Page 49 of Erik

I guffaw. “That’s my girl.”

The crowd picks up on the band’s vibe and proceeds to prompt her to take the mic.

Maria adds, “Yes, a stage can be intimidating, but it’s for the kids. Besides, the band wouldn’t bet on you if they didn’t believe you could do this.”

“What do you mean?” My muse asks.

“M. o. D., the band’s corporation, has pledged to donate a hundred thousand dollars for each verse you sing tonight.” She smiles as the audience aahs and oohs. “That can get to almost two million dollars we desperately need.”

Sneaking up on me, Carlotta hisses, “I won’t be humiliated in front of four hundred people. If you don’t call off this ridiculous prank, I’ll file a lawsuit to take Liam from you. I’ll go somewhere you’ll never find us.”

I snap my head around. With contempt dripping from each word, I counter, “Good. I'll bring your late husband's medical records for the judge presiding the custody hearing. It makes for an enthralling read.” She gasps, dropping her chin. She works her jaw but remains unable to speak. I smirk. “What? You thought the good doctor would accept money only from you? You can't be that naive!” She turns on her heels, stomping away. “Don’t ever approach Liam again or I will take the records to the police.” She sticks a middle finger in the air, pressing the bar to open an exit door.

The room bursts out applauding, whistling, and shouting and I return my focus on Christine as she unfolds from the chair. She’s hidden her gorgeous red-hair under a wig of dark-brown curls that reach her waist. The hourglass bodice of the dress she wears highlights her figure while the cream satin and lace shine like pearl as she skirts the table toward the stage.

I hug the chipped panel of the guitar against my chest. We’d unearthed the old thing from the bowls of the movie theater. Since none of us thought we’d perform, we haven’t brought our equipment. My heart plunges into my stomach. Even though I’ve played to packed stadiums around the world, tonight’s performance gives me the jitters. I pull the mask down, covering the right half of my face, to shield myself from my insecurities.

I wait until my one-person audience stops in front of the mic stand. Christine scans the room, adjusting the height of the mic with trembling fingers. I get out from behind the screen. Her hand flies to her throat, her nostrils flare, and her breasts heave. It’s all I can do not to scoop her in my arms and crush her lips with mine.

Standing behind her, I whisper in her ear, “You didn't think your tutor would abandon you in your first public performance, did you?”

An assistant with the event organizers brings me a stool, and I perch on it, propping the guitar on my knee. I wink at her, “Ready when you are.”

She nods and I sound the first chords ofAngel, the crowd whistles, recognizing one of Muse of Darkness’s most enduring hits. A delightful rose hue colors her cheeks as she delivers the verses, she inspired me to write.

Limelight glow, latex shine

All a show I put out so fine

Everyone fooled, all but me

They cheer as I sing

People whoop louder as her growing confidence turns her soprano flawless. I smile my encouragement. She grins back, and my heart skips a few beats as my song takes flight in her pure voice.

High notes mask pain too deep

Yet my heart knows, my soul weeps

This sinner can’t be saved

Outcast, shunned, and depraved

In the darkness I’ve embraced

I’ve found purpose and solace

She takes a deep bow when a standing ovation drowns the last notes of the guitar. I lace our fingers, bowing my head, then raising our arms above my head. When she turns to leave, I keep my hold on her hand. “Not so fast.”

I place the guitar in her arms and indicate the stool. When she hesitates, I nudge her with an elbow and speak into the mic, “We’ve pledged two million, remember? You still owe us a few verses.” She squints at me, but the corner of her lips quiver with the ghost of a smile. As she settles on the stool, I inform the crowd, “You’ll be treated to another first, ladies and gentlemen. Ms. Daee is going to play a song I wrote, but I’ve never performed in front of an audience.”

She furrows her brow. I hand her the music sheet, cover the mic, and whisper for her ears only. “Remember the one I taught you? There’s a couple of new verses at the end. They’re not in the sheet. But don’t worry. I’ll sing when you get to them.”

Removing my hand from the mic, I introduce, “This is the lovely Christine Daee performingWash My Sins.”

I used to roam the streets all night

Looking for trouble, hiding from the light

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