Page 96 of The Match Faker

Jade has to shove me forward and the next thing I know I’m on the stage. The lights are brighter and hotter than I expected. The space cramped, with the band stuffed in tight behind me, carpet covering the wood flooring. Nick stares at me, his expression unreadable. He’s not mad, at least not as mad as he had been.

“Hi,” he says softly, away from the mic.

“Hi,” I rasp.

He leans closer and for this moment I’m not on a stage in front of strangers, I’m just with Nick. I lean toward him, but he blinks and faces the crowd. “Jasmine is singing ‘Night Moves’ by Bob Seger.”

The room erupts again, impossibly louder than before. So that’s great. Apparently, there are a lot of Bob Seger fans in this bar.

“Oh my god.” I grab Nick’s arm before he can walk off stage and leave me here. “I don’t know the words,” I half-shriek, though I’m still barely audible.

Nick turns me slowly, his hands warm through my thick white fisherman’s sweater, to face a screen with the lyrics.

Duh.

He’s gone when I look over my shoulder, though, and it’s not like I could have said anything anyway because then, the music starts.

22

NICK

Because I’m not sexism and a bag of dicks wrapped in a trench—and because I have living human sisters—I know that whole “women don’t sweat, they glow” thing is bullshit. Except for right now.

Jasmine glows. Between her fiery hair, the flush in her cheeks from embarrassment and probably fear, the stage lights illuminating every corner, she’s a freaking moonbeam. She’s glorious. She’s beautiful. For the life of me, I can’t remember why I’m mad. She left. Twice. So, what? She can’t make a decision to save her life, even when the right choice is literally right in front of her, or behind her, on top, beneath, between her legs. Who cares? She’s stunning and she’s brave and beneath the perfection she’s compassionate.

She wants to invest in my bar. She wants to help me.

As the band begins to play the first notes, she holds the mic up to her mouth and says, her eyes on me, “This is for you, Nick.”

Fuck. I love her.

And then she starts to sing.

I’ve never heard this room get so quiet so fast.

Jasmine Palmer, regal, beautiful, aflame, is a terrible singer. Like, absolutely horrendous.

She mumbles the words. The only reason I can hear them is because I know them by heart myself, but the mumbling is for a purpose: so we can’t hear her.

Pitch? Never met her before. Someone has to be paying her to sing off-key. She’s alternatively flat or sharp and nothing in between.

It’s not until the end of the first verse that the first wrinkle of a frown forms between her brows, specifically when she sings about what Bob and a certain black-haired beauty get up to in a truck. She drops the mic in the few moments between verse and chorus and says, “This isn’t a love song.”

Around me, people chuckle. I laugh, too loud for the weirdly quiet room, but still she doesn’t let this stop her. Through the chorus her frown deepens, especially when she’s forced to sing the titular line.

“This is a song about sex,” she says, aghast.

I jump on the stage, ready to put an end to this. “It’s not a love song,” I confirm. The band keeps playing for a few more notes then slowly fades. People chatter now, mostly sounding perplexed at why I’ve interrupted her.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say, my voice amplified by the microphone.

“I’m sorry.” She grasps my wrists, my elbows. “I talked about business when I should have told you the truth. The most important thing.”

“No, it’s okay.” I cup her face, rub her lips, her cheek with my thumb.

“It’s not,” she says, her voice high and strained. “I…”

“We’re not a match,” I say quickly.

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