“Seriously.”
I drop the swimsuit and do a silent victory dance, involving a sequence of fist pumps and the running man—not easy on carpet.
“Austin?”
I straighten and clear my throat. “Yep. I’m here. That’s… great news. Thanks, man.”
“Don’t thank me just yet,” he says. “We’ve got a lot of work to do to knock this thing out of the park. We have to prove we can make it worth Fusion’s time and money.”
“We will,” I say. “Whatever it takes.”
“Which reminds me…we’re down a backup vocalist.”
“What?”
“Diana has to have vocal surgery—polyps. She’ll be on vocal rest for a long time.”
I swear softly. We worked hard to find three amazing backup vocalists for this Europe tour, and Diana is the best of them. Even more importantly, we only have a couple of weeks and a few rehearsals before we push off for Prague.
“Don’t sweat it,” Paul says. “I’m working on it.”
“Okay. Just make sure she’sactuallygood, for the love of all that’s holy.” If it’d been up to Fusion, they would’ve chosen Maxim models who couldn’t hold a tune for backups. It’s part of why I know Paul can’t push too hard for my original stuff to be part of the setlist. He’s constantly having to fight the label on these smaller but still-important things.
I hang up and put my hands on my hips, staring at nothing in particular for a couple of minutes. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed about not being able to play my own stuff. I’ve been busting my butt the last couple of years to provemyself to my label, hoping they’ll give me a little more creative control. So far, no dice.
It’s only a matter of time, though. My biggest fanbase is in Europe—a result of opening for James TW on his tour there a couple of years ago—but it’s slowly shifting so that soon, a majority of my listeners will be in the States. Once I have enough of a following here at home, Fusion will loosen up a bit and start trusting me more. For now, all I can do is shake off the frustrations and be grateful they agreed to a Europe tour at all.
I’m living my dream—or pretty dang close to it. Let’s call itdream-adjacent.
I go to my closet and feel along the top shelf with my hand, smiling when it settles on something small and metal. It’s the key to the local swimming pool where I used to lifeguard during summers in high school. One of the swim coaches is a huge fan of mine, and she gave me a key a while back so I can work out and take a dip after hours when I’m in town without worrying I’ll be bothered by people who recognize me. I haven’t taken her up on it for a while, but tonight, it’s just what the doctor ordered.
I grab the swimsuit, stuff it in my gym bag, and head out. It’s only a ten-minute drive, and the almost-empty parking lot and dark building reinforce my choice to come when I pull in. It’s rare for me to get alone time these days. Paul works hard to make sure my schedule is full of events and promotion opportunities, plus the required time in the studio.
I head for the side door. It’s the only door that’s not armed—a secret I promised to take to the grave when Selena gave me the key.
I shut the door quietly and put the key back in to lock it, pausing at the sound of music. It’s faint—too faint to be coming from the speakers on the ceiling in this hallway. We always had music playing when I lifeguarded here. Maybe someone forgotto turn it off when they left for the night, or maybe it’s the janitorial team.
I slip the key into the pocket of my gym bag and make my way toward the locker rooms. The singing grows louder as I near, which confirms what I suspected: it’s a cappella. And completely angelic. It’s not a song I know, but the riffs and vocal control of the artist are impressive, to say the least. It’s not the type of stuff we played over the speakers as kids screamed and splashed around in the pool. We had about forty tracks that played on repeat, and to this day, I can’t listen to any of them.
The singing fades, and I frown.
I head into the locker room, using my phone flashlight as I shed my joggers in favor of my swimsuit, then pull my shirt over my head. I work hard on my physique—having a shirtless body inspected at 1000% zoom will do that to a person—but I’m not the Hulk, and I’d have an easier time ripping open the time-space continuum than this dense 100% cotton. My performance shirts are specially manufactured for easy tearing, and they’re very much part of the image Fusion is promoting. I’m trying to laugh about it rather than fight it. I’ve accepted it’s part of the gig.
I’d planned on doing a solid workout, but now that I’m here, I’m anxious to get in the pool, so I settle for some burpees, which is enough to get me sweating.
I head into the big dome that houses the indoor pool. The luminous turquoise of the water reflects off the walls and ceiling, the perfectly still surface beckoning me to dive in.
As I walk to the deep end, my gaze catches on a towel and a phone sitting on the nearest bench. I frown and look around, but you could hear a pin drop in here. I walk over to the bench and tap on the phone screen. It lights up, showing a picture of a woman in overalls holding a guitar. She’s pretty—shoulder-length dark hair and a nice smile. She’s probably kicking herself for leaving her phone here.
My eyes fix on the guitar for a second, and I feel a flash of jealousy. When I imagined my career in music, I’d always thoughtthatwas the image people would associate with me: a guy with his guitar. I never get to play instruments when I perform, though. A guitar would be in the way of ripping off my shirt, not to mention the choreography they have me doing, like I’m some early 00s boy band without any bandmates.
The phone goes dark, and I make my way to the edge of the pool, glancing at the painted sign indicating the depth: ten feet. Plenty for a dive.
My gaze catches on something red under the water, and my brows pull together, then shoot up. That red is a swimsuit. With a person wearing it. A person who’s sitting at the bottom of the pool.
My heart bolts to max speed, and I don’t hesitate for even a second, diving in the way I was always prepared to do but never had to when I was a lifeguard. I open my eyes, and they fix on my target. She looks so peaceful, so relaxed, her brown hair floating around her head, her face expressionless. It’s hauntingly beautiful.
And I’m terrified.
