The Champ: Bad Boys Book 5 (The Bad Boys) (23 page)

So he did. Grudgingly.

Ryker never gave up on him for years, even when he was being a selfish twat. Surely he could endure one fucking interview for his closest friend, right?

The interview went on well…for the most part.

It was a neatly devised ploy, the kind that kept him relaxed at the beginning. Easy questions so he’d put his guard down. Corrine was skilled, in the same way a hunter patiently stalked his target before pulling the gun. It belied her mousy, almost delicate exterior.

“So, Zeke…you’re really back for good?”

“You could say that, yeah.”

“TorqueCrash fans will be ecstatic! That would put an end to the rumors you guys have disbanded.”

“You know we can’t do that. It’s the sacred fucking clause. More like a marriage except we can’t divorce each other.”

“You guys hitting the studio anytime soon?”

“Ryker and the rest of the guys are still wrapping up on their individual projects. But they’ve got a couple of good songs ready…”

“How about you? Anything lined up?”

That annoyed him.

“I’ve co-written several—”

Corrine cut him in the middle of his standard answer, seeing through his bullshit.

“While the collaborations with the rest of the band had been amazing, fans were waiting, with bated breath, if you’ll be writing new anthems.”

“Anthems?” he growled before he could stop himself.

She was going in for the kill, baring her teeth.

“Surely, you can’t be that modest, Zeke.”

“That was never one of my virtues, sweetheart.”

“TorqueCrash’s first three albums had been monumental. Songs like “Crazy Bitch”,  “Bleed You Dead”, “Cut and Dry” and “Passion’s Angel” had influenced an entire generation of kids. You wrote those songs by yourself and sang them like they were ripping you apart.”

“And your question is?”

“Are you really back on that creative level, now that drugs are out of the picture? Are you inspired about the music?”

How would he answer that? When he’d been in this artistic limbo for almost a decade?

“Let me tell you something, ma petite. Inspiration is like a ho. It comes only when it truly wants to. And I don’t want to force myself on that shit.”

She smiled. She got what she came for.  Another quotable. Damn her.

She later backed off. Thirty more minutes and the interview was over. He couldn’t walk away from the restaurant fast enough.

Fucking Julian! He muttered through chattering teeth,  thinking of a hundred and one ways to torture Julian Barnes, TorqueCrash’s manager, for putting him right in the middle of this fuckaroo.

Fritz, the driver loaned to him by his bandmate, Ridge, patiently waited on Mott St.

He was all too glad when Fritz held the white Bentley’s door open and he slid inside the warm confines of the car to thaw on the way to his next destination. Or rather, his next pit stop in this “reformation” PR project Julian had in mind.

As a judge for reality talent show, Pitch…a shameless replication of other high-rating productions out there, except that contestants have to go through impromptu challenges. Kinda like The Voice meet Project Runway.

The rock gods were probably laughing at his shit right now.

Damn it, he’d turned into something he vowed he never would be.

A motherfucking sellout.

Fuck his life.

He was itching for a cigarette.
It was either that or he’d detonate a bomb in the middle of the stage if he would be subjected to another hour of this hot mess. Fortunately, the director called in for a thirty-minute break to adjust the lights and equipment.

“You hanging in there, man?” Dermont Keenan, a music mega producer and fellow judge asked. He was in this show for the past three seasons.

“Barely. Motherfucking A! My fucking eardrums were hurting from all that caterwauling. I don’t know how you all can stand this shit.”  Great, he sounded like a sulking diva throwing a fit.

Dermont chuckled. “The last girl wasn’t that bad.”

He tilted his head to the side and gave his fellow judge a pointed look. “Don’t tell me your ears didn’t bleed. Dude, that wasn’t singing. That was screeching.”

Lilian Dowe, a popular RnB singer joined in.

“But Zeke, she was interpreting a Mariah Carey song!” she said in between giggles.

“That made it waaaay worse. Poor song choice,” he grumbled. “I need to get my ears checked after this.”

“Don’t worry, we’re about to wrap this shit up and call it a day,” Dermont offered in consolation.

“Good, because I’m about to put a bullet hole in my head to end my misery.”

Country legend Harmon Lorren, the fourth member of the panel signaled that the break was almost up and they all need to turn their chairs away from the stage for the next and last hopeful.

Hallow footsteps could be heard all the way from the parquet floor of the stage. Definitely male.

Familiar chords drifted around the auditorium, hitting him straight in the gut like a punch.

“Oh my fucking Zeus! Gimme a break,” he groaned inwardly.

“Man, this kid’s about to—”

“Sing ‘Passion’s Angel’. Believe me, I hear. For the tenth-fucking-time! So sick of these hacks butchering my song!”

“Guys!” Lilian shushed. “He’s about to start!”

Zeke slumped back in his chair, bored. He’d been bombarded by rock posers all day and this wannabe wouldn’t be any different—

His train of thought got derailed when the voice of the auditionee rendered the entire auditorium to a standstill.

Harmon, who was seated at the other end, turned; his silver eyes bulging from their sockets. “What the…!”

Zeke overheard Lilian’s delighted laugh. “Ohhhhhh! I want him!” she announced while hitting the button to rotate her chair.

The smile on Dermont’s face was huge. “Dude, this kid…he sounded just like…”

“Me,” Zeke finished for him.

“He’s gonna be on my team!” Dermont  declared as he pressed the “yes” button.

“Not if I can help it!” Harmon challenged.

Zeke couldn't move as he anticipated the next lines of the song, right before the first instrumental break. When the kid effortlessly reached the high altitude notes, goosebumps all over his arms broke out.

Holy shit, this kid can takeover my gig and push me straight to retirement, he thought grimly. I’m done for.

He finally pressed the green button and what he saw on stage stupefied him.

“Not only does he eerily sounded like you, the kid even looked like you! The less cynical version...” Dermont said the obvious.

“You sure you didn't clone yourself, Zeke?” Lilian teased. “’Cause if you did, I wanna sign up!”

Zeke didn’t respond as his unbelieving eyes took in the teen singing his heart on stage. A teen who was a dead-ringer for him.

His shook his head, hoping to clear it.

The band came to a halt.

Harmon was the first to ask the kid. “Wow, what’s your name, man? You got some amazing pipes in there.”

“How old are you?” Lilian asked next.

The kid smiled.

“Jaeger Bailey. And I’m fifteen.”

Jaeger?! And he’s fifteen…

Zeke’s heart began to pummel against his ribcage. It can’t be…

“Did you say Jagger?” he found himself asking. He had to be sure…

The kid turned to him, his amber eyes piercingly familiar…

“Nope. It's Jaeger. J-a-e-g-e-r.”

“Jaeger’s a very cool name,” Harmon added.

“Thanks. My mom said it meant "sharpshooter" in German.”

Zeke’s heart continued to pound painfully.

“Is your mom here with you, kid?”

The kid, Jaeger, blushed.

“Uhmmm...no. actually I didn't tell her until about ten minutes ago.”

Harmon chuckled.

“So you’ve run away to be here, in this audition? I have a feeling you're going to be in big trouble after this.”

Jaeger scratched the back of his head, looking very embarrassed.

Zeke used to do that when he was younger.

“What's your mother's name, kid?” he continued.

Lilian shrieked. “What? Why are you asking him that, Zee?”

“He was asking so he can sway the mom. You play dirty, Zee,” harmon added.

Zeke was unfazed. “Her name, kid?”

“Uhm…Tiara. Tiara Angela Bailey. She’s a chef.”

His jaw dropped in disbelief.

Then rage engulfed him.

Tiara Angela Bailey had a lot to answer for.