Page 117 of Forbidden Lyrics

With a shy smile, I grab the microphone from its stand in front of me and stride over to him on shaky legs with my head held high. I can feel everyone watching me––some with glares of jealousy, others with open looks of appreciation. But most hold a weight of curiosity that spurs me on.

“You’re definitely gonna sing,” I announce, my voice echoing through the speakers.

Another wave of crazy cheering ensues.

“It looks like I’ll stick with guitar for the next song,” Fen quips. He steps aside, his bright orange Fender guitar strapped to his chest as he gives up the microphone––and the spotlight––for his older brother.

My respect for Fen almost bursts, and I force myself to stay in one place instead of tackling him with a hug of appreciation. Oblivious to my gratitude, he dives right in, plucking at the strings like the expert he is. The sound echoes throughout the arena, and the crowd quiets down as they wait for Gibson to take the spotlight. The way he was meant to.

Gibbs reaches for the microphone, his long fingers wrapping around the dark handle before he lets his arm hang at his side. Looking carefree. In his element. And ready to take on the world. Then he faces me and brings the microphone to his lips. And I melt as soon as his low, gritty voice starts singing. About love. About stolen moments. About someone always being just out of reach. And it’s beautiful. And raw. And filled with so much emotion that my vocal cords feel like they’ve been shredded with razor blades as I remind myself to clear my throat before I join in for the second verse.

The audience is silent. Whether it’s because they’re as mesmerized as I am by the musician in front of me, or they’re upset that I’m siphoning a bit of their attention in the duet, I don’t know. But they’re invested in the song. The lyrics. The harmony. All of it.

Just like me.

Just like Gibson.

A sense of euphoria spreads from my chest and up my throat as I sing a little louder and let the lyrics wash over me. Gibson joins in as we both feed off each other. Each of us building on the opposite’s emotions and enthusiasm until I’m afraid I might drown in it. The lights. The lyrics. The melody. But one thing is certain. I’ve never felt more alive in my entire life.

By the end of the song, my chest is heaving from exertion, and I try to catch my breath. It matches Gibson’s as he stares down at me, his lips pulled into a soft smile before he grabs my hips and kisses the crap out of me. In front of everyone. As if we’re alone. Lost in each other the way we’ve always been since the moment we first met. I laugh and wrap my arms around his shoulders, ignoring the hoots and hollers that surround us. Because I’m still high. From his kiss. His touch. The crowd. The song. I’m in awe.

Little white lights flash as the crowd takes pictures on their cell phones, but I don’t even care. I’m not ashamed that Gibson’s claiming me in front of everyone. If anything, I’m proud. And so damn lucky that it isn’t even funny.

Fender steals Stoker’s microphone, his voice crackling over the speakers as he jokes, “All right, you two. These guys might’ve come for a show, but they weren’t looking for this kind. Shall we give them another song?”

“Yes!” the crowd roars, making my ears ring.

Gibson grins down at me. “What do you say, Dovey? Should we give them another song?”

I rise onto my tiptoes and give him another peck against his lips.

“Let’s do it.”

* * *

After a few more songs, we thank the crowd before heading off-stage. My hair is damp with sweat from the killer workout, and I wipe my brow with the back of my hand as Organized Chaos preps for their turn in the spotlight.

Their lead singer, Josh, lifts his chin when he sees us. “You guys rocked it out there.”

“Thanks.” My face is still bright red from exertion, and I pray that it hides my blush.

Josh freaking Butler complimented us!

It’s official. This is insane.

“Seriously. You and your man stole the show,” he tells me, a crooked smile painted across his handsome features.

My gaze shoots over to Fender, praying he didn’t hear Josh’s offhand compliment. Unfortunately, he looks pissed.

Crap.

Not the right thing to say, Josh.

“Uh, thanks,” I reply, my voice tight.

“We’re having a little get-together after the show,” he adds, oblivious to my discomfort. “You guys wanna come?”

I look at Gibson, Fen, Stoker, and Phoenix, but they’re all waiting for me to decide. Probably because my last experience at a party was less than stellar, and they want to make sure I’m on board before agreeing to anything. The realization makes me smile, easing the knot in my chest from Josh’s misplaced compliment. Maybe a party will distract Fender, anyway.

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