“That’s because I auditioned in Plymouth. And here it says that we tried hard to keep things on the down-low, but lately you’ve found it impossible to resist—” He pulled the paper closer. “—my ‘Action Man physique honed by fifteen years in the Royal Marines.’”
“Shut up. I’m not interested in your muscles, you meathead.” Pasha leaned closer. Ed’s arm was slightly tacky with dried sweat and felt hot pressed against his bare shoulder. “Wait a minute. You weren’t a Marine, were you? And I thought you said you’d been in the Army for nine years.”
“Yup. Infantryman from start to finish. No idea where they got their facts. But listen to this.” He shook out the page and sat up straight. “‘Pasha Trueman confided to a close childhood friend that it’s the real thing.’”
Pasha nodded. “No point denying it if a ‘close childhood friend’ said it.” A close friend who was imaginary. He hadn’t kept up with anyone in particular from the many schools he’d passed through. “What else does it say about you?”
“Nothing.”
“Bollocks. Let’s see.” Pasha smoothed the pages that Ed had resisted sharing. “Ah. ‘Sources close to Britten say he was smitten by Trueman’s exotic background and his foreign good looks.’ That’s understandable.” He nodded as if he agreed. “Scotland is a well-known exotic hotspot, and hardly anyone else born in the British Isles has black hair or brown eyes.”
“It’s like you’re not taking our truelove story seriously.” Ed stood. “I’ll head back to my room to shower. I just wanted to make sure no one sprung the fact that I’m the wind beneath your wings on you at the breakfast table.”
“Stay.” The practice at touching without thinking they’d put in last night had clearly paid off. Pasha wrapped a hand around Ed’s wrist like doing so was second nature. “Shower here, then leave by the door instead of dicing with death. Why’d you climb up anyway?”
“Didn’t want the CCTV downstairs to catch me. Might look a bit suspect that I came up here just to show you a paper.”
Pasha straightened the half-mussed bed and then read the newspaper coverage over again while the shower ran next door. The reporters had got some aspects correct, tiny truthful details that gleamed among the utter rubbish they’d written. ThatwasEd’s hand splayed across his chest in the photo one of the schoolkids must have taken yesterday, and Pashadidlook happy.
Pasha checked their hashtag on his phone next. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since learning management’s plans. Now every social media platform mentioned them being the new big thing. Even his “sweet enough” comment from last night was trending.
Warmth spread through his chest as he read. The coverage was so much better than he could have dreamed of. It put them in a strong position to stay in, despite a sprinkling of comments from homophobic arseholes. There were comments about his ability too, calling him more showman than singer.
No way was he going to let opinion—or management—come between him and winning.
It was this or nothing for him.
Pasha folded the paper as the shower shut off in the bathroom, and then he narrowed his eyes at the duvet he’dstraightened. He was mussing the bed again when Ed came back tucking a towel around his waist. He must have been working through the same thoughts while he showered. Ed toweled off his hair, then finger combed it into neatness as he said exactly what Pasha had been thinking.
“Management won’t like this. They’ll try to split us up before this thing gains momentum.”
Pasha shook his head. “They can try, but they’ll fail.” He fluttered his eyelashes. “You’re it for me, dreamboat. I wouldn’t dump you now for all the tea in China.”
Ed said nothing for a moment. “They’ll still try,” he said firmly. “Listen, I’m not going to hold it against you if it gets intense and you….” He shrugged. “I’ll admit I’m surprised. That stuff written in the paper is the best possible spin on the story, but there are plenty of people who hate the thought of two men together. #TrueBrit won’t be some romantic big deal to them. It’ll seem weak in the worst way. Two guys in love, I mean. Worse than weak.” His expression closed off. “I’ve seen it happen before. You’ve got to know there’s an element of danger.”
“Weak is for people whose pretend boyfriends didn’t scale the side of a building to climb into their bed this morning.” Pasha smiled to lighten a suddenly somber moment, but Ed didn’t return it.
“I need to go and get dressed. It’s gone six o’clock already. We’ve got rehearsals, and people will be going down to breakfast any minute.” Ed glanced toward the dormant camera in the corner of the room. “And this might be the last time that camera won’t be focused on us.” His gaze traveled from Pasha’s face down to his bare chest. His voice was rougher when he said, “You should get some clothes on.”
“In a minute.” Pasha put himself between Ed and the bedroom door. Water still beaded Ed’s skin and meandered inslow rivulets from his shoulders to the towel hanging low at his hips. “Let me just….” Pasha reached up and tousled the hair Ed had just neatened. “I meant it, you know?” he said quietly as his fingers pushed though damp hair. “I can take what anyone says about me. I’ve got my eyes on the prize.” He cocked his head at a sound from outside and then pressed an ear to the edge of the door leading to the hallway. “You ready?” he whispered when he heard more footsteps approaching.
Ed nodded.
Pasha opened the door and slapped Ed’s towel-covered arse as he passed. He raised his voice. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and drag you back to bed.”
Ed wrapped an arm around Pasha’s shoulders before he left and spoke into his ear. From the passing contestants’ perspective, Pasha guessed it looked as if they were sharing a kiss. He gave them a cheery wave over Ed’s shoulder and caught them staring into the open bedroom doorway where the unmade bed was visible.
Ed’s breath was so warm in his ear that Pasha’s shiver was involuntary. “Don’t let anything in the press get to you.”
As soon as Ed turned and walked down the hallway, Pasha rubbed his arms where goose bumps had risen. The press didn’t scare him. It was management’s reaction that was the big unknown. Only one thing was certain in his mind—there was no surer way to stay in the competition than working the #TrueBrit angle.
He closed the door and crossed to his bedroom window. Outside, the sky was gray again, like the squat blocks of flats built in the fifties that blemished the view. He could visualize the route the tour bus took that passed them twice daily, like he could see a clear path forward in the competition.
If they stuck together, they’d definitely stay in this week at least. Maybe for the next few too, simply by staying focused.There was nothing management had to offer that might get them any further. Nothing that might tempt either of them to waver.
Unless—Pasha realized, and a fresh wave of goose bumps covered his chest—unless a guaranteed spot in the final for one of them was on the table.
6