I’m glad I followed his instinct that that was the right move. We did it without consulting Delores, which made her call me and give me a long lecture about not acting without telling her first. But it looks like the risk paid off.
Maybe Colt’s right about not consulting her about my image either. Maybe he does know more than I was giving him credit for. But I’m not sure I’m ready to stop dying my hair and wearing colored contacts either. I haven’t even publicly admitted they are colored contacts. According to everything about Golden Enigma, we’re all naturally blonde-haired and blue-eyed pixies.
Of course anyone with half a brain could probably figure out that only Katie didn’t need contacts, even though she wore them anyway to amp up the wattage of her natural blue eyes. And even though Mia had blonde hair, it was the dirty blonde that so often comes with adulthood, not the platinum blonde that comes from a bottle. And if anyone questioned her hair color, she could at least produce baby pictures of her with that shade of blonde.
Me, though? Mine’s more medium brown, veering towards dark. So regardless of Colt’s push for a more natural look, I’ll still have to get it dyed for a while, because the skunk stripe of my roots is definitely not the look I want.
“We can talk more details when I get home,” he says, his voice full of reassurance. Seriously, this guy missed his calling as a cheerleader or a life coach. He’s so full of positivity and can-do attitude, it’s almost too much. It just makes his flaws, like the way he tends to pile his clothes next to the hamper instead of inside it or the way he gets all pushy about my eating and starts lecturing me on nutrition, all the more endearing, because otherwise he’d be too good to be true.
After we say goodbye, I put away my things and head for the shower, running through my mental to-do list. I’ll schedule an appointment at the salon later. Because before I worry about what I look like, I need to make sure I actually have enough songs to sing.
Chapter Twenty-One
Colt
We spend the next three weeks working so hard that I almost don’t even notice Alexis’s lack of clothes when we’re at home. After over a month of this, I’d honestly be more shocked if she came out of the bedroom fully dressed. Nope, we eat, sleep, and live in the same uniform day after day, only changing for the odd excursion and after showers, which we both do daily.
The rest of the time is spent breathing music. Writing it, rehearsing it, recording it, listening to it. Until we both know all the songs forward and backward and could perform them in our sleep.
“What about choreography?” I ask at one point about a week before the show.
She giggles. Looks at me. Then laughs even harder, her giggles turning into guffaws. “Oh, honey, we’re not a boy band.”
I give her my best disgruntled look, but secretly I’m fighting back my own laughter. Hers is just so contagious. “I know that. But you did choreography with your band too. It’s not ridiculous.”
Still spluttering occasionally, she seems to actually consider the question, then shakes her head. “I’m no good at coming up with choreography. Are you?”
“Uhh …” I think back to my brothers mocking me for my suggestions back when we were kids. That was over ten years ago, of course, but it’s not like I’ve practiced coming up with anything since then. And we had professionals handling that for us when we were touring.
“That’s what I thought.” She pats my arm, the touch of her hand electric. “We won’t worry about it. This is a stripped-down set at an intimate venue. No one expects choreography at these things anyway. We don’t have time, even if we wanted to do it.”
“Which we don’t,” I state.
“Which we don’t,” she confirms.
As the performance date draws closer, my nerves ramp up until I’m so jittery I can’t sit still, and I spend half my time running when I’m not rehearsing, needing to work out my nervous energy somehow.
I come back from my run two days before the performance to find Alexis eyeing me, fresh from the salon with her trimmed and a little darker blonde than before. But she’s not giving me the behold the sweaty specimen of male beauty in my apartment kind of look that I’m used to. It’s