Page 40 of Merry Me
My family and friends were not justbadat performing…they were offensively, enthusiastically terrible. If there were an award for “Most Likely to Shatter a Champagne Flute with Their Voice,” we would’ve swept the category. And that might’ve been generous.
MeMaw had already brought the house downwith her deeply disturbing, pelvis-thrust-laden rendition of “Firework” by Katy Perry. There were hand gestures. There was a wind machine someone had dragged in from who-knows-where. There were sparkles involved, and I’m still not sure fromwhereon her body they originated.
After that, the night had turned into a slow, glorious train wreck.
At the moment, Susie Cummins—who was, yes, still as unfortunately named as ever—had just finished what Ithinkwas supposed to be “Jingle Bells.” Somewhere between the second verse and the chorus, though, she’d gotten confused and started belting the lyrics to “Tubthumping” with such slurred conviction that the whole room joined in. Now there was serious talk about adding Chumbawamba to every holiday playlist from here on out.
And for a moment…I was actually kind of enjoying myself.
I’d even smiled once.
And then it happened.
Easton stepped onto the stage.
And every molecule of joy in my body screamed and fled.
There were cheers, naturally; he looked like a god among mortals in that damn sweater. A few gasps followed, mostly from the people who hadn’t grown up with him and were just now putting two and two together. Judging by the way they were grabbing one another’s arms and pointing at him like he’d descended from Mount Olympus instead of driving here from town, they’d just realizedEaston Maddox—actual movie star, human panty melter—was in the room.
He didn’t grab the mic and sing like a normal human.
Oh, no.
Instead, he looked right at me.
Don’t do it,Easton.Don’t do it.Save yourself from being murdered.
“Natalie,” he said into the microphone, all low and smooth,because Hollywood had obviously taken his self-preservation skills from him. “Come up here.”
I almost dropped my drink. I clutched it to my chest like it was a holy relic. Surely he didn’t just?—
“Come on, Trouble,” he said again, and his grin widened into something dangerous. “Don’t make me beg.”
Trouble?
He said that out loud. With sound. In front ofpeople.
I shook my head with slow, dramatic defiance.
The crowd, the traitorous masses, didnotappreciate my resistance. They began to chant. Yes.Chant. “Na-ta-lie! Na-ta-lie!” Like this was a gladiator ring and I was about to go fight for my dignity’s life.
And, of course, Paige, my beloved, evil sister, was no help. She appeared at my elbow like a drunk Christmas fairy, cheeks pink, eyes shiny, and beaming like she’d just won the lottery.
“Come on, Natty-kins,” she slurred gleefully, yanking on my arm like she’d just called dibs on humiliating me first. She jostled my drink—thefifthone, probably? Maybe sixth?—and I shot her a look of betrayal.
“Paige,” I hissed. “This is the kind of thing people never recover from. I will die up there. My soul will leave my body and haunt you forever.”
“You’ll be fine,” she chirped. “And if you’re not, I’ll play this at your funeral!”
That was not the comfort she thought it was.
“Natalie,” Easton drawled, and the crowd cheered again like he was announcing free puppies.
I flipped him off. Then downed the last of my drink like it was courage in liquid form and rose to face my doom.
“This is how people end up on viral YouTube compilations,” I muttered as I stomped forward, wobbling precariously on my heels.
Easton winked at me as I stumbled onstage. Unfortunately, itwas much sexier than the bartender’s eye twitching. Andunfortunately, it did far different things to my panties.
