The Princess Pages: A Girl Like Cinderella

Song Seventeen

CAN YOU FALL IN LOVE WITH A VOICE?

Trent Morgan had just flown back from a photo shoot in San Francisco, his annoyance at having to work all day on his birthday yesterday trumped by his tired state.

Walking into conference room B of Morgan Enterprises, the young man stopped dead in his tracks and was staring at the scene like he couldn't believe his eyes.

The long mahogany table which could easily accommodate twenty people, was covered in an enormous mountain of Cd cases, half of them upside down, while the rest teetered at the edge of the table.

At one end, Brad was sitting on a black velvet chair, his feet up on the table, his expensive shoes perched on a thick part of the Cd bounty.

And at the opposite end of the table, stood Lawrence, pushing his oval glasses up his nose, and his lips mouthing inaudible words, but knowing his slight O.C trait, he was counting the number of cases scattered on the long wooden table.

"Welcome back,man!" Brad greeted, getting to his feet, and fist bumping a dazed Trent Morgan.

"What the hell is all this?" The model exclaimed incredulously, raking a hand through his soft brown hair, his forest green eyes surveying batch after batch of Cd cases.

"Oh. Those?" Brad jabbed a thumb at the ocean of gleaming discs in their containers.

"Yes. THOSE." The weary model was losing whatever patience he had left in his body.

Lawrence started lining up flutes and bottles of wine along one edge of the table, and said:

"Those, my friend, are half of the entries that girls from around the world have sent in. Five hundred, to be exact." He's still magically grabbing colorful bottles from nowhere and arranging them on the glossy table.

"Five hundred!?" Trent's eyes darted from Brad, to Lawrence, then to the discs fanned out all over the conference table, and the puzzle pieces fit.

"And we're supposed to view all of these!? Are you two demented!?" The gorgeous singer rounded on the table, his head hurting from skimming all the names and different colored cases.

"Technically, your pops said YOU had to criticize all this crap," Brad bluntly stated, moving towards Lawrence, standing beside him and studying the assorted flutes organized in front of them.

"We're here to help you, since we're buddies, and what are buds for?" Brad added, placing his right elbow on Lawrence's shoulder, a mischievous grin on both their faces.

Trent knew he was screwed when Lens rode along with Brad's shenanigans.

"Dude, come on," Lawrence urged, his gray eyes encouraging. "The original total of submissions was a thousand, but your father's employees narrowed it down to half, because most of the girls were either lip-syncing, or they couldn't even sing properly, or their dancing is horrible.."

"Or they were barely clothed," Brad interjected, a knowing gleam in his brown eyes.

"That too," Lawrence agreed. "By the way, the two blondes who fought over you yesterday? They didn't make the cut. Their voices were heavily edited, and the one with long hair was practically flashing the camera." His nose wrinkled with distaste.

Trent Morgan rubbed his palms over his face, defeated. He glanced at the long row of diaphanous bottles sitting on the table's edge.

"And what exactly are those for?"

Brad picked up a tall green one and happily pumped it in the air. "This is your late birthday gift from us, to you! Live long and prosper, bro!"

The brown-haired model shifted his attention to his blond friend. "Lens?"