“Oh.” The technician’s blush of pleasure was visible. “It’s no problem at all. Come up any time, Pash. I just wanted to let you know that I voted for you last week.” His gaze flickered to the camera, and his tongue tip darted out to wet his lips.
“Thank you so much!” It was such a buzz every single time someone told him they’d picked up the phone and voted. “Now promise that you’ll keep the spotlight on me during the show.” He teased just like the production crew usually loved, lowering lashes so thick his auntie said they belonged on a girl. He’d flirt with anyone if it bought him extra screen time. His smile widened when the cameraman jostled Ed out of shot to focus fully on him.
“I’m not above bribing you to black out all the other spotlights.” Pasha made a show of fumbling through the pockets of his skintight black jeans before reaching into his jacket. “What have I got here to bribe you with? Oh, look. I found some photos.” He signed one with a flourish, then looked into the camera once again. “Plenty more where that came from. E-mailme via theBritPop!website if you’d like me to sign one just for you.”
Behind the technician, Ed Britten put on the headset Pasha had abandoned as if he couldn’t bear to listen. He rolled his eyes at Pasha as soon as his ears were covered.
“Okay, that’s a wrap.” The production assistant had returned, and she looked pleased. “It’s time for us to get going, guys. We’ll catch up with you two later.” She left with the cameraman and the older technician. Pasha relaxed the moment they swept out of the confined space, but the younger technician hesitated by the door instead of following. His question caught Pasha off guard.
“Is it true what they’re saying about you in the newspapers, Pash?”
Ed might have the headset on, but his head inclined like he was nosily listening.
“That depends on what you’ve read. Was it something like you just heard?” With the camera long gone, he didn’t self-censor. “Is it true that my father is an Afghan terrorist?” Pasha ignored the sudden stiffening of Ed’s shoulders. “Or that I’m a radicalized Muslim out to convert as many British kids as I can?”
Those were the two rumors he read most often. So ridiculous. It wasn’t like he’d ever known his real dad, and he couldn’t tell one end of the Koran from the other. All he had to show for his roots was skin-deep and superficial.
“No.” The technician shook his head. “That’s all made-up crap, isn’t it?” As soon as Pasha nodded, he added, “But what about the other thing? Isthattrue?”
This time Pasha adjusted his stance so he could see Ed clearly before he answered. No one ever asked the big brave British soldier questions like this, but for some unknown reason, they’d asked Pasha the same question several times this week already. “Are you asking if I’m gay?”
Ed interrupted before Pasha answered his own question. He pushed past the technician and thrust the headset in Pasha’s face. “Listen to this.”
“What the fuck?” Pasha shoved him away, hands splayed across a chest that was rock solid under his palms. “I’m having a conversation here?—”
“Listen. To. This.” Right until that moment, Pash hadn’t grasped that Ed’s usually soft West Country inflection could command instinctive action. Even the technician backed off with his hands raised. By the time Pasha took the headset Ed offered, the door to the hallway had closed behind him.
“Listen,” Ed ordered for the third time.
Pasha did, reluctantly holding one earpiece against his left ear as Ed held the other to his right one. They stood inches apart, listening to what sounded like the faintclankof footsteps on a metal staircase.
“What—?”
Ed turned his head and widened his eyes so far that Pasha shut up and listened. The next sound he heard was recognizably the voice of the production assistant.
“I know. I know. Gerry was right.” She placated someone Pasha couldn’t hear, as if she spoke on a phone. Her mention of Gerry Hanson, the show’s creator, caught his attention. “He was so sure they’d fight. It’s a shame. Can you imagine the viewing numbers if those two got physical? I mean, Ed’s got that whole British-bulldog beefcake thing going on, but he didn’t even flinch when I pushed the Afghan agenda. No wonder the Army didn’t want him back?—”
Static interrupted her words, forcing Pasha to pull away until it quieted. He noticed that Ed stared at the floor when the production assistant added a fervent “Have you seen him with his shirt off? Holy hotness. But if he won’t show off his assetsand he refuses to fight with Pasha, there’s no reason to keep him in for another week, is there?”
The sound from the headset wavered, but Pasha clearly heard Ed’s sharp inhale.
“Yeah,” she continued. “There’s nothing special about Ed. Nothing to drive public interest, and believe me, I tried. We’ll push the boy band story instead. Fix one of them up with little Anya. The advertisers will be happy. Besides, Gerry’s already decided.”
She chatted like rigging Ed’s chances of staying was normal. Pasha knew that half of this game was politics.He knew it.He wasn’t the strongest singer, which was why he played up to the cameras so much. It had to be crap for Ed to hear what was coming when, if Pasha was honest, the man had the best voice in the contest.
The sound from the headset faded before strengthening. “Listen, about Pasha. He’s cute, but his demographic is going to shrink really fast now the queer rumor has been seeded—” There was some more crackling interference. “—No, there’s no need to prolong his stay. We’ve done our bit to show the contest is inclusive. Anyway, how big can the gay vote be? The revenue from his voting hotline will be next to nothing if he stays in.”
Pasha could almost feel Ed’s gaze on him. He stared at a spot on the wall opposite instead of meeting it.
“Yeah,” the voice that Pasha was starting to hate said. “Gerry says to leak that they’re on their way out of the contest. Barring a voting miracle, they’ll both go out this weekend as planned.”
A door slammed. If the production assistant continued her conversation, neither of them heard it.
Ed raised a hand as if about to offer hesitant comfort, but Pasha was already turning away. The headset dropped to the floor behind him, and he leaned hard on the lighting desk, mashing buttons as his knees threatened to buckle.
He’d seen his future on the stage below only a half hour ago.
A way out from his dead-end life and a chance to take the top prize home had been right there for the taking.