Page 4 of For the Win
“Didn’t ‘rockstar’ used to be your dream job?”
I refuse to dignify that with an answer. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher and he knows it. School was my salvation and teachers were my mentors and substitute family. But I also love music and yes, back when I was young and stupid, I’d occasionally dream of doing it professionally, either on Broadway or in a band. I got my yayas out on open mic nights at the drag club and did a few paying gigs here and there. But then I found out there wasn’t a regular paycheck or health insurance in it—and that I wasn’t going to be the next Bruno Mars, Idina Menzel or Lin-Manuel Miranda—so gave it up. I rarely sing in public anymore.
(My classroom and karaoke nights don’t count.)
“Come on up here you gorgeous, black-haired devil!” Kate encourages loudly.
Connor appears at my side, his blue eyes sparkling and his cheeks worryingly rosy. “I was wondering if Bex was ever going to do it. Sing, you black-haired devil!” he urges gleefully, his earlier upset forgotten.
All the people around me start chanting “Sing, sing, sing!” until I roll my eyes and send Bex a look that says her scheming is not appreciated. The one she sends back is a clearly defined dare that’s brimming with excitement.
She’s trying to help. She’s worried about you.
Hell. I guess I’m doing this.
I slowly get to my feet, feeling the old adrenaline starting to pump as the audience cheers. I do love an audience, but even if the band offered, I doubt I’d take the job. I’m not in my twenties anymore, and I’d drive them crazy with my anal need for perfection.
Still, I wouldn’t want this mob turning ugly. “Sure. Why not?”
CHAPTER TWO
When I makeit to the stage, Kate wraps an arm around my waist as if we’re old friends. “They love you already. By the way, if this band doesn’t tickle your fancy, I could use a pretty Guy Friday for an upcoming event or two. An anniversary and a possible engagement.”
“Neither of those sound like your brand.” I lean in so she can hear me over the commotion. “Is Queen Calamity going legit and turning into an actual party planner?”
“Maybe I’m tired of parties altogether,” she says mysteriously. “Anyway, Bex trusts you and she doesn’t appear to trust anyone but Brady and his man. Not even me.”
“Because she’s smart and you’re a professional heartbreaker?” I quip lightly.
Her eyes sharpen, but her smile stays firmly in place. “I hear we have that in common. Why don’t you think about it after you give us a carol then? Do you know that Ed Sheeran bop? It’s peppy but melancholy enough to end this the right way. It is an Irish pub, after all.”
“I know the song.”
When she hops offstage, I lift the microphone. The moment I start to sing, the place goes silent. The keyboard joins in andby the time I ask them to “kiss me under the mistletoe,” I’ve got everyone smiling, bobbing their heads to the beat and eating out of the palm of my hand. To be fair, they’re all drunk and wearing ugly Christmas sweaters. Not exactly a rough crowd to please.
Except forthatguy.
Holy shit, Ponytail Guy is gorgeous. Even when he’s impersonating The Grinch.
The man I’ve been trying to check out since I got here is scowling at me with an intensity that startles me so much I almost forget to start the second verse.
My world narrows, as if a spotlight has landed directly on him, blocking out everything and everyone else around us.
There are two reasons I don’t look away. The first is that he’s legitimately stunning. The second is—Why the hell is he scowling? Like I said, I haven’t performed in a while, but when I do, everyone usually enjoys it. I suppose he could be married to the pregnant vocalist he thinks I’m auditioning to replace. Or he could hate music. If either is true, it would be a waste of truly mouthwatering packaging, but whatever.
Despite—or maybe because of—his glower, I double down, pouring myself into my performance, adding unnecessary sex appeal to the light holiday ditty and singing directly to him as if daring him to stop me. I pull out some moves I haven’t used in years—it’s all in the hips—and even throw in an impressive run or two that the rest of the audience vocally appreciates.
I’m aware that this really isn’t that kind of song, but in my head I’m basically Maureen fromRentright now saying,“Take me baby or leave me.”
His reaction is to take a small step toward the stage before stopping himself, and that’s when I realize it isn’t anger in his expression at all. The answering tug in my gut is strong enough to shock me.
Arousal and awareness. Mutual and unexpected. Understandable on my end, since he looks like the love child of a GQ cover model and the romantasy hero Bex and I drooled over at our last two-person book club meeting. He definitely gives off grumpy dragon assassin vibes. Not my usual type IRL, but apparently, I’m here for it tonight.
And it’s looking like he’s here for me.
He really is handsome. Not as big as Val—few people are—but he’s still tall enough to top most of the men around him. Including Seamus Finn, the pub’s owner, who’s standing at his side and looking at him as if they were in the middle of a conversation that my dragon interrupted to try to burn my clothes off with the fierceness of his attention.
He’s not yours.
