Page 91 of Reaper
“I haven’t been to karaoke in ages,” Mayhem says. He’s bouncing. Smiling. Looking at all four of us with unabashed excitement. “Tank, you in for a duet? We could do ‘Under Pressure.’ You know it?”
“I know it. And I refuse to dishonor the memories of David Bowie or Freddie Mercury with you.”
“Your loss. What about you, Diesel? Reaper? Anyone in?”
I feel a grin tugging at my lips as I watch Mayhem's enthusiasm. Despite everything we've been through, there's something infectious about his excitement. I nudge Reaper with my elbow, unable to resist the urge to tease him.
"Come on, Reaper," I say, batting my eyes at him. "When's the last time you sang karaoke? I bet you've got a decent voice hiding under all that brooding."
Reaper gives me a look that could melt steel. "Not happening, Adriana."
"Oh, come on," I press, enjoying the way his jaw tightens. "Just one song. For me?"
"Absolutely not."
Diesel shakes his head before I can turn my attention to him. "Don't even think about it. I save my vocal talents for the shower and Samantha's ears only."
"You're all dead inside," Mayhem declares, but he's still grinning. "More spotlight for me and Mrs. Eng, I guess."
Before anyone can respond, heavy footsteps echo down the hallway. One of Eng's men approaches — a stocky guy in a black suit who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.
"Time to go," he says curtly. "The car's waiting downstairs."
We follow him down to the lobby and out onto the street, where a sleek black limousine idles at the curb. The driver holds the door open, and I slide in first. The interior is all leather and soft lighting, but what catches my attention immediately is the woman sitting across from us. She's small and elegant, with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a neat bun and bright, intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. Her age is impossible to determine; she could be sixty or eighty, with that timeless quality some people possess. There's an energy radiating from her that reminds me of a hummingbird — quick, vibrant, delicate.
"You must be Charlie's friends!" she says in accented English, clapping her hands together. "I am Mrs. Eng. Thank you so much for taking me out tonight. We had this date scheduled for weeks, my Charlie and I, but now, he tells me he has some emergency. He works too much, you know? Always business, business, business. "
Mayhem settles in beside her, his face lighting up. "Mrs. Eng, I'm Mayhem. I have to tell you, I am so excited about this. What's your go-to karaoke song?"
Her entire face transforms with delight. "Oh! You like karaoke too? Charlie always says it's silly, but music—music is life, yes? I love Teresa Teng, but also Madonna, Whitney Houston... What about you?"
"I'm all over the place," Mayhem says, grinning. "Classic rock, pop, some country when I'm feeling brave enough to do Dolly’s ‘Jolene’ justice. But I don’t want to sing alone tonight. Have you ever done 'Bohemian Rhapsody'?"
Mrs. Eng gasps and grabs his arm. "That is my dream song! But it is so hard, so long..."
"We could do it together," Mayhem suggests. "Tag team the different parts. I’d love to tag-team with you tonight. None of these other guys… they don’t appreciate the art of karaoke."
“I will tag-team you, Mayhem,” Mrs. Eng says with a nod. “We will tag-team everybody.”
I can't help laughing at Mrs. Eng's earnest declaration. There's something endearing about her enthusiasm, and the way Mayhem's face lights up like Christmas morning makes the whole surreal situation almost normal. Almost.
The limo glides through Sacramento's streets as the two of them chatter about vocal ranges and song choices and forgotten artists who definitely deserve a karaoke revival. Tank stares out the window with resigned acceptance, while Diesel checks his phone and Reaper sits beside me, his thigh pressed against mine in the cramped space. The contact sends an unwelcome flutter through my chest.
Twenty minutes later, we pull up outside a dive called Lucky Dragon Karaoke. The neon sign flickers erratically, casting pink and green shadows across the cracked sidewalk. The buildinglooks like it's been here since the seventies and hasn't seen a renovation since.
As we climb out of the limo, I glimpse movement in my peripheral vision. A guy in a baseball cap leans against a lamppost across the street, his attention focused squarely on our group. Something about his posture sets my nerves on edge—too still, too watchful. I turn to get a better look and maybe alert Reaper, but when I glance back, the spot is empty.
"Reaper," I start, but Mrs. Eng has already linked arms with me and Mayhem, practically bouncing as she drags us toward the entrance.
"Come, come! We don't want to miss the good songs!"
The interior hits us like a wall of cigarette smoke, cheap cologne, and spilled beer. Red velvet booths line the walls, most occupied by groups of friends or couples sharing pitchers of questionable-looking cocktails. A small stage dominates one corner, where a middle-aged woman in sequins murders "My Heart Will Go On" while her friends cheer her on.
Mrs. Eng makes a beeline for the song request booth, Mayhem trailing behind her like an eager puppy. The rest of us claim a large corner booth with a clear view of both the stage and the exits — old habits.
"First round's on me," Tank announces, flagging down a server who looks like she's been working here since the Carter administration.
I settle in next to Reaper, hyperaware of every point where our bodies touch. His arm rests along the back of the booth behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. When he leans over to order a whiskey, his breath tickles my ear.
