The glow far below them dimmed as the other contestant she’d brought up took a turn playing at the light desk. They flared brightly again, and Pasha blinked a few times before answering.
“Proud.” He cleared his throat, lifted his chin, and looked directly into the camera. “I’m so proud that being British means I get to take part.”
The assistant turned to ask the other contestant a question. Pasha didn’t listen, busy wrestling emotion all over again. He’d told the production team last week that he planned to take the crystal first-place award home just as soon as he could. They’d loved the family slant to his plans.Loved it. And the clip of his eyes visibly welling behind the black frames of his glasses had saved him from elimination. He hadn’t sung well last week. Getting the highest number of votes couldn’t have been coincidental.
No way could he get caught with tears in his eyes again so soon in the competition. Once was heartwarming and human. Twice would suggest weakness. Another deep breath, and he’d be all right. If the crew asked awkward questions about him having red eyes, he’d blame these contact lenses. Anyway,another moment with his back turned wouldn’t hurt exactly. After all, there was no way that a contestant as boring as Ed Britten could steal any thunder from him.
A quick glance to his left confirmed it. The ex-soldier was far too serious for this show, asking the younger technician tedious questions about how the sound system functioned. He could be revealing something unique about his talent or showcasing his physique. The wide glass panels curving around the booth acted as a mirror, but all it reflected was Ed’s concentration. According to his bio, he wasn’t even thirty, but he came across as so much older. Those lines furrowing his brow wouldn’t help him win the teen vote, and talking about electronics was a sure way to lose most young mums’ interest.
Rugged, fair-haired, and blue-eyed, he should have been a voters’ favorite, but he didn’t seem to have the first clue, neglecting to flex the muscles he was packing or to stare deeply into the camera to make visual connections. Even when his broad shoulders eclipsed Pasha’s slimmer frame completely, blocking him from the camera, it seemed accidental. The big guy gruffly apologized right away and then tried to draw Pasha into his technical discussion.
Who gave a shit about the Auto-Tune software that made shaky performances sound pitch-perfect? The voting public couldn’t care less about the mechanics of staging the show. It was human engagement they wanted—tears, or fights, or passion—so they could live and breathe being famous for fifty minutes every weekend. These filler segments were meant to offer glimpses of that. The live stream from their shared house did so as well. Ed’s questions would hardly make a lasting impression. Like the uniform he wore tonight, he’d fade into the background.
The production assistant clearly thought the same. She interrupted Ed with barely any excuse.
“That’s very interesting, Ed, but how do you feel about having Pasha as your competition?”
That question came out of nowhere.
Pasha pressed his lips together rather than smile at the way Ed floundered. Ed could have played the nice guy by complimenting his choice of songs, or he could have been strategic by pointing out that Pasha often forgot lyrics and made up his own instead. But he wasted his one chance.
“I… I don’t feel anything about him. What do you mean exactly?”
That was a lie.
Ed clearly didn’t like him. He sat at the far end of the dining table each night and left the room if they were alone together. Still, he was no threat to Pasha, unlike the teen boy band—getting to the final would be one hell of a battle if that threesome stayed in. It didn’t matter that out of all three of them, only Ciaran could sing. The other two shedding their shirts each week kept them high in the ratings.
The production assistant asked Ed another question. “I mean, you were last stationed in Afghanistan at Camp Bastion, weren’t you?” she probed, although she must have known the answer. Then she spoke directly to the camera. “Ed survived an ambush during his last weeks stationed in Helmand Province.” She swung to face them again. “Your best friend wasn’t so lucky, was he? So how do you feel about being up against an Afghan like Pasha?”
“I…. He’s… he’s British.”
Ed spoke before Pasha could wrap his head around her implication. Was she really casting him as some kind of killer?
“But—” she persisted.
“No buts.” This time Pasha spoke first, pissed off that this shit still came up so often. “Why is my heritage an issue? I was born and raised here. In London, in fact, before I ended up inScotland. You can’t get much more British than that.” He took a breath and shot a bleak look in Ed’s direction after his brain caught up with his mouth. Was this why Ed was so weird around him? Words spilled out, raw and honest, before he could stop them. “I’m so sorry about your friend.”
“Me too.” Ed’s words were a quiet rumble. “He wrote the song I’m going to sing in the final.”
Pasha jumped on that change of focus. People remembered the last thing they heard. No way could his last words in this segment be downbeat and depressing. “The final? Now, that’s real fighting talk.” Forcing his lips into his trademark grin was hard when Ed looked like someone had punched him in the stomach. “But I’m still going to beat you.”
The assistant shook her head like they’d wasted a chance to add some entertaining fireworks. She raised a hand to the earpiece she wore. “Okay.” She brushed past the cameraman. “Keep rolling. I’ll be right back.”
“Mr. Trueman?”
The younger of the two technicians spoke before Pasha had processed what just happened. He couldn’t be more than nineteen, and he sounded nervous. Maybe the crew had set him up to have one of the staged conversations they favored. Pasha made the most of this chance to claw back some votes that awkward moment with Ed might have cost him.
“It’s Pasha, please.” He turned to fully face him. “I’m twenty-two, not a hundred and two like Ed here.” He aimed his wink right at the lens of the camera. “In fact, all my friends call me Pash, so why don’t you do the same? And thanks for letting us up here to play at being technicians. I hope I didn’t break anything important. Your job sure beats mine for excitement.”
“No way. I’m just a trainee. You’re a real pop star.”
His enthusiasm helped Pasha get back into his groove.
“Not yet. I’m an out-of-work call-center operative, unless the public votes to keep me singing.” He picked up a headset similar to the one he’d hated wearing for his old day job, and he waggled it before setting it down. “That’s why I had this on at rehearsal. We’re all wearing our work gear for this week’s group performance.”
“Yeah,” Ed quietly joined in, one big hand smoothing over the front of a too tight uniform that left nothing to the imagination. “You’ll never guess what I am.” That was almost a joke. Pasha narrowed his eyes when Ed added a hurried, “What I used to be, I mean.”
This was no time for Mr. Strong and Silent to come out of his shell. Pasha angled himself slightly so Ed was out of his field of vision. “Anyway, it’s been so cool to see the stage from this perspective.”