Chapter one
Birdie
“IT’S FINALE NIGHT FOR AMERICA’S MOST ENCHANTING VIRTUOSO!” the announcer boomed to wild applause.
The energy in the studio tonight wasinsane,and I took a deep breath, smoothing down my long folk singer skirt, and I walked out under the bright lights.
“Please welcome back BIRDIE VALENTINE!”
I had been sitting in hair & makeup for ages, my light brown shoulder-length curls bouncing with shiny perfection, eyes heavy with makeup and sticky squishy gloss on my lips, my breasts squashed into a top that pressed them high like two shiny glittery cantaloupes.
They had really played up the whole sexpot vs. America's Sweetheart angle for the finale.
Audience members were holding up signs identifying who they thought should win—me or the curly-haired crooner named Timmy Tune-ups, who was so popular the studio had taken out extra security against all the panties constantly being thrown at him while he sung.
As we were guided to our places, I tried not to look over at the judge’s table, even though just knowing he was there watching made my skin tingle, sent waves of arousal between my thighs.
This was the most significant moment of my life, the culmination of the 5-week singing competition I’d quit my job as a bartender to join.
An idiot move? Possibly.
But it could potentially change my entire life. It could massively jumpstart my career as a singer.
And here I was still thinking abouthim.
Forrest Davies-Jones.
Because how could younotbe obsessed with him? The absolutelylegendarycomposer, director, and mega-powerful mogul. He’d written and produced some of the biggest songs in the business, with a commitment to musicalperfection, and directed smash hits from classical operas to Broadway.
In fact, I couldn’tstopthinking about him.
Feeling his eyes on me, wondering what he thought about me, if he was impressed with my singing.
I didn’t necessarily have the most classical voice and he was such a classical voice specialist. My voice was raw, low, throaty. The opposite of every other person who had been his favorite in previous years.
But the way he looked at me? It was positively sinful.
I didn’t know how hefeltabout me, but every time his eyes slid over, I felt slick dripping sweat roll down my back. BecauseIwas the one he had chosen to mentor.Iwas the one who got his sparing words of praise.
And his favoritism didn’t go unnoticed.
I knew there were people who thought I’d only made it this far into the competition because of my “sex appeal.” Or that Forrest had pulled strings.
“Mr. Davies-Jones treats all the competitors equally,” the America’s Most Enchanting Virtuoso PR had assured the public.
Well, I hoped that wasn’t true. . .because wehadslept together. Just a few times, but each one was imprinted on my memory—the passion, the need, the feeling I would explode without his masterful hands on me, coaxing my body to make sounds I’d never dreamed it could. . .
Forrest lounged back in his chair, chatting with the other judges, and I forced myself to not look over to add fuel to the fire because I knew what I’d see. A very tall man, sexy as hell at 60, thick silvery hair with a neatly trimmed beard, broad shoulders, black suit jacket and snowy white shirt with the top few buttons undone so I could see the tanned skin of his powerful chest.
Delicious
The final songs were a blur, and the judges praised both of us, but of course I was waiting on what Forrest thought.
He was always sparing, cautious with his praise, which is why I practically drooled over every bit of it.
“Your voice is—so raw and untamed. It has an innate hedonism to it that is so striking—almost an animal quality to the way your voice caresses those notes. Most unique.”
Well, that didn’t sound like something he’d say about anyone he’d cast in one of his operas, but I couldn’t help my cheeks flushing with pleasure.
