Page 67 of Desperate Actions

Someone—probably Jade or Cora—squeals loud enough to shatter glass.

And just like that, I know everything’s gonna be okay.

“You want a turn?” Andrea asks, handing me the mic.

“Oh, uh?—”

“Hell yeah.”

Sammy’s voice is firm, sure, leaving no room for argument as he grins and takes my hand, leading us toward the karaoke monitor.

He whispers something to the DJ, and for a moment, I panic.

Because me and sing-alongs with words flashing on a screen?

We don’t mix well.

Old self-doubts start to creep in, and I close my eyes to push them away. Coming to terms with my dyslexia took most of my life.

I’m not that same easily embarrassed teen I used to be. I worked hard to get where I am, and karaoke sure as heck isn’t going to break me.

But I don’t have to worry.

Because Sammy knows me.

Even if this is new, even if this is wild and unexpected, he knows me well enough to keep me steady and pick the right song.

And the second those first few notes hit—the unmistakable opening chords of Warren Zevon’sWerewolves of London—I relax.

Becauseeveryoneknows the words to this song.

I smile, glance at Sammy—damn, my husband is hot.

I throw caution to the wind. Then we sing.

And everyone sings with us. When we are done, Coral takes the mic.

We laugh.

We eat.

We drink.

By the time we leave the restaurant, my stomach is full, my head light, and I am giddy with happiness.

And it doesn’t end there.

After dinner, we go to a nightclub.

More drinks.

More laughing.

More dancing.

And Sammy?

He never stops touching me.

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