than once during her speech. His expression is neutral, but his jaw is tensed.

“We’re going to allow saves. It might change things up some,” Joyce says, as Kolton bites his lip, and slowly smashes his fist into his hand.

“Hey, look, guys,” Kolton says. “We’ve got this. We’re going to go into the live rounds with our best talent. We might get some of the saves from the other teams. But, Pulse’s team ain’t got nothin’ on us.”

A couple of the guys clap, and Brianna just smiles, looking back at me with a little smirk. She’s got the best attitude of all. Kolton walks around and high-fives everyone, including me.

He looks over at Joyce, checks with the camera man, and stomps off.

“I wonder what he’s so pissed off about.” Tarise says to Kimber.

“Maybe ‘cause he can’t help
someone
win this time?” she replies.

Brianna grabs my arm and walks with me all the way to the shuttle. She sits down with me, but doesn’t say anything. She just lets me know she’s there for me. It doesn’t calm my nerves, though. As I walk to the hotel she goes up to the sliding doors.

“Where do you stay?” she asks. So, yeah. They all know I’m not at the hotel anymore. Blaire must have told everyone.

“The show got my sister a nanny. We stay in an apartment nearby.”

“That’s cool! Maybe we could hang out over there one night?”

“Oh! Uh, I don’t know. The nanny will be there and my little sister,” I try.

“Okay,” she says. “But we’re going dancing after the last taped round. And you’re coming!”

“Not if Kimber’s gonna be there,” I tell her, looking down.

“Who gives a shit?” she says. “We have to go out before the shows air or we’ll never be able to—I mean without being bugged and stuff.”

“That’s true.”

“So, yes?” she asks hopefully, her eyebrows rising in anticipation.

“Yes, I guess.”

“Awesome,” she replies, hugging me. “See ya!”

I walk around to the back and find the car waiting for me, like always. But when I open the door, I see Kolton’s pant legs and shoes inside the car.

Crap!

I duck my head and climb in across from him. He’s got the glass partition closed so we can talk. I don’t know if I can do this right now. As we start driving, he keeps rubbing the stubble on his chin with his fingernails. It’s making a little prickly sound that’s grating my nerves.

“Please stop doing that,” I say. God, why don’t I know when to keep my mouth shut?

“Doing what?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” I put my hand up to my forehead and dip my chin.

“What is it, Mia?”

“It’s just—the sound of your fingers rubbing your stubble—it was bugging me.”

With that, he puts his hands on his outstretched thighs, fingers splayed. Something about the way he moves and touches himself makes my breath falter. “Do you want off my team?” he asks.

It’s a good idea. If nothing else, just to get that bitch off my back.

“Mia,” he says.

“They think I’m cheating,” I whisper. It sounds like a plea.

“I’ve fucked this up. But I don’t want to lose you. I told Joyce I wasn’t going to let you go.”

“What did she say?”

“That she didn’t agree, but they won’t re-shoot the scene. Whatever I chose will stay.”

“I almost got in a fight today, Kolton.”

“It’s not going to happen again.”

“What’s not? I mean, do you think talking to Kimber’s going to change anything? That’ll just make it worse.” My voice is strained and I’m breathing heavy in the dark car. “Plus, she’s just the only one acting out. Now that we’re battling other teams, I’ll just make more enemies. It’ll bring more attention toward me. Toward you. If anyone finds out what you’re doing for me, they’re bound to accuse me of cheating. Do you realize what that would mean for me? For my career?”

“I’ll keep my distance from you around the show, but you’re staying on my team.”

“I don’t think you’re really listening to me,” I say, to which he bites his lip. Without my consent, my mouth starts to water looking at the curve of his upper lip, the fullness of the bottom one. I lick my lips, and when I look up and lock eyes with his, it’s like the air between us is crackling.

“I’m listening,” he says. “But I’m the best coach to help your career long term.”

“Really?” I ask. The interest he has toward me—it irks me and makes my teeth grind together. “Because you like my voice so much?”

“Yes,” he says. “But not just that—”

“You feel sorry for me,” I interrupt and glare at him.

“No,” he says. “That’s not it.”

“I know, Kolton. All about—all about the plane crash,” I admit as he glares at me, runs his fingers through his hair, and looks away. “Joyce told me you have personal reasons for helping me. That’s why I looked you up. I needed to know why.”

“That’s not why,” he says, his face stone-like. His eyes squint to hide the memories from shining through.

“You never tell me the truth. You don’t listen. This whole situation, it feels weird to me.”

“I feel it when you sing, I feel it here,” he says, pointing to his heart.

“Stop, please.”

“Is that what you really want, Mia?” he asks. “For me to stop?”

“You’re making a cheater out of me. How can I ever trust you?”

After a long silence, watching him struggle with some internal conflict while looking out the dark window, he turns and pins me with his stare. My mouth goes dry and my heart rate speeds up.

“I don’t have relationships. I never have. So I don’t know what I’m doing. And, you’re right. I’m keeping things from you because I’m worried what you’ll think. I’m not used to—”

“What is it?” I ask and he rubs his face-stubble again.

“I saw you. I found your YouTube channel. The reason the producers contacted you was because of me.”

“You saw me?” I say, feeling appreciated, but muddled.

“That’s my ‘personal reason’ Joyce was talking about,” he says.

“They know you found me, not about the plane crash?” I ask.

“Yes. I knew it was you when I voted for you. I could see the shadow of your hair. I knew the second you sang, it was you.”

“Admit it, Kolton. You’re helping me because—because we’re both survivors. You feel sorry for me, for the girl with the dead parents,” I assert into looming space between us.

“I didn’t know it then when I saw you, or when I voted for you. It was you—your voice that drew me to you.”

“But when you found out the rest.”

“It was over for me,” he states, clear as day.

“Kolton?” I ask, because he looks like that little boy again from the picture. His face, older now, sculpted, but pained, and exposed.

“What was over? What does that mean?” I ask.

“Once I saw you outside the studio, I knew, somehow, that you understood me. That we were the same. But I know I can’t cross that line with you. That you don’t want me to.”

“What line are you trying not to cross, Kolton?”

“I’ve crossed enough lines, haven’t I?” I watch as his hand turns into a fist, while the other one stays splayed on his thigh. His jaw tightens and his nostrils flare. He’s scary looking and I move back in my seat. “Have you been fucked, Mia?” He spews the words at me like venom.

I swallow hard. I wasn’t expecting him to say that. It’s like he’s trying to push me away, to piss me off. “I’m not going to answer that, but I’m not innocent,” I say, in my own defense.

“So, you’ve been with one guy? Two, maybe?” he says.

“Just one,” I claim.

“Did you love him?” he asks, his voice indignant.

“I—I don’t know.”

“But you slept with him anyway?” he asks like he’s really trying to understand me, maybe to see if we’re similar.

I contemplate telling him the truth about Dean. But instead I just tell the end part—the part where we broke up. “I thought so, at the time. But when my parents died and I got custody of Riley, he just couldn’t handle it. He went away to Chico State without me. I stayed. I had to go to ARC—a junior college, instead. He just kept coming up with reasons why he couldn’t make it back home. I knew what was coming. I mean, he was more and more distant emotionally, and that’s a party school. He started hooking up with different girls. Let’s just say, I found out. We broke up. End of story.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” He tilts his head to the side as if he’s trying to read me. “To be loved and to have that taken away. Your parents, and then him.”

“What about your parents?” I ask.

“Please don’t ask me about them.” For a moment, I see under his front to the hurt and pain he hides with all of his alpha-rock-god macho stuff.

“I understand if you can’t talk about them,” I say. “It’s hard for me, too.”

“I just remember feelings. Pieces of memories,” he admits, shocking me with his honesty. “Especially my mom. Her long, soft hair—it was your color. Her voice. ‘
Kole
,’ she’d say,” his voice hitches in his throat and I unbuckle my seatbelt and go to him. I don’t know why I’m doing this, but I find myself kneeling in front of him. “What are you doing?” he asks.