Page 81 of Wicked Dance
Chapter 27
I don’t feel much better even after sleeping. I don’t want to get up.
Blitz isn’t in bed with me. I peer at the tops of the bedroom curtains and realize the sun is blazing. We have the day off from rehearsal, thankfully, or I would clearly be late.
I check the clock. After ten.
My hair is a horrible disaster of pins and hairspray. This must be what a hangover is like, except I didn’t drink anything. I feel like the comic book drawings of someone recovering from a bender.
I manage to tame my hair into a crazy ponytail and pad into the living room. Blitz is on the sofa, surrounded by a laptop, iPad, and the episode schedule, while also talking on the phone. He winks when he sees me.
“Those are some really great numbers,” Blitz says. “What will it take to show me results before it airs?”
His face is serious. “I don’t get that. When did I get cut out of this loop?” His expression gets darker and darker.
“I’ll talk to Devon about it.” Then he abruptly hangs up the phone and throws it on a cushion.
“Hey, Princess,” he says, shoving aside the laptop. “Come sit with me.”
I head over and curl up on his lap. My feet are freezing on the tile.
Blitz is completely put together, showered, dressed, looking much more formal than usual in a button-down shirt, vest, and black jeans.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Oh, I just wanted to see how the live results would be tallied. Normally I can twist someone’s arm to release the data early. It ismyshow.”
I breathe in the smell of him. Pine woods. Shampoo. I’m surprised he’s so presentable on our day off.
“You going somewhere?” I ask.
“There’s a publicity thing this afternoon,” he says. “Sort of spontaneous. Optional. I’m going. The other girls will be there. Signing stuff. Nothing official.”
I close my eyes. I don’t want to see them again. I don’t want to do this at all. I feel all my muscles contracting.
“This is a hard gig,” he says. “I’m not asking you to go. But I need to be there.”
I nod. I want to tell myself to shower, to pull on some clothes. Call in a makeup person. Be bold. Get in Giselle’s face. Do this.
But I can’t make myself. I slide away from Blitz and fold up in a ball against the arm of the sofa.
“What’s happening to you is really natural, Livia,” he says. His voice is soothing. “You want to escape all this. I get it. Tons of the contestants went through it. When you see yourself up there, it really hits home how vulnerable you are.” He scoots close to me again so we’re touching. His hand smooths my hair away from my forehead.
“You want to know a little reality TV secret?” His face is so close that I feel his breath on my cheek.
“Okay,” I say.
“On a lot of these shows, whether it’s singing or dancing or eating worms or just being bitchy housewives, most of the cast doesn’t leave the show over straight eliminations or judges or being voted off the island.”
He pauses. I can’t summon the energy to respond to this, so I just listen.
“They quit. They walk out. The show saves face by showing footage that leads viewers to think it was their singing or bad attitude or whatever. But often, it’s just nerves.”
He kisses my hair just over my ear. The warmth of him is comforting.
“Normally you would have gone through a vetting process. Auditions, interviews, screen tests. Your ability to hold up under pressure would have already been tested, and even if you made it through that on my show, any sign that you were cracking would have meant I got a blue card on you during early filming.”
“Blue card?”
