Less Than Nothing Read online

  He runs a finger over my cheekbone and pushes my hair aside. I hate my bangs right now. Hate, hate, hate them.

  “I do want to. But when two people start…when they get romantic, everything changes. Sometimes for the good, sometimes not. The point is we’ve just done the impossible, together, as a team. Not as a couple. As two singers.” He sighs. “I don’t want to risk our future on something changing between us.”

  “What? You’re afraid that if we keep kissing, we might not sing as well? Are you for real?”

  “Sage, there’s a tension between us that’s really powerful. It’s dynamite when we sing. That’s part of what makes it magical. If we relieve that tension or do something to change it–”

  “Wait. You’re saying that you really want to kiss me, and I really want to kiss you, but if we keep doing it, it might affect our…performance? And you’re serious?” My fury’s building, but I can’t seem to stop it. This is going all wrong. A moment before it was bliss, but now…

  Derek steps back from me. “How many relationships have you been in, Sage?”

  “Me? Enough.”

  “I mean serious ones, with someone you want to be around all the time. Someone you’re head over heels for.”

  I’m not going to answer that question. “What’s your point?”

  “I’ve had a few girlfriends, and believe me, things change. Look, all we have to do is wait six weeks, and then this is over. At that point we can start fresh, pick up right where we left off, with that kiss. It’s only six weeks. And the stakes are high, Sage. Too high. It’s an all-or-nothing situation, and I don’t want to throw it away by doing the wrong thing.”

  I’m furious that he’s willing to reject me over the show, but I remember Helen’s words and force myself to stay calm. Derek obviously isn’t lying about wanting me. That kiss didn’t lie. But he’s trying to think with his head, not his…he’s trying to do the right thing for us, for our shot at changing our lives. He’s not rejecting anyone – it only seems that way because I’ve invested so much in getting him to kiss me, and with kisses, it becomes way more than just that. And he knows it. He’s telling me that it’s way more for him, too, and he doesn’t want to play with dynamite, at least until the show’s over.

  The difference between Derek and me is that I’ll happily risk our chances at winning to get what I want, which I’ve decided is Derek. And he won’t. He’s trying to be responsible in the same methodical way that he eats.

  I try to see it from his perspective, and have to admit there’s a logic to it. But I don’t care about logic. I want his lips on mine, now, goddammit, and he’s not playing.

  I’m drained, and tired, and all I have to look forward to is another night of rats and stinky bodies and snoring and subways. Any interest I had in kissing is slipping away.

  “But once it’s over, you really do want to pick this back up?”

  He steps close to me again and frames my face with his hands. He leans into me, and his lips flit across mine, and then his fingers are in my hair, pulling gently, the slight pain exquisite. I close my eyes, not thinking, and he whispers in my ear before kissing the lobe.

  “More than anything, Sage. If you only knew how much, you’d understand how hard it is for me to do the right thing.”

  I know, all right. My body’s sending me every signal possible to tell me that Derek’s the one, and it wants him more than I would have thought possible. It’s a completely new sensation, unfamiliar but as powerful as a steam engine, and it’s taking every bit of will I have to keep from tearing his clothes off right here on the street.

  How the hell am I going to make it six weeks? Six minutes seems like an eternity.

  I pull away and retrieve Yam, and he lifts his rucksack. He takes my hand and looks down at me.

  “We good?”

  I want to cry, I’m so frustrated. WWMD? Crap. I sniff back tears and nod, both hating him and wanting him more than I thought possible.

  “We’re way better than good, Derek.” I shake my head. “It’s going to be a long six weeks.”

  Chapter 28

  My night goes by without any sleep as I toss and turn, trying to make sense of Derek’s reasoning. Eventually the wine burns through my system, leaving me with a dehydrated, spent feeling, which doesn’t help. I want to slide my cot next to his and talk him out of his conviction that us being anything more than friends will risk our chances, but a rancid utility area on a closed subway route filled with the homeless isn’t exactly ideal for intimacy.

  I try to understand his thinking, but I’m not getting it. Derek’s already way more than just a friend – the kiss proved that to me, if I didn’t already know it. How can he be so logical and detached when I’m grinding my teeth and trying to come up with an excuse to repeat it?

  Which is his point. Things have already changed between us. I don’t feel the same as I did a week ago. And now I’m losing sleep over it. If I’m looking for proof that there might be something to his fears, all I have to do is look in the mirror. My mind isn’t on the show, on winning, or on anything but Derek.

  I hate that he’s right.

  The next day we’re up early and playing for our breakfast. New York isn’t a generous city to musicians, partly because of its tough character, but also because there are so damned many of us. All the best spots are taken, so we’re stuck in areas where people are jostling and rushing to be somewhere else, most with little time or interest in stopping and listening, much less in parting with tips.

  Derek hasn’t said anything more about last night, and neither have I. We can both sense that even discussing it will cause more drama, which is what he’s trying to avoid. We finish the day with sixty dollars to split, which will cover hot dogs and coffee, but not a lot else.

  The following day is a repeat, with the only variation lunch with Jeremy. Derek passes, wanting to play through the peak hours, so it’s just the two of us at a little wraps restaurant in midtown.

  The good thing about Jeremy is he’s not hard to spot, even in a crowd. His flamboyant red hair and colorful wardrobe announce his presence before he sees me and waves. He’s wearing a lime green tank top and khaki yoga pants, his outfit completed with a pair of huarache sandals and white-framed sunglasses that cover most of his upper face. He throws his arms wide when I approach and lets out a little scream. The other diners largely ignore him.

  We hug, and I notice that he smells like something expensive. I sit down, and he takes off his glasses. He’s wearing a little mascara.

  “So, dahling, how are you coping in Nueva Yorka? Getting along okay?”

  I nod. “We’re playing all day, so we’re eating.”

  He purses his lips. “And how are you doing with that hunk of burning man who follows you around like a puppy?”

  “Oh, you know. Nothing’s ever easy.”

  “Tell me about it. Believe you me, even for someone as obviously a catch as I, it’s hard to find decent material. You’re lucky to have him, I’d say.”

  “Well, I don’t really have him.”

  Jeremy’s eye roll is as dramatic as a silent movie star’s. “Girlfriend, yes, you do. It’s written all over his face. He’s smitten.”

  I sigh. Jeremy’s easy to talk to, and so over-the-top about everything that nothing I say is going to shock him, I can tell. So I share the last couple of days with him and ask his opinion. When I finish, he’s shaking his head as he nibbles on his wrap.

  “Boy, that’s a toughie. Everyone I know is on the same page. Life’s too short to delay pleasure. I can resist anything but temptation, as the saying goes.”

  “So you agree there’s no reason to be platonic?” I so want him to say yes.

  “I didn’t say that. I just meant that all my friends have poor judgment and high hopes. But you don’t seem happy at all, and I don’t blame you. If I had a strapping young buck like Derek, there’d only be one thing on my agenda, and it wouldn’t be anything you could put on TV.”

  I g
iggle. He’s so cut and dried. Reminds me a lot of Melody. I feel like I’m the only one on the planet who isn’t in the same movie – an X-rated one. No, I’m walking around in a bad seventies sitcom, and the joke’s on me.

  The talk turns to tomorrow’s first show. Jeremy’s decided to lead with “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” Derek and I have agreed that we’d stick to something that would showcase both our vocals equally, and will be doing a Beatles number we’ve come up with a novel arrangement for. It’s a favorite in our daily routine, and we’ve been using that feedback to evaluate what works and what doesn’t – a huge advantage the other acts don’t have.

  By the time we finish lunch, which we split, I feel like I’ve known Jeremy forever, and I text Melody to tell her about my new friend. She doesn’t have any advice to offer about Derek other than what I expected: “You get naked and he’ll change his mind.”

  Which, while possibly true, ignores that I’ve never been naked with anyone, much less changed their mind.

  Derek and I finish up our day. We made less than yesterday, which is a little depressing, but it doesn’t seem to matter as much as it might if we weren’t going to be on the Radio City Music Hall stage tomorrow, on national television. We’ve both got that sensation of drifting along, passing time until we learn whether we’re going to make it through the first disqualification round. Now we’re not competing to see if we’re good enough to be in the show, we’re competing against each other, and the other contestants are likely to be equally good.

  Derek’s muted over dinner, and I try to engage him. “You know what tomorrow night is?”

  He takes a bite of his chicken and smiles. “The big show – how can I forget?”

  “No, although that’s right, it is tomorrow, isn’t it?”

  He looks at me, puzzled.

  I smirk. “It’s our one-week anniversary living with Lucifer!”

  He almost spits food all over the table, and laughs for the first time in days. I miss that, his easy sense of humor, always close to the surface.

  “That’s right. And here I was, all wrapped up in that silly contest,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I know.” I don’t say that in another couple of days it will be our three-week anniversary. “It’s all about you, isn’t it?”

  “We should ask for better bunks. Fewer lice or something.”

  “You think he’ll let me have a rat for a pet? I figure I can ride it through the tunnels for fun.”

  Derek’s eyes dance in the restaurant lights. “Teach it to do tricks. Maybe there’s money in that.”

  “Or to sing. If my partner steps on the third rail, I’m hosed.”

  His face grows serious. “You really think the approval form will wash?”

  I faked my mom’s signature on the form after agonizing over calling her for two days. I figure there’s no way they can check it, so nobody’ll be the wiser.

  “Sure. Paul just needs to cover his ass. Now he can say with a straight face that I’ve provided everything I need, and he’ll move on to the next menu item. With fifty contestants, he’s got his hands full.” The show’s organized so that all fifty of us will perform this week, with the twenty-five lowest ranking to be disqualified during the two-hour debut program. The following two weeks will be brutal, with the amount of time available demanding that at least a quarter of the acts get cut off by the judges midway through their performance. Then the next two weeks, two-thirds of the contestants will be booted, leaving five or six finalists at the judges’ discretion, who will compete on the last night, two songs per act.

  Derek studies me. “You nervous?”

  “Nah. What’s there to be nervous about? Singing in front of thousands of people for the first time in my life with everything riding on it – no pressure or anything.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I’m fine, Derek. After Lucifer’s, this is nothing.”

  I manage a few hours of sleep after a chaste peck on the cheek from Derek. The first thing I’m going to do if I make real money is burn my backpack and buy the most expensive pillow in the world – maybe with a chocolate dispenser and an Internet connection. If that isn’t a thing yet, I’ll have someone invent it.

  The next day we arrive at the theater a little before three o’clock. Paul’s there with his clipboard and checks us off before handing us laminated passes. I give him the bogus form, and he passes it to an assistant, and then another man who could be his twin shows us to our dressing room. Eight contestants already there, none of whom we know. Jeremy arrives moments later and greets us like long-lost siblings, and I feel a little better.

  A woman comes in and clears her throat, and the room falls silent.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be taking you five at a time to hair and makeup. It’s first come, first served. Who wants to go first?” she asks, and everyone’s hands shoot up. Jeremy and I exchange a glance, and I lower mine. Derek catches on and drops his, as does Jeremy, and soon the initial five are herded off while everyone else waits.

  Jeremy shakes his head. “This is like getting on a plane. It’s so funny to watch everyone jockeying to be the first when it can’t take off until the last person’s on board.”

  My phone vibrates. It’s Melody. She’s going to watch at home and record it.

  Melody: I’m sooo excited! U get new clothes or anything?

  Me: I’m wearing my least dirty jeans and my best Harley T-shirt.

  Melody: WTF. Don’t they give you outfits?

  Me: Not so far. Maybe in the semifinals. Dunno. My luck it’ll be a penguin suit.

  Melody: They pay you?

  Me: In experience.

  Melody: Can’t eat experience.

  Me: And exposure. Lotta exposure.

  Melody: Bogus.

  A camera crew enters and films us, probably for filler between the acts. We’re on the schedule to spend five minutes talking to someone in a preshow interview, which will predictably be the same questions everyone always asks.

  When the first group returns, some look completely different, others about the same, with the exception that everyone’s got a base of foundation on their faces. Another five, this time including Jeremy, march off, and Derek and I are alone. A few of the other contestants approach us and introduce themselves, but we aren’t talkative, preferring to noodle on our guitars rather than play the game of one-upmanship we hear going on around us, everyone discussing their managers, or the show they’re going to be appearing in, or their recording schedule.

  Jeremy returns, and it’s our turn. The hairdresser I get wants to try all kinds of things with gel and twists and whatnot, none of which I’m into, and in the end I settle for a quick wash and dry with some trimming of my split ends. My dye is growing out, so she touches it up, and then it’s the makeup guy’s turn. He takes no more than ten minutes, and when I see my reflection, a stranger looks back – it’s been that long since I had on any kind of makeup. He’s gone heavy on the mascara, a goth thing, and I’m like, whatever.

  Derek lets his hairstylist talk him into gelling his hair back, and when I get a look at him, I’m speechless. If he normally looks like sex walking, now he could easily be the main attraction at an awards banquet, he’s that stunning. His skin is tanned from being outdoors all day, and it now frames his green eyes perfectly, the gel job heightening the impact of his cheekbones and chiseled jawline.

  He turns to me and smiles as his eyes widen. “Wow. You look great!”

  I consider his profile and smile sadly. “Ha, ha. Very funny.”

  “No, really, you do. I’ve…I’ve never seen you with makeup.”

  “If I had a camera, I’d take a picture.” What I don’t say is that I look like a bag lady compared to his movie-star looks. Now, with his worn biker jacket, tight jeans, and black T-shirt, he reminds me of one of those famous actors from the fifties, whose name escapes me.

  We return to the dressing room, and Jeremy’s mouth drops open when he sees Derek. “Oh my Lor
d above, you can take me home right now, do you hear? Because I’ve seen everything worth seeing, amen!” I can’t help but laugh, and he looks me over. “If I was into chicks, I’d give you a run around the block, too.”

  I blush because I know he’s just trying to make me feel better. I’m not a fashion model, and physically, Derek’s in a league all his own. At least that’s how it seems to me.

  Jeremy squints at Derek and snaps his fingers. “James Dean. It’s James Dean reincarnated.”

  Our interview is exactly what I expect, and I let Derek do most of the talking. I offer a nod or a “yup” where appropriate, but other than that, he’s doing great, and there’s no point in me sticking my foot in my mouth on camera.

  The contestants draw numbers to decide the performance order, and we’re in the middle of the pack, number twenty-eight. Jeremy gets forty-two, which he’s thrilled with – nobody wants dreaded number fifty, or number one. The judges and the crowd will be tired by the final act, and be harder on the first performer than they might be on the rest – at least that’s his take.

  Whether it’s true, I have no idea.

  A monitor is set up near the door, and we watch as the show starts. The judges are introduced, and then the first contestant takes the stage – a Jamaican man with dreadlocks galore who takes a stab at a Michael Jackson song with disastrous results. He’s shut down by the abrasive sound of the buzzer, and the next contestant is called. This time it’s a girl not much older than me, trying her luck with a Celine Dion song, and she does better.

  Eventually the novelty of watching the battle wears thin, and we tune our guitars. Our warm-up consists of singing some of the songs we do on the street, and judging by the approving nods from some of the other contestants, we’re sounding pretty good.

  Jeremy comes over and gives me a high five. “If I wasn’t singing tonight, I’d put money on you two.” He turns to the monitor, where a woman’s giving the obligatory twenty-second high note sustained at the end of the song, the musical equivalent of the sax player who sustains a note for a minute, which requires little but breath control but is an audience favorite.