Gerry’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “The reason I ask is because right up until lately, I hadn’t paid you the slightest attention.” The smile twisted nastily. “You’re only here to make up the numbers, Ed. Eye candy for the ladies at home. A bit of rough, you might say.” He held out his hands as if Ed was about to attack instead of standing solidly at ease. “I’m sure in your heart of hearts you know this.”
The TV executive at his side quickly added, “It’s not that you don’t have a good voice?—”
“As I said,” Gerry continued as if no one else was speaking, plowing onward, determined, “you hadn’t even so much as pinged my radar until lately. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, I’m deluged with phone calls, e-mails, and texts all asking about the same thing.” He paused to pull a slim cigar case from his pocket. “They all had one word in common, Ed. I’ll let you guess what that was.”
Years of parade drill helped Ed mask any expression.
“I’m guessing that the hashtag TrueBrit is your brainchild.” Gerry opened the cigar case with a click. “Very patriotic. In another situation I might applaud your initiative. It’s a clever, if crude, play for votes. Sadly for you, it’s far too late. Wheels are already in motion. We’re past the point of no return in this game.” He selected a cigar and ran it under his nose. “Of course, that doesn’t mean there isn’t room for some negotiation.”
Here it came.
This was exactly what he’d predicted, and Pasha had come to the same conclusion after holing up every evening in practice rooms together. They’d run through likely tactics while Ed hadplayed his guitar to mask their quiet conversations. There was one strategy they both kept coming back to.
Management would try to divide and conquer.
Ed waited for the offer. This time the TV executive spoke up. “I could arrange sponsorship deals for a courageous ex-soldier like you. You could earn a great deal of cash, if you quash this TrueBrit nonsense.”
The musical director offered another piece of sheet music. “Here’s a different arrangement of the group medley for Saturday evening.” This time Ed’s and Anya’s names were the only two included.
“A duet with no backing singers at all?” There was something reptilian, Ed decided, in the smug expression that slithered across Gerry’s face. “But what about the others?” Everybody had a part in the group number. It was a rock-solid format.
Gerry lit his cigar before answering. He blew a plume of smoke over Ed’s left shoulder. Ed’s hands twitched behind his back before he clenched them.
“The others will have to stand in the wings and watch while you get extra airtime.” His next exhale came even closer.
It took every fraction of Ed’s restraint not to snatch the cigar from his mouth and feed it to him by the lit end.
“Viewers, as you seem to have grasped, Ed, love the idea of romance. All you have to do is show the public that #TrueBrit isn’t a real thing. Make them believe in something more—” At his side, the TV guy spoke up.
“Marketable.”
Gerry added, “Wholesome. A boyfriend singing to a girlfriend. What could be more natural?”
Ed’s answer was expressionless. “Anya’s a kid.”
“She’s female,” Gerry answered, as if that was the last word. He tapped his cigar slowly. Ash fell midway between them. “Let’s call a truce, right here and now. I underestimated your ambition.You overestimate my tolerance.” He turned on his heel, and the other two men followed.
Gerry saved his last salvo, firing it before he exited. He paused at the door, blue haze blurring his sharp features. “I’m a reasonable man. I’ll leave things as they are this week, but there’s a limit to my patience. Next week could be a very different story if you make the right decision. You could benefit, as could Anya.” He added, like she was an afterthought, “Performing with her could be your ticket to the final. Let Tom know if he should work on your duet, and I’ll take that as your answer.”
Ash fell in powdery gray-white flakes.
“I came to you first, Ed.”
More ash tumbled as he turned.
“If I go to Pasha, I think we both know his answer.”
It wasa fluke that Ed and Pasha found each other later. None of the contestants that Ed asked would say where he’d gone. If they knew, they weren’t telling. Instead, they all shook their heads or turned their backs without answering, except for Anya. Her white-gold hair bobbed when she stood up and nodded.
“Pretty sure I saw him.” She stepped over the outstretched legs of the boy band, who ignored Ed completely as she made her way between lunchroom tables. “I think he went out. This way, come on.” Her grip on his wrist was surprisingly firm. She didn’t let go until they were outside the main door. The moment the doors swung closed behind them, Anya yanked on his arm until Ed faced her. “Listen, I want to know what’s going on with you two.”
“That’s none of your business.”
For a sixteen-year-old girl who barely came up to his shoulder, she shoved him so hard, he rocked back.
“He’s my friend.” The tears in her eyes were a shock. “He’s myonlyfriend here.” The cuff of her denim jacket made a piss-poor hanky. Wet spots darkened the pale blue fabric. “You’ve got to tell me what you’re doing to him.”
“Nothing.” Ed fumbled in his pockets and pulled out a tissue. She grabbed it and pressed its folded edge to the lower lids of her eyes. The long sweep of false lashes made them seem huge when she looked up as he added, “I’m not doing anything to him.”