Page 4 of Going Solo (The Brent Boys #2)
Chapter Two
T he first time I ever heard Cole Kennedy sing, he was standing on the other side of a closed door. Even then, it was obvious he was good. Like, really good. He was a natural baritone and had serious range. His voice had a smooth, silky quality. He sang with real emotion and incredible power. He’d chosen to sing Roy Orbison’s “You Got It,” and when he finished, there was clapping in the room. This was only the producer audition (the audition you did before you auditioned for the TV judges), but we’d probably listened to the last twenty acts performing through that door, and we’d never heard clapping before. How was I going to follow that?
The door opened, and Cole emerged with a massive grin on his face. “I’m through to the judges.”
Orla threw her arms around him. “I’m so proud of you!”
Cole, still holding his guitar, wound his free arm around her. Then he looked directly at me and dipped his head in a small bow. “It’s all thanks to Toby. Changing song was absolutely the right call.”
When Orla finally released him, Cole hugged me. My heart was thumping like it had joined a stampede. I hugged him back, tucking my head into his shoulder, breathing in the smell of him—the shampoo, the leather, the Lynx Africa. A bead of sweat was within licking distance. I nearly went for it.
A Scottish voice boomed throughout the room. “One hundred and forty-six!”
Mum whacked me in my ribs. “That’s you, Tobes. You’re up, bubby.”
“One hundred and forty-six!” the voice called again.
“I better go,” I said, pulling free of the hug.
Cole put his hand on my shoulder and looked me square in the eye. “You got it.”
“Do you two know each other?” It was one of the Make Me a Pop Star producers, the same one who had been calling out my number.
Cole turned to the woman and grinned. “We met in the line earlier.” He let his arm slip around my shoulder and pulled me into him. Then, like a gentleman in a regency romance, he introduced us. “Indira, this is Toby. Toby, this is Indira—she’s an assistant producer on the show.”
Indira looked at Cole. Indira looked at me. She looked back at Cole. She looked back to me. Then she raised a hand, pointed a finger at Cole, and then pointed it at me.
“You’re not a”—she waggled the finger back and forth—“ thing , are you?”
“Oh!” Cole said, letting his arm fall from my shoulder. “No, no. Nothing like that.”
Indira smiled. I wasn’t sure if she was relieved or if she didn’t believe him. “Well, come on, Toby. You’re up.”
* * *
There was no round of applause for me. My heart was pounding in my throat as I waited for the producers’ verdict on my “Firework.” Indira leaned over to another producer and whispered something in his ear. He nodded. He looked up at me, smiled, and kept nodding. Indira pointed at something she’d written on her clipboard. The other producer stared at me. My fight-or-fart mechanism was triggered, and my bumhole clenched like it was tightening a nut.
“Toby,” Indira said, finally, “we’d like you to sing for the judges this afternoon.”
Tears sprung from my eyes with the relief. It was like someone had loosened my corset and suddenly I could breathe again.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” I squealed. Then, for some reason, I curtsied. “What am I like?” I said. Indira and the other producer laughed. That was encouraging. At least I would be good telly. I skipped out of the room, feeling as high as my Aunt Cheryl that time she did ketamine on an easyJet flight to Las Palmas de Gran Canaria. I was in with a shot. There was a chance all my dreams would come true, and I could be a pop star.