Page 28 of Getting Lucky Number Seven

“It’s not like that,” Beck said to whatever had come after her exclamation. Not hard to figure that out. It wasn’t like that with us—a good reality check, really. One I obviously needed. The guy onstage waiting for us to come up and take the microphones was a littletooreal, though. The ground seemed unsteady under my feet as I stood.

Beck scooted out right behind me. He held out his hand as if he knew I needed it. I gripped it like a lifeline all the way to the stage, only letting go to take one of the offered microphones.

The music started, and I wished my appletini had arrived so I could’ve at least had some of it buzzing through my system. Considering the completely sobering effect the sea of anticipation-filled faces brought on, it probably wouldn’t have helped. Beck’s part was up first. He cast me a quickholy-crapglance before lifting his mic and singing into it.

I echoed his first line, the way my prompter said to, and then we were off and running. The faster the lyrics got, the more Beck struggled. He didn’t quit, though, just put a little swagger into it, his confidence and the rapping coming from his lips totally at odds.

I laughed so hard at his performance I nearly missed my cue. Beck moved closer to me and whispered, “Where’s the dancing?”

I swiped at him, but he dodged my hit and leaned in again. “You can use me as the pole if you want.”

Heat flooded my cheeks—as if I wasn’t embarrassed enough. But then I decided what the hell. So I danced a circle around Beck, and the second time he sang, “From the top of the pole, I watch her go down,” I slid against him.

He faltered and motioned for me to help, and I obliged, because, well, it was my fault we were up there in the first place. As far as the actual singing went, “complete disaster” fit perfectly. But between the laughing, dancing, and being out of breath, those three or so minutes were some of the most fun minutes of my life.

The crowd clapped and whistled like it was the best thing they’d seen all night—which was nice of them—and Beck took my hand. He lifted it, and then we bowed in unison.

I handed the microphone to the guy running the karaoke, and he called the next name. Our drinks had already arrived at our table, and I wasted no time tipping back mine.

Beck took a swig of his beer and then flashed me a grin that added to the light-headed, overloaded-circuits sensation that’d overtaken my body. “You’d make a hell of a stripper. Gotta work on the taking clothes off part, though.”

“Yeah, and who knew you could drop the beats like that?”

The wattage on his grin kicked up a couple of notches, reaching a too-perfect-to-look-directly-at-without-swooning level. “I do try to keep it on the down low. When you’re good at everything, it brings out the haters.”

“I’d imagine.” I bumped my shoulder into his. “Thanks for doing that with me. So far, that’s been more fun than the keg stand and making out with a stranger combined.” I leaned back in the seat and took another sip of my neon green drink.

“I know I resisted at first, but that was fun.” Beck shot me a sidelong glance. “You’re something else, Lyla.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is crazy. Or maybe Queen of Awkward.”

His eyes locked onto mine. “Nope. Definitely not the word I’m looking for.”

Was it my imagination, or was his face moving toward mine? The earlier attraction, longing, and electricity rose to the surface, mixing with the adrenaline from singing. Dizziness set in and I hoped the world never righted itself again.Don’t think. Just go with it.

The sound of plates being dropped on the table made me jump. “Need anything else?” the waitress asked.

Yeah, I could’ve used another minute or two to see where that was going.

But now the moment was gone.

I wasn’t even sure it was there in the first place.

Chapter Sixteen

Beck

That was close.

The singing, the laughing, the dancing—holy shit, the dancing.I’d nearly dropped the microphone when she’d slid her body down mine. Then she’d popped up and given me an evil vixen smile that made me grateful the lights were so dim.

When I’d told Megan I was about to sing karaoke, she’d snarked, “You must really want to sleep with her.”

I’d assured her she was wrong, but now I needed someone to assure me. If the waitress hadn’t come when she did, I would’ve crossed over the friends’ line and into bad idea territory. While I tried to convince myself the interruption had come at the perfect time, part of me—a big part of me—thought I would’ve rather kissed her and had to apologize if necessary than wonder.

I downed half my beer in one gulp and reached for the food. Nothing like onion breath to make you second guess if kissing was a good idea. Of course, I did have Altoids for situations like these.

No way, Davenport. You’renotkissing Lyla.

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