Heart Shaped Spotlight Read online

  Red sequins flashed in front of the camera again, as the hostess practically bounced up and down with excitement. From the angle they were shooting, I could tell the camera person was obviously a fan of her barely contained breasts.

  "Up next we have our final rocker of the night!" she squealed girlishly. The in-studio audience all screamed wildly.

  As the camera panned across the first few rows filled with young women yelling and flailing, I giggled to myself. Obviously some sort of heartthrob was up next.

  The lights dimmed as a lone figure strolled across the stage, plugging in his guitar and adjusting the microphone. There was just enough light from the sides to show that he was obviously tall and well built. It took only one glance from him to make all of the girls scream again.

  It was hard to tell in the shadows, but it looked like he was wearing a blazer. That felt like a punch to the gut. I remembered the words from years ago. "If someone's going out on stage, they should dress up a bit. So many of these bands wear grubby, beaten down clothing. It's a show. A performance. I think you owe it to the audience to present your best self, and look sharp.”

  The hostess tiptoed in her impossible heels to greet him on stage. “Before you start,” she simpered, ”We just have a few audience questions. The song you’ll be performing tonight – was it written for anyone in particular?”

  The lights came up and the camera finally zoomed in on his face. “Yeah, Holly. This song, like every love song I’ve ever written or ever will write, is for Trisha.”

  My breath froze.

  The eyes locked on mine through the TV were Nate’s.

  My Nate.

  Chapter Two ~ Nate

  * Showtime *

  The pre-performance interview was the most annoying part of this weird show. I was amped up, ready to perform, then this glittery simpering doll-lady asked me inane questions. It was tricky to keep my energy up when I felt so hollow. I’d survived this for several weeks, so one more show wouldn’t be so bad.

  My manager Dave thought that this contest might be career suicide in the beginning, since there was a chance it would be seen as pop-based commercial music. Now he realized that it’s amazing publicity, and a lot of doors will be opened just from getting to the top four.

  The timing was perfect. My old band, Violet Circles, had disintegrated last year. My new band just finished writing our first album and were preparing to start a few short tours in a few months. This push from the show would sell albums, pack venues, and kick start the band more than any paid advertising ever could.

  That was the plan I had laid out for Dave. It was only half true. I needed to find her, and I was desperate.

  Trisha wasn’t the sort of person to be on social media, but I’d searched anyway. Her name was common enough that I didn’t have a chance unless I knew what city she was in.

  Her crazy strict father had monitored her phone and email at all times, taking both away from her completely when she moved away. I finally had a lead through one of her friends, then they suddenly moved again.

  Then I went away to college. My messages to her old addresses bounced. She was gone.

  Seven years later, her face was still the first thing I pictured every morning after shutting off the alarm. After years of brainstorming on how to find her, this was my final idea.

  On the first episode of this show, I’d begged her to contact me through my manager. Keeping it light, I said I just wanted to know how my first sweetheart was doing.

  Then, like a cheesy bastard, I had to flash a wink to the girls in the front row to drive them crazy. It didn’t even affect me anymore. Women loved me. It was completely bizarre. I smiled politely, feeling like a cold-hearted jackass.

  On the fourth show, I’d asked if anyone knew her. “#TellTrisha” was actually trending for a while, as the fans got on board and encouraged every woman with that name to tune in, just in case.

  Even with the crazy popularity of the program, I’d heard nothing. Poor Dave fielded emails from all manner of whack jobs, some of them sending impossibly racy photos. He thought I was nuts. Then he realized that searching for a lost love was super romantic, and was likely going to help me win. His tune changed instantly.

  I could see Dave in the wings now, giving me a grinning nod as I tried to focus on Holly’s questions. Finally, she got out of my space and I was able to take a deep breath.

  This was the final show. My last shot. If I didn’t reach Trisha this time, I’d have to move on. I didn’t want to, but it was the only healthy option.

  Time to play the role. Pretending that I could see through the heart shaped spotlights that were dancing all over the stage in seizure inducing patterns, I waved to the crowd.

  I needed to focus. Channel my energy. Get this perfect.

  It would help my new band. It would kick my career into high gear. And I had to admit, I did have a competitive streak. I really did want to win just for the sake of winning. I knew my band had been placing bets.

  With a huge grin, I tried to look as excited as possible. “So, folks, I guess this might be the last song you hear from me for a while.” Thank goodness for the in-ear monitors that turned down the higher frequencies. The screaming was ridiculous. “I hope you’ll all look me up even if I don’t win, because I have a ton of great songs coming up for you.”

  Then I grew serious. Staring directly into the camera in front of me, I poured my soul into my gaze hoping that somehow, some way, my girl could see it. If I could just see Trisha one more time. If I could find a way to see if she’s alright. I needed her in my arms, in my life. But at the very least, I needed to know that she was happy and healthy somewhere.

  Chapter Three ~ Trisha

  * Playing My Song *

  I couldn’t believe it. My hand lifted and hovered toward the screen, needing to ruffle his hair. He’d always rubbed his head into my palm like a puppy.

  Nate had always been a pretty boy, but now he was almost painfully gorgeous. He’d also filled out, his body thicker with what seemed to be solid muscle. Those unusual gray eyes locked onto the camera, and it felt like he was in my living room.

  “This song, like every song, is for Trisha. I don’t want to invade her privacy, but her last name starts with an R, and she’s twenty-five now. Dark hair, hazel eyes. Trisha, please find me. I just want to tell you how much I miss you. But for now, here’s a song.”

  His fingertips touched his necklaces for a split second, then he began to play. The song began with faint guitar, and his deep, soulful voice.

  I can only half breathe, nothing is real

  Can only half see, only half feel

  Day by day by lonely night

  I tried so hard to make things right

  Those eyes that haunt me in the dark

  I miss your lips, your light, your spark

  The feeling’s just a memory

  Of how she kisses just like me

  Baby, I’m sorry... that I haven’t found you yet.

  The way he held the note on the word ‘sorry’ made my heart dissolve into a sticky, confused puddle. There was zero doubt in my mind that he was singing directly to me. I couldn’t believe it. And it was true.

  I stood up as my feet began dragging me around the room, pacing. Just when I had half convinced myself that I should really try to move on, here he was. It was outrageous and impossible and completely over the top. In other words, it was Nate.

  Time had nearly erased the problems we had together, leaving only the blissful memories of his fingers entwined with mine. The way he would reach up to brush my hair out of my eyes. The way he would shyly kiss me on the cheek if he wasn't sure whether or not we were in a place where it was appropriate for him to kiss me on the lips.

  At the time, I couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than him. Although we’d never gone farther than kissing and snuggling, I had been ready to take several more steps just before my family moved. Even though I hadn’t been sure I could stay with him forever. He was
constantly surrounded by people, always on the move. It was a lot for me to take, even though he was truly good for me.

  My feet took me around the small room in an awkward oval, my fingers fluttering nervously. This was one of the reasons I needed so much time alone – so that I could pace and shake this odd anxious energy out of me.

  Nate was the only person who had ever made me feel impressed with myself. And grounded. And everything I'd ever wanted to be.

  Still staring at the TV in shock, I tried to pay attention while they played a quick recap of all of the best performances.

  Nate had been the clear favorite from the very beginning, or so it seemed. The judges adored him, the crowd went wild, and the glittery hostess could barely keep her hands to herself. The other competitors really didn’t stand a chance, no matter how much the show pretended that it was going to be a close call. It wasn’t.

  Even the other three contestants shot him knowing smiles as they took the stage for the results of the big vote. They all looked excited but were already half-turned to where Nate was standing at the end of the row.

  When they finally announced the winner, Nate didn't even look surprised. Confetti bombs and swirling heart shaped lights danced around the stage. The only thing I could focus on was Nate staring into the camera, saying, "Thank you so much to everyone who voted for me. Thanks to Love Rockers for putting on such an inspiring contest, and to my fellow songwriters for helping push each other.”

  All of the competitors hugged, and it was nice to see that it seemed to be the sort of show that lifted everyone up instead of creating false enemies for cheesy drama.

  He flashed that sexy grin at the camera, and winked. “Don't forget, if you know anyone named Trisha who is twenty-five years old, have her email my manager."

  After all these years, my stomach shouldn't flutter. My breath shouldn't become short. On the other hand, he should not still be thinking about me.

  But he was. And he was telling the entire world.

  Chapter Four ~ Nate

  * Nothing Yet *

  Forcing myself to look happy and excited was second nature. People expected musicians to be thrilled with every recording, every show. Playing the character of the delightful performer was just part of who I was now.

  I was certainly pleased to have won, but seeing Dave’s head shake when I glanced at him made my heart turn to stone. Still no email.

  If anyone searched my name online, they’d find www.NateRobertsSongs.com. At the very top, in hot pink, was a button asking Trisha to email Dave. Yet still nothing.

  It was time to let go and move on. As I hugged fans and posed for endless photos, trying to ignore the wandering hands across my chest and ass, I plastered on a bright expression.

  If I didn’t hear from Trisha in three more days, I’d throw myself into the next project, and let her go.

  ***

  The next morning after two quick radio interviews, Dave sent me a list of talk shows and all manner of media outlets who were also desperate for interviews. His recommendations were in bold, but he was concerned about how much traveling I’d be doing over the next few weeks.

  We had to go over the record deal being offered by the show. Since this was the third time the contest had run, the contract wasn’t quite as much of a huge deal. We’d have to sit down over coffee sometime soon and decide whether an album of love songs would be the best move right now, or if I should concentrate on the first album with my new band.

  Crawling out of bed, I looked around the beige hotel room where I’d been sequestered for the past few weeks. I’d have to start packing, especially the endless notes and song fragments that had taken over the entire space.

  After ordering room service breakfast, I scrolled through endless messages of congratulations. Kev, Lora, and Doug, of my new band Hemlock and Emeralds, seemed to be losing their minds with excitement.

  My phone beeped, and I saw it was a call from my bass player. “Hey, Lora. How’s it–”

  “I knew you were going to win!” she shrieked, as I quickly held the phone a foot away from my ear. “I knew it from the first second I saw your weak-ass competition.”

  “Settle down. A few of them were pretty damn good, actually.”

  “Whatever. Why don’t you sound more excited?”

  “Just getting up. Need coffee.”

  “Dude, I’m really proud of you,” she said at a more reasonable volume. I could almost hear her grinning. “Screw all of the band promo junk. You worked your ass off and took a lot of chances to slay that contest. I’m going to bowl you over with hugs whenever you get back here.”

  I chuckled as I answered the door. The delivery guy saw that I was on the phone and silently set my tray on the desk.

  I handed him ten bucks. “Thanks.” He nodded and smiled, disappearing as quickly as possible.

  Loudly slurping my coffee as close to the phone as possible, Lora laughed. “Caffeine addict,” she giggled.

  “You know it. If it’s my worst vice, I’m likely going to survive, right?”

  “Theoretically, yes.” She paused, and I knew what was coming.

  “We haven’t heard anything yet,” I said before she could ask. “I’m giving it three days, then letting go.”

  I could hear her soft sigh. “Yeah. That’s rough. But setting a limit is likely healthy.” She paused, then spoke more gently than I’d ever heard her before. “It’s okay to let her go, Nate. You’ve done everything, and then some. Far above and beyond the call. It’s time.”

  “Thanks,” I muttered, feeling my throat begin to close. I couldn’t believe I was actually at this point.

  “We’ll be seeing you on TV, I guess,” Lora said brightly. She could always tell when I needed the conversation to change. “We might even have a rehearsal without you just so we can gossip about how you were on the show.”

  Chuckling, I said, “Sure, as long as you take some photos. We haven’t been posting anything online, and it’s your turn.”

  “I’m on the case. Congrats, man. We’re all proud and impressed, but don’t worry – we’ll knock your head out of the clouds the second we see you.”

  “I’m counting on it. Thanks.”

  “Bye, Mr. Fancypants Winner.”

  Tossing the phone on the table, I brought my coffee and breakfast to the couch, then grabbed my notebook. Everyone was using apps and high-tech systems for their to-do lists these days, but I needed a pen and paper.

  Trisha had always teased me about my aversion to technology, calling me an old fashion poet, and asking me if I'd prefer to write by candlelight. She was remarkably shy, but since she knew me so well, her sassy side always came out.

  Dave had mentioned that some people were gossiping online that I had made up Trisha to win the contest. I honestly didn't care what other people thought. I don't think I've ever seen a gossip website in my life. Social media and being artificially connected with strangers didn't interest me in the slightest. I surrounded myself with real people as much as humanly possible.

  Writing slowly in my journal, I tried to brainstorm all of the pros and cons of my second biggest problem at the moment. Although Dave and I still had to sit down and figure out all of the details, I would be offered a recording contract from the contest.

  They wanted an album full of love songs. Since I had already written six songs specifically for the show, I only had to churn out five or six more, then work on the arrangements. I could probably get it done in a few weeks, then the recording in about a month, depending on what studio they wanted me to use, and what sort of musicians they set me up with.

  There was a knock at the door, and I hollered, "Come in."

  Dave always had an extra key card for my hotel rooms. Unlike other musicians that might need babysitting due to addictions stronger than caffeine, Dave and I just found it handy to be able to drop in on each other, and sometimes deliver food. Or in my case, leave him sticky notes with intentionally stupid lyrics across his bathroom mirror w
hen I was feeling silly.

  As always, he answered the first question before I even had to ask. "Haven't found her yet. My email is chock full of crazy chicks though."

  "Bugger it,” I muttered.

  Then Dave flashed me a crazy grin. "If you do decide to do the album for the contest, you'll have to write an extra song, I think."

  "What do you mean?"

  He held up his phone, showing me a photo of a white-blonde southern singer who was known as much for her microscopic outfits as her soaring voice. "Guess who wants to purchase your song,’Three Weeks from Today’?"