The Pool Boy (Nashville Neighborhood 2)

When I got home that night, I streamed the entire series to the TV so my folks could watch with me. There were five auditions and six videos in total, because the first was Stella’s intro. She’d shot it backstage before one of her shows, explaining the contest and that fans could vote once a day for the next week.

My mom cried.

Which of course, got Bill worked up too, and then someone somewhere was cutting onions because my eyes began to sting. I held it together though. Plus, any pride I felt was quickly overridden by unease when I watched the other auditions. They were so freaking good.

“There were only five videos,” my mom commented. “I thought you said the auditions went all day.”

“They did. These were the ones they liked best.”

Or, as Erika had said, the five that Stella and her team had approved. The artist felt comfortable with any one of these acts opening her show. Erika didn’t say it, and maybe I was being pessimistic, but it kind of felt like I’d barely squeaked in.

My mom beamed. “Lord, Troy. We’re so proud of you.”

My chest expanded as I took in a deep breath. Of course it was great to hear, but it felt different than I’d expected it to. I’d thought it’d be vindicating, but instead it just felt . . . nice. Good.

It didn’t last though.

“I just want you to keep in mind,” she continued, “some of the other auditions were really good too, so if you don’t go any further, you should still feel proud of yourself for making it to this far. Top five! Honey, that’s so great.”

It was painful to smile. Could she not be practical for once in her fucking life?

“Oh, you have to call your Mimi,” she said abruptly, nearly bouncing off the couch. “She’s going to love this.”

Inside, I sighed. I loved my grandmother but sending her a link wasn’t a thing you could just do, and walking her through using her ancient desktop computer was the worst.

Over the weekend, my social media exploded. I gained a shit-ton of Instagram followers overnight. I got recognized at the Taco Bell drive-thru window. The cashier girl sputtered and dropped my change on the ground, but thankfully not my cheesy gordita crunches. While I was pumping gas, some woman catcalled me out of her car window as she drove by.

“Looking good, pool boy!”

Damn Ardy’s question during the interview. Beneath my name on the title card of the video, it had listed “Pool Boy” as one of the details about me. I didn’t mind the attention—honestly, it was a trip. But I didn’t want to be thought of as a joke.

Saturday night I did a set at Blanche’s and it was the largest crowd I’d ever played. Erika sat at the bar, videoing and evaluating the performance. She’d delivered her critique afterward, and once we got back to her place, she gave me plenty more direction.

There’d been champagne in her fridge to celebrate my considerable lead in the fan poll. I wasn’t big on champagne, but I appreciated the gesture, and by the time we’d finished the bottle, Erika had me on the couch with my jeans down around my ankles.

“How do you want it tonight?” I asked, pushing her hair out of the way so I could watch better as she wrapped her mouth around my dick.

She was buzzed and her eyes were shining with mischief. “I want it dirty.”

I was going to ask her to expand on that, but it was taking all my focus not to thrust into her mouth, and if she described what she meant, I’d probably lose control anyway.

I had an idea though, and when she was riding me reverse cowgirl, I licked the pad of my thumb and tested if she was squeamish about anal play. All it did was make her moan encouragingly.

“Yeah?” I grinned.

She didn’t give her answer with words, but her body screamed, hell yes. I was slow and deliberate as I worked my thumb inside her ass, and by the time I made it all the way to my second knuckle, she came so hard I was a goner.

My girl was a wild freak like me, and I couldn’t get enough. It didn’t seem like she could either.

We clicked when it came to sex and music, but the few times I’d brought up our relationship outside of that, Erika would shut down. She wasn’t ready to talk to my mom about us, and she still hadn’t blocked her ex’s number. The guy kept bothering her with calls and he was getting on my damn nerves.

I tried not to push, because I was a lot younger than she was and I hadn’t been married. The longest I’d ever been with someone was fourteen months, but she’d been with Mr. Graham for twenty years. I figured she was scared and just needed more time. I wasn’t going to give up, and while I waited, I’d keep being awesome.