But it’s also harmless—more of an irritant than anything else. A way to distract her and catch her off guard.
There’s no way in hell she’s going to beat me. I’ll make sure of it.
CHAPTER 24: LEXI
Sleeping in the same bedroom with a stranger wasn’t really so bad.
I fell asleep before he even came up to bed, and our beds are on opposite sides of the room.
Okay, I didn’t fall asleep, but I pretended to. Instead, I tossed and turned all night as I tried to categorize my feelings for Gage. Do I hate him? Yes. Do I love him? Also yes.
Not that any of it matters.
I need to put him out of my mind, out of my periphery, and focus on why I’m here. I refuse to lose this because of him—because he pulled my concentration away.
And Tyler, too. I love the attention from someone both as hot and as successful as him, but I still don’t trust that he’s here for the right reasons. Something doesn’t sit right with the fact that he’s already in a band that’s climbing their way to the top.
Those were the thoughts in my mind as I tried to sleep in a bed that wasn’t my own. I don’t miss Nashville yet, but I miss home. I miss that feeling you get when you walk through the door of the place that’s exclusively yours. This isn’t home. This is a big house on the beach I’m sharing with eight men who are all strangers to me.
All of them—including the man I thought I got to know but who turned out to be someone totally different.
I get up and shower before anyone else is even awake. When I head down to the kitchen, I find the guy they call Blaze there, popping blueberries into his mouth.
“Morning,” he says, his voice a deep baritone. He’s a big, burly guy with a long beard who looks like he wears a lot of flannel shirts and chops a lot of wood.
“Good morning,” I say, and I wrinkle my nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Cinnamon rolls in the oven,” he says. He draws in a deep breath. “Just like my mama used to make when I was a kid.”
I give him a cursory smile, but I need to get out of here. The strong smell of cinnamon this early in the morning is making my stomach queasy.
I don’t know why I hate the smell so much, but it makes me nauseous every time. I grab a cup of coffee and a banana and head out to the deck to breathe in the salty ocean air instead of that rancid smell inside.
A few deep breaths help clear my lungs and make my stomach feel better. I eat the banana and enjoy the sunshine as I relax back in a lounge chair.
I’m tired after not sleeping well last night, but I’m ready for whatever today might bring. The door opens and Eric joins me with a plate of food.
“Good morning,” he says, walking his plate over to one of the tables set up out here.
“Good morning,” I echo.
He sits and digs in. “Sleep well?” he asks.
I nod. “Fine. You?”
He nods, and usually I’m pretty good at small talk, but between the stress of this competition and the tension of Gage being here and the smell of cinnamon that followed Eric out on top of my lack of sleep...well, I’m just not in the mood for it.
“So you’re from Nashville?” he asks. Apparently he is in the mood for it.
I nod. “Yeah. And you’re Chicago?”
He nods. “The Windy City, baby,” he says, and he reminds me of one of those typical Chicago guys on that variety show who love Da Bears.
“What do you do in Chicago?” I ask. When you don’t feel like talking, you get them talking. Isn’t that the rule?
“I work mostly in television as a session bassist.”
“What’s that?” I ask, taking a sip of coffee.
“I work for a studio and they use me when they need me. I don’t have a regular band I play with, but I work with a lot of the same guys all the time.”
“Do you like it?” I ask. I feel like I’d hate that. I loved being part of Electric Red Summer because of the camaraderie we formed with one another.
He grins. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
I grunt a courtesy chuckle for him.
“If you’ve ever heard of the Runyon Six, I was number six,” he says.
“I’ve heard of them,” I say. They were a famous family a decade and a half ago who traveled the country selling out small venues. It wasn’t just a musical act, but it was a whole variety show that included all sorts of acts. “What was your favorite part of that?”
“Juggling,” he says.
“Juggling what? Singing and performing?”
He laughs. “No. Juggling knives and setting them on fire.”
My brows dip down. “How old were you?”
“Eight.”
Jeez. He was juggling fire knives at eight. You know what I was doing at eight? Probably learning to braid Barbie’s hair.
Tim and Colt join us on the deck, and John and Decker step out a few minutes later. I wonder where Gage is, and I wonder where everyone got their plates of food.
I decide to head in, and just as I do, I run smack into a firm chest standing right in front of the patio doors.
“Oof,” I grunt. “Sorry.” I look up to find Gage standing there.
I glare at him, and he responds with a smirk.
He steps aside to let me into the house and the strong smell of cinnamon wafts to my nostrils.
I about fall over from the strength of it, and then I find a candle lit on the kitchen counter.
A cinnamon scented candle.
I see Blaze pulling more cinnamon rolls out of the oven.
A box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch sits open on the counter.
I glare toward the door, where Gage still stands as he watches me. He shoots me another smirk before he disappears out the door.
That bastard.
I beeline for the food room. I find a saltshaker, and I slip it into my pocket.
He may have remembered my hatred for cinnamon, but there were a few things I didn’t forget, too.
Like the fact that he doesn’t like salt on his fries because too much salt makes his fingers swell. I guess now that I know he’s a bass player, I understand why he didn’t want his fingers to swell. Trying to play bass with swollen fingers can be rough and clumsy, and he’s about to get a little extra dose of it.
I draw in a breath—through my mouth, of course, since everything in this dang house reeks of cinnamon now.
I need to be calm about this.
He’ll be expecting something at breakfast, so it won’t be on his breakfast. Lunch, maybe, or even dinner. I need to be patient.
I blow out the candle and stick it in a cabinet once it cools. He thinks he can get to me, and he’s right. He’s getting to me. But I won’t let him see it.
After breakfast, the producers direct us to the couches in the family room, and the MFB boys walk back in.
“Your second competition takes place today,” Dax says once everyone is gathered. “We’re looking strictly at technique. We have your isolated bass from the signature song you chose to play the day we met you at the Ashmark offices, and we’ll be judging that, which was lower pressure, along with today’s challenge, which is higher pressure.”
I don’t take my eyes off Dax while he speaks, but the feel in the room shifts at his announcement that we’ll be playing under pressure today.