“Got to get back to work,” I say, pushing past him. I round the corner of the shelves and march toward the door just as it opens.
“What the hell are you—” Billie’s eyes widen when they shift over my shoulder, and that’s how I know Tro is following me. I brush past her into the studio and she holds the door after I pass. “Mr. Gunnison,” she says behind me. “I’m Billie Sinclair, Shiloh’s manager.”
She’s still talking as I head for the set, but I don’t slow down to listen.
The producer I met in the Green Room when we came in stops me at the stage curtain. “Thought we lost you,” he says with a tight smile.
“Sorry,” I say. “Was in the bathroom.”
His smile softens. “It happens. That’s the beauty of taping. We won’t miss a beat when the show airs tonight.” He holds his hand up over my shoulder just as I catch the scent of cinnamon. “Ready, Tro?”
“Yeah, Pete.” Tro’s thick hand knuckle bumps him from over my shoulder. “Good to go, man.”
“Head on out and take the seat next to Jimmy’s desk,” Pete tells him, pulling a tissue from his pocket and holding it out. At first I’m confused, but when Tro deposits his gum into it, I do the same. “When Shiloh comes out, you move one seat to the right and she’ll take the seat between you and Jimmy.”
I look over my shoulder at Tro as Pete jump shots the tissue in the trash can in the corner. He gives me a shake of his head and that devil’s smile. “Got it, boss.”
He steps through the curtain and strides toward the indicated seat to squeals of “I want to have your babies, Tro!” from the girls in the audience.
The sound guys get both of us wired, and after a quick mic check, Pete says, “All set back here, Jimmy,” into his headset.
Up front, Jimmy introduces me and Pete pulls open the curtain. I walk out and wave at the audience like I totally belong here. I ignore the applause and the girls still screaming for Tro. I ignore the hundreds of prying eyes just waiting for me to fuck up. I ignore the hottest man I’ve ever met, standing near Jimmy’s desk, watching me with wolf’s eyes. I might make him feel like he’s standing five inches from the sun, but he’s got his own gravitational pull. My heart pounds harder with every step closer to him I take.
His fingertips glide over my waist as he moves to the side and makes room for me to sit between him and Jimmy. I fight the shudder as I shake Jimmy’s hand, then Tro’s. We all settle into seats and it takes another minute for the stage managers, now holding up their “quiet” signs, to get the girls in the audience to stop their declarations of undying love for Tro.
Jimmy’s first few questions are predictable, mostly about my path from orphan to recording phenom and how it’s changed my life. They play of clip of me singing my final song on The Voice finale, then cut to the moment I won. I’m crying a little and my mascara is all running down my face.
I hate that clip.
The whole time, I can’t help sneaking glances at Tro. I’m just now realizing his presence is impossible to ignore. His eyes are on the screen and his crooked smile is making my insides fizzle like a lit fuse. When his gaze slips to mine, it’s like a nuclear bomb goes off in my chest.
The clip finishes and Jimmy looks past me to Tro. “So, what do you think about the whole Voice thing?”
The smoky timbre of Tro’s chuckle causes a tingle to ripple up my spine and tightens my nipples. “I’m thinking about doing it just to get pointers from Adam Levine.”
“We had Maroon 5 on earlier this season,” Jimmy says. “So talented—like your opening act.” He turns his gaze back to me. “Your first single, the one we just heard a snippet of from the finals of The Voice, spent seventeen weeks in Billboard’s top ten, and everything you’ve released since has debuted in the top five. That’s got to be pretty exciting.”
I want to sound all kickass and confident, but I hate those last two singles. Course, I can’t say that without pissing off everyone at my label, so I nod. “My whole team has been really amazing, and Universal’s done a great job with promotion, so…”
God, that was a stupid answer.
“But I’m nothing like Roadkill,” I add to deflect the attention from me. “Their first CD went double platinum in like a week.”
“Uh-uh,” Tro says with a shake of his head. “Our first CD was recorded in the basement of a crack house in Louisiana when I was seventeen. No one’s ever heard that ‘cept a few drunks at the seedy bars we played who we persuaded to part with ten bucks. That was Roadkill’s first three years.”
“You mean, this one?” Jimmy says, and when I turn to him, he’s holding up a CD with a picture of three mangy guys on the cover. The one in the middle is a much younger Tro. He’s probably close to my age in that picture.
“Well, fuck me,” Tro says with a shake of his head. “Where’d you find that?”