Page 42 of Forbidden Lyrics

There’s no way he actually expects me to sing in front of all of these people while he searches for the face of Broken Vows. He must be crazy.

“You’re joking, right?” I ask, my gaze darting from his to the restless crowd scattered around the bar.

“I’m not joking.” Gibbs grabs my hand and drags me toward the stage while I try to digest his comment, convinced I’ve heard him wrong. I can’t sing for him. I can barely string a sentence together when I ask for people’s beverage requests. This is absolute insanity. The pen I’d been using to take orders slips from my grasp and clatters to the ground as he practically carries me to the side steps that lead to the raised platform.

“I-I can’t do this,” I tell him, snapping myself out of my daze. I yank my arm out of his grip, trying to keep my knees from buckling at the severity in his gaze. The disappointment. The desperation. The hope that I’ll change my mind. All of it flashes in his hazel irises before he grabs my hips and pushes me against the back wall, shielding me from the crowd with his massive frame.

Then he drops his voice low. “I need you to do this for me, Dove.” His fingers flex into my hip bones, but it only makes me crave his touch more. “I need you. Please.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to ignore the way my heart is galloping in my chest. “I don’t sing for people, Gibbs. Not like this.”

“You sang for your church. You sang for me––”

“It’s different––”

“Please,” he begs. “I’ll be maybe ten minutes. That’s three songs, tops.”

Fear swells in my veins as I open my eyes and lick my lips.

He can’t be serious.

“Gibbs––”

“Please,” he pleads, his thumb rubbing back and forth along my bare skin from where my shirt has ridden up.

“You don’t understand––”

“Trust me, Dove. I understand better than anyone, but I need you right now. This performance could make or break Broken Vows’ career, and I can’t do this alone. I need you.”

I need you.

I take a deep breath, feeling like I’m going to drown if I stare into his dark eyes any longer. I can’t do this. But I also can’t let him down. So, where the heck does that leave me?

It leaves me screwed.

Very screwed.

With a jerky nod, I choke out, “You have ten minutes, Gibson.”

“Thank you.”

His touch disappears, followed by his muscular frame as he weaves between the crowd toward the exit. My knees threaten to give out, but I force myself to keep my head held high, approaching the stage with as much confidence as I can muster.

Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out. Don’t pass out.

The large crowd quiets, and I take the small handful of stairs one at a time before reaching the top and turning to the band.

“Hey, guys,” I whisper, keeping my voice low so only they can hear me.

“Where the hell is Fender?” Stoker, the bassist, growls. We’ve never really been introduced, but I could spot him from a mile away. The guy is skinny with tattoos covering almost every inch of his skin except his face, and he loves to wear nothing but a pair of skinny jeans for every performance. The fact that he’s growling at me is beyond terrifying, but I don’t blame him for being upset. I wanna know where Fender is too.

“Dove?” Phoenix, the burly redhead, and Broken Vows’ drummer, prods, twirling his drumsticks between his fingers.

I clear my throat. “Gibson’s finding him. We’re going to play “Never Mine,” and I’m going to sing it until they get back.”

“You’re gonna sing?” Phoenix challenges.

I gulp and rub my sweaty palms along my black jeans. “It’ll be fine––”

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