Karen Kingsbury - Fifteen Minutes

At first she worried about how much pot Michael smoked. But not anymore. Kelly had come to love it as much as he did, though she smoked only a couple times a month. Everyone in the industry smoked, but there was a cardinal rule for people in the brightest light, people like the two of them.

Don’t get caught.

Not in bed with her much younger boyfriend and not intoxicated. Not looking too fat or too thin or too old. Nothing that could be plastered in the tabloids and harm her contract with Fifteen Minutes.

Who were the voices in his room?

Breathe, Kelly. She gave herself the order, but she struggled with the reality. If I had some of that weed, maybe.

Your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit . . . honor God with your body.

What was this? She stood straighter, looking over her shoulder and down the hall as if she expected to see someone. Enough. The voices in Michael’s hotel room, the voice taunting her with outdated Bible verses. She took a deep breath. You are successful and young and beautiful and famous. There. That was the truth. She opened the door to the dressing room and swept back to the chair, a smile on her face. For the rest of the day only one set of voices mattered.

The voices of the contestants.

REESE WEATHERLY WANTED to turn off her phone and bury it out back behind the stable. Zack’s tweets were that frustrating. But she couldn’t. Other than one rushed conversation and a few short texts, Zack hadn’t talked to her. Very busy and all. Lots of demands. But somehow he’d had time for Twitter, time to update his followers and answer people who tweeted him.

People like this Zoey girl, whoever she was.

Reese took her phone out back, walked to the far fence and leaned against the worn wooden slats. She stared at the cloudy sky as if the answers might be there. Zack didn’t mean anything by the tweets. She knew that. He couldn’t help what other people said about him. Still, her heart hurt. It ached even while another part of her celebrated the fact that he’d made it through. She had seen this coming. The fact that Zack had made it this far was no surprise. Sometime in the next few hours he’d sing for the celebrity judges.

But Zack’s tweets were making Reese feel something she hated, something she had never felt around him. Jealousy. Reese pulled up the Twitter app on her phone and checked it once more. Zack had updated again.

In line waiting. Jesus, shine through me in front of the judges!

Reese could hear his voice, picture him standing in line, praying and telling the world about his faith. Despite the tension, her heart relaxed. He was keeping his promise, making the journey about Jesus. She went to her saved searches and clicked @ZackDylan. That brought up a host of tweets aimed at Zack—most of them from Zoey, @songleader. She was relentless.

In line behind @ZackDylan. Oh. My. Word. Girls you’re gonna wanna know this guy!

Reese read down the list of the others from Zoey.

How am I supposed to sing with @ZackDylan warming up in front of me? The guy’s voice is as gorgeous as he is!

Hey everyone! Follow @ZackDylan. I’ll be home in no time. He’s gonna be famous. Longer than #FifteenMinutes!!

Conversation with @ZackDylan. Zack: “I have a girlfriend.” Me: “I don’t see a ring on your finger.” #allisfairinlove

Reese stared at the tweets, confused. Was the girl serious? She didn’t care that Zack had a girlfriend? Of course Zack had told Zoey he had a girlfriend. The girl was either obsessed or immature. Maybe both. Reese clicked Zoey’s profile for the sixth time. Long blond hair, cheerleader. Another few clicks and Reese could read everything Zoey’s friends tweeted to her in response. Most of them gushed about how they agreed with Zoey, how Zack was “so hot” and how they couldn’t wait to hear him sing.

All of them loved Zoey’s tweet from earlier today. The one where she had attached a photo of her and Zack. Reese tapped the app a few more times and saw the tweet again.

Here we are, me and the next #FifteenMinutes winner. That’s right, @ZackDylan. #BeJealous

Reese clicked open the photo and stared at it the way she had ten minutes ago. If she squinted at it long enough, she could convince herself that Zack looked uncomfortable. Disinterested. She stared at the photo until she couldn’t stand it another moment. She clicked out of the tweet. Zack was doing the girl a favor, taking a photo with his first new fan. Nothing more. Reese checked his Twitter profile. Zoey might’ve been the first, but she wasn’t alone. Zack had gone from two hundred followers to nearly a thousand in a few days.

Word was getting out.

Knots twisted at Reese’s stomach. She had to stop looking, had to stop thinking about Zack at the auditions with girls like Zoey squealing over him. It wasn’t that she was worried. Not at all. Zack loved her and no one else. A few days away weren’t going to change that.

But could they change him? If he made it far enough, would he be the same Zack? The one who loved watching her help little Toby find confidence on the back of a horse? The guy who cared about the progress his sister was making and who worried every day about his family’s horse farm? Would that Zack still exist?

She stared at her phone as another of Zack’s tweets came across. I’m next. Pray for me! Here goes . . .

Reese looked at the words. Slowly, methodically, she turned off the phone and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans. Zack wanted everyone to pray that he’d sing his heart out for the judges. Reese stared at the sky and did what Zack had asked her to do.

She prayed for him.

Not that he’d be the best singer or that this would be his brightest stage moment ever. She prayed for something else, something that mattered more.

For God’s will, whatever it was.

That above all else.

Chandra Olson sat back in her seat while her makeup artist worked a brush full of loose powder over her cheeks and forehead. Auditions were under way. Touch-ups for the camera happened after every ten singers or if any of the judges needed a break. This one was called by Kelly Morgan. Her recent Botox injections were making her shinier than usual. At least that’s what she said.

Chandra kept quiet, taking in the moment. Analyzing it.

The judges on the panel for the tenth season of Fifteen Minutes had been handpicked by the show’s infamous producer, Samuel J. Meier. Over the past decade, national singing competitions had come and international contests had gone. But Fifteen Minutes remained. The show had topped the ratings chart every year since its inception and after ten seasons everyone knew the reason for the show’s success.

The reason was Samuel J. Meier.

Tan, blond, and fit, Meier was in his late thirties, a machine with a net worth in the hefty nine figures. Everything Meier touched turned to gold. He had produced five successful pop artists, all of whom had multiple records with platinum sales. Meier hadn’t only produced the artists, he’d written most of their music.

His talent was world-renowned, his name synonymous with pop music success. When the first singing competition show came around, Meier quit working with artists and started Fifteen Minutes. The show debuted the next year. In an interview Meier once explained why he created a singing competition when one already existed. Simple. He could do better. Fifteen Minutes drew the best talent and the best production, delivering polished emotional pieces on the contestants’ lives and making America feel personally connected to everyone in the top twenty.

Meier had explained a number of times that success was an intangible. There was no way to figure out the formula for what worked and what didn’t. But this Meier knew . . . He needed to stay ahead of the curve. Over the last decade a number of singing shows had come along and tried to knock Fifteen Minutes off its platform. Meier managed to keep the edge. One way, he had told reporters, was through the judges he chose. They had to be as likable as the finalists. No one scandalous or scantily dressed. The panel would never have someone whose reputation was in any way tarnished, no one who had ever been labeled by paparazzi as a failure or a joke or a has-been. Fifteen Minutes paid its judges well and expected articulate commentary and feedback. Meier kept certain judges, but he also liked bringing in newcomers.

Chandra closed her eyes while the artist dusted her brows. She and Kelly Morgan were new this year and after six weeks on the road they were friends. As far as that was possible. The panel was rounded out this year by longtime judge Cullen Caldwell, a colorful Australian-born hit songwriter whose expertise and talent analysis were unprecedented. Cullen added a level of credibility and eccentricity. He used Down Under slang and spoke with a charming Australian accent. He kept his head shaved and owned an entirely white wardrobe with accessories in bold colors. His spot color today was a red sweatband that accentuated his white jeans and V-neck. The combo would’ve looked ridiculous on anyone else. Somehow Cullen pulled it off. Women were crazy about him.

The judges were expected to bring something to the table. Cullen brought expertise and sarcasm. Not the sort of sarcasm that demeaned contestants but the sort that drew a laugh from the home audience and even the other judges. Cullen was funny, no question.

Kelly Morgan brought her famed history, musical flair and her ability to spot talent. She could be hard-hitting, but over the last five weeks she’d found her stride with the contestants. Once the show aired, people would hate Kelly at times for her biting remarks. Meier would be fine with that. Kelly was pretty enough to pull it off. America would love her either way.