Sing Reno MacLeod & Jaye Valentine.pdf

SING!

by Reno MacLeod & Jaye Valentine

Chapter One

Nick Vangard's pulse thumped in his throat as he gazed out the scratched window overlooking the

massive sea of traffic. A blur of yellow taxicabs dominated his field of vision, along with fancy

limousines and a smattering of buses like the one he now rode.

He tapped his thumbs on the armrests of his seat, keeping time with the song pumping through the

iPhone he'd gotten a week ago for his nineteenth birthday. The music helped pass the time and calm his

nerves.

His mind raced through the events leading up to today, including the long hours of waiting in line to

audition, and the nerve-wracking auditions themselves. Three judges, all luminaries in their respective

genres, had cast critical ears and eyes upon him during the four preliminary rounds of tryouts. Beckett

James, the top-grossing rock vocalist of the past five years, had given Nick resounding praise. Megastar

dance-music producer Hector Marcos had also given Nick exuberant feedback, while the lone female

judge—pop idol Ivona Killmar—had offered only cold, noncommittal shrugs.

Bitch. Nick already hated her. Still, he knew he had to mask his knee-jerk reactions to her arrogant

attitude if he wanted to succeed. The SING competition required more than vocal ability. Winning over

the judges counted, too. Nick had grown up lucky, and he didn't have a sad story that might pluck at the

judges' heartstrings. His happily married, upper middle-class parents' home wasn't in foreclosure. No

close family member needed an organ transplant. He didn't have a sibling serving overseas in the military,

and he'd never been bullied in school. Nick appreciated his charmed life and never failed to thank those

responsible for it. He hoped his raw talent, his impossible need to sing, would be enough to overcome the

fact he didn't have a tragic story.

The bus pulled into the overcrowded station and squealed to a stop. Tired doors opened with a

gasp, and the driver barked over a cranky intercom spitting out static-riddled words. "Last stop, Grand

Central Station. Everybody off!"

Nick broke into a sweat.

The driver opened the belly of the bus and began tossing luggage onto the sidewalk. Nick scanned

the bags, but he didn't see his and started to panic. After other passengers weeded out the pile, Nick

spotted his guitar case and pounced to retrieve it, flipped it open, and exhaled hard with relief. No

damage, thank God. His suitcase turned up a few minutes later, also unscathed.

Next on the schedule—a jostling taxi ride to the Windsor Plaza Hotel, where the top ten contestants

were to reside during the competition. Scheduled to meet with the SING producer at 1:00 p.m., Nick had

some time but not in great abundance. He climbed into a waiting cab and tucked his phone into his jacket

pocket, his fingers brushing over his confirmation letter.

Nick smiled. His presence in the city that never sleeps wasn't a dream.

* * * * *

The top floor of the Windsor Plaza Hotel soared nineteen stories over a welcoming red carpet, and

a sharp-dressed attendant held open the doors. Soaring arches, golden chandeliers, and expensive

furnishings greeted him inside. A soft, classical melody wafted throughout the lobby, the same sort of

bland, uninspiring music his grandparents listened to at dinnertime.

Stepping up to the lobby check-in area set up for the contestants, Nick set his luggage down and

pushed his reservation receipt across the desk. "Hi. I'm checking in for the SING competition. Nicolas

Vangard."

The young woman, whose gold-and-black tag proclaimed her as Teresa, handed him an electronic

key and a glossy brochure. "You're in Room 1912. The meeting starts at one o'clock in the Terrace Room.

There's a map in the brochure, marked with directions on how to get there from your room."

Nick flipped open the pamphlet and glanced at the map. "This red block of rooms is all that's

reserved for us?"

"Correct," Teresa said. "You'll be sharing a room with one other person. Don't worry—the

producer will explain how everything works. Have a great stay, Mr. Vangard, and good luck!"

"Thanks." Nick turned to reach for his guitar and suitcase only to find them missing. "What

happened to my—"

"Relax." Teresa spoke with a definitive he's cute but not too bright tone riding under her words.

"The bellhop took your things to your room."

He needed to get a grip, or jumpy nerves would see him sent home at the first elimination. "Have

any of the other contestants shown up?"

"Yes." Teresa shuffled through a stack of papers near the computer. "According to my list, there's

one more young man yet to arrive."

Chapter Two

"Oh, for cryin' out loud. What now?" Logan bounced a knee up and down, leaning over the headrest

of the passenger seat. "Can't we go any faster?"

The taxi driver, a dark-skinned fellow wearing a white turban, shook his head. "We are going

faster."

Logan blinked. "But we're standing still."

"Welcome to New York City." The driver laid on the horn and shook his other fist in the air,

shouting unintelligible curses at no one in particular.

"Shit." Logan sat back in the squeaky vinyl seat and closed his eyes. Nothing had gone right since

he'd first started this journey. Six weeks earlier, he had sprained his right thumb zigging when he

should've zagged during a farewell dirt-bike outing with his friends along the Cumberland Gap. He'd left

home for the Atlanta auditions the next day with a frog-splint on his thumb, a bottle of moonshine hidden

in his suitcase, and a crazy dream in his heart.

A terrible head cold had threatened to screw up his chances during the third audition round, but he'd

swapped out his initial song choice for a nasal Tom Petty song, which made his stuffy sinuses sound

surprisingly good. Now, he was going to be late for the finalists' check-in and reception at the fancy

Manhattan hotel, after both a letter and a personal phone call from the show's producer had stressed the

virtue of punctuality.

The taxi lurched forward into the noisy snarl of traffic, and with the Windsor Plaza Hotel creeping

slowly toward him, Logan prayed for his streak of bad luck to end.

Chapter Three

Following a quick exploration of his elegant room and a refreshing shower, Nick headed to the

Terrace Room for the meeting. Chatter from those already gathered filtered into the hallway, and Nick

braced for a stern scolding. When he entered the room, every face turned toward him. Embarrassed, he

shot an apologetic half-smile to the man he recognized as SING 's producer, Marvin Boranski, and slipped

into the nearest empty seat.

"You haven't missed much." A suntanned woman resembling a younger, hipper version of Cher—

tall and lanky, angular cheekbones, jet-black hair parted down the center—smiled at him from the next

chair over. "Mr. Boranski started going over the list of things that can get us disqualified. The short

version so far: don't sleep with a judge, and don't do anything that might prompt the hotel management to

throw you out on your ass. By the way, I'm Amber Collins."

"Nick Vangard. Nice to meet you, Amber." The producer paced at the front of the room, babbling on

about illegal drugs and underage drinking. Nick had never been one to indulge in either, except for an

occasional beer. "Where are you from?"

"Jacksonville, Florida. You?"

"Orleans, Massachusetts, on Cape Cod." The jangling of Nick's nerves began to ease off, thanks in

part to Amber's pleasant demeanor. He glanced around the room. All five of the female finalists were

present, but the one missing boy still hadn't arrived. Except for Amber, whom Nick guessed to be in her

late twenties, the other contestants all seemed close to his age. That fact alone cranked the intimidation

factor down quite a few notches. Nick took a deep, relaxing breath. "Who's your roommate?"

"The girl I'm hoping will be the first to go home next week." Amber rolled her eyes. "Her name is

Brittany Hamilton. She's eighteen years old, and if she tells me one more fucking time that she recently

graduated from Beverly Hills High, I'm going to vom all over her designer shoes. Who did they pair you

up with?"

Amber reminded Nick of his older sister, with her what-you-see-is-what-you-get attitude. He didn't

feel quite so far from home now. "I haven't met him yet. There was an envelope on each bed, and the one

that wasn't mine said Logan —"

"So nice of you to join us, Mr. Hawke." Mr. Boranski stopped pacing and looked past Nick in the

direction of the entrance. "Let's hope your tardiness doesn't become a habit. Please take a seat."

"Tardiness?" Amber snickered under her breath. "Who talks like that?"

Nick laughed and turned to look toward the door. A young man with rugged good looks stood just

inside the room, gazing around as if too many empty seats meant too many choices. Nick gestured toward

the unoccupied chair next to his at the end of the row.

"Much obliged." The young man dumped a worn suitcase on the floor and thrust out his right hand.

"I'm Logan Hawke."

Their eyes locked for a split second, long enough to knock the wind out of Nick and make the place

in his brain where words originated go blank. He shook the other guy's hand, memorizing in a sweeping

glance the handsome face, the clean-cut light brown hair, and the mischievous green eyes contrasting a shy

smile. Nick hadn't previously considered the social aspect of the competition. He did now.

Mr. Boranski clapped his hands, commanding everyone's attention. "All right, ladies and gentleman.

For anyone who arrived late, a list of all the competition rules is available on the table near the door.

Please take a copy. We start working at nine sharp tomorrow morning"—he paused and shot both Nick

and Logan a harsh glare—"so make sure you're on time . The songs for the first live show will be love

themes from the movies. I highly recommend avoiding the song from Titanic if you want to make it past

the first week. Have a great evening."

Nick stood and moved closer to Logan, completely uninterested in mingling with the group, but

extremely interested in mingling with him. "I'm starving. Have you had lunch yet? Did you check in and

pick up your room key?"

"Yeah, I got the key already, and lunch sounds like a great idea." Logan grinned. "I'm guessin' you're

Nicolas, my roommate."

"Yes, he's Nick Vangard." Amber leaned forward and peered around Nick. "And I'm Amber

Collins, not invisible."

Logan blushed, reaching past Nick to shake Amber's hand. "Sorry. I'm overwhelmed, but that's no

excuse for bad manners. I'm pleased to meet you."

"You could come with us, Amber," Nick said. "Unless you'd rather spend the time getting better

acquainted with your new friend from Beverly Hills. Which one is she, anyway?"

Amber pointed across the room. "The skinny chick with so many highlights in her hair it's like

staring into the sun. She's already trying to get into Cameron O'Keefe's pants. He's the adorably cute blond

guy to her left, the one whose arm she keeps touching. God, she's such a clueless tramp." Amber lowered

the volume of her raspy voice. "If Cameron's not gay, I'll be totally shocked."

"You sound like an authority on the subject." Nick focused on Cameron. Neatly dressed and

impeccably groomed, the guy stood with one hand on his hip, like a perfect Abercrombie & Fitch poster

boy.

Nick wondered how high he ranked on Amber's gaydar.

"My roommate back home is gay," Amber said. "I've had five years of intensive training in the fine

art of how to read even the most subtle signs."

Nick could've sworn she winked at him.

"Anyway," Amber continued. "You boys go on ahead. I want to be around when Miss 90210

crashes and burns after Cameron drops the rainbow bomb on her. I'll catch you later!"

She took off, leaving Nick alone with a decidedly uncomfortable-looking Logan.

Logan broke the awkward silence. "She sure does talk a lot."

"Yeah, girls tend to do that, at least most of the ones I've known. I mean, hung out with. As friends.

Not to say I don't have guy friends, too, but—" Nick slapped a hand over his mouth to keep any further

asinine stutters from spilling out. Talking to Amber had been effortless. One look at Logan, with the jaunty

smile and legs for days, and Nick couldn't reconnect the speech center of his brain to his tongue. "Let me

start over. You. Me. Burgers. Interested?"

"Sure." Logan retrieved his suitcase from the floor. "I think I've had enough of the big city for one

day, though. Can we do room service? I've never stayed anyplace fancier than a Days Inn, so I want to

soak up the whole experience."

Logan's accent had a distinctly Southern flavor but wasn't familiar. Nick had gone to school with

Texans, Floridians, and one guy from Louisiana, but Logan sounded different from all of them. Sweeter

and more refined, Logan's speech held a cadence Nick would've qualified as quaint.

A voice Nick could listen to for hours. "Where do you call home?"

"A tiny farming community west of Ewing, Virginia, squished between the Kentucky and Tennessee

borders." Logan grabbed a copy of the rules from the table on the way out the door. "Some of the prettiest

country God ever put on this earth, but there's not much to do there in the form of entertainment." Arriving

at the elevators, he pressed the call button. "What about you? Y'all sound like a bona fide Yankee."

"Guilty. I was born and raised on Cape Cod in Massachusetts. I've never been farther south than

Philadelphia." Nick stole secret glances at Logan, who seemed somehow exotic despite wearing simple

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