Page 33 of Because of the Dar

"Hey, Monroe." My head jerks up, and I lock eyes with Dean.

Huh?

What is he doing here? He isn't scheduled until later. My brows furrow. He holds up his acoustic guitar, and a pit the size of the state I currently call home opens up in my stomach. I want to scream, cry, and rip my hair out at the same time.

Today? No, no, no. Not tonight of all nights.

Months ago, Dean caught me singing in the break room—something even Mags doesn't know about me. I don't perform in front of people. Dancing on top of the bar, no problem. Stripping at a dingy nightclub when I'm still more a pubescent teen than a woman, also no biggie. Singing? That is a whole different level of exposing myself. That's like baring my soul. Fuck. No.

I inherited my mother's talent—which was how she met my father in the first place. She was singing at a friend's birthday party held at a karaoke bar where daddy-not-so-dearest and some of his buddies were celebrating as well. Anyway, that story is so far in the past I buried it with my mother.

However, Mom always sang to me. She encouraged me from the day I was able to memorize lyrics to sing along. I can hold a note, and my voice doesn't sound too bad either (if it's the right song), which is why Dean harassed me for days until I caved and agreed to perform with him sometime—emphasis onsometime. I assumed it would be at a backyard barbecue or something low-key, and I could give Mags a heads-up—bring her as my backup in case I barf all over myself from nerves.Notduring my shift and, most of all,notat The Grizz. My stomach begins to churn, and I place a hand on my belly.

This will not end well.

I peer over my shoulder to check that Leigh has the customers at the bar covered before making my way over to Dean.

"What the fuck, asshole? I'm not singing here." I glower at him and gesture at the room around us.

He smirks sheepishly and shrugs. "Why not? Grizz thought it was cool."

"You talked to Grizz about it?" I shriek, then clamp a hand over my mouth. Whether it is to stop me from further yelling at my coworker or from keeping my late lunch inside me, I have no clue.

"Sure, I mean, it's his place. We needed his okay."

I draw my arm back and let it soar forward, punching him in the shoulder as hard as I can. Maybe he wouldn't be able to hold his damn guitar if I hurt him enough.

"Jesus Christ, Monroe. Overreacting much?" He rubs the spot my fist connected with. Out of my peripheral vision, movement diverts my attention. Kiwi is standing next to his table, waiting for my signal that I need him. Wes has shifted closer as well, and I want the earth to swallow me up. I'm causing a scene. I blink slowly at Kiwi, silently communicating that I'm okay. He dips his chin in acknowledgment, though he doesn't sit down.

"Not today, Dean. I'm not prepared. You can't throw something like this at me." My hands are trembling at my sides.

Dean purses his lips. "If I would've given you more than a five-minute heads-up, you would've bailed."

Five minutes? Wha—

The beating of my heart grows in speed, and I glance in the direction of my friends again. Zeke has joined them in the last few minutes, and my gaze connects with Wes's. He has abandoned his corner table and positioned himself slightly behind the others, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his faded jeans. His impassive features are in stark contrast to his pulled-back shoulders and wide stance. His entire frame is rigid. He's ready to pounce as he follows my exchange with Dean, yet no one else seems to notice. His temper is simmering right under the surface.

As we are locked in our stare down, a new emotion slowly spreads through every cell of my body. I want him to hear me sing. My pulse calms, but instead of giving me the confidence I so clearly need to make it through this, this awareness sends me reeling.

"Monroe!" Dean calls out, and when I turn, I realize he is on his way to the stool set up for him next to the mic. My stomach rolls, and I fight the urge to turn around and run for the mountains—literally.

I close my eyes for a brief moment. Deep breaths. You can do this. Just pretend you are back in the break room.

Yeah, not working.

Slowly, I set one foot in front of the other. When I reach my position, I swivel on my heels and find Kiwi staring at me. Of course he knows I sing, but he also knows I don't do it publicly. Mags leans in and whispers something, but he ignores her.

The music cuts off, and everyone turns toward us. My arms are folded across my exposed stomach, and my fingers clasp the hem of my shirt. I clench the material in my fists. I can do this. I used to dance pretty much naked in front offilth.

I can do this.

I turn to Dean. "What song?"

"I figured we'd perform the track you sang the day I ran into you. I learned it, which is why it took me this long." He winks, and I fight to hit him again.

Of course he decided to play that one. My fucking luck. It's the song that has been stuck in my mind whenever I think about Weston Sheats. The lyrics I associate with him whenever I hear them.

I bob my head, unable to form words. Dean starts strumming a few notes, and everyone goes eerily quiet. I draw in slow breaths. I can do this.

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