Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92972 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
And she is.
My sweet friend can’t sing on key to save a life, but her moves are unparalleled. She’s so shameless in her body that it’s even rubbing off on me, a woman programmed by years of cotillion classes to keep it “tasteful” on the dance floor.
But we’re not on the dance floor.
We’re on The Brass Monkey’s little pink stage, and as the opening chords of “Stand Back” blast through the speakers, I lift a hand and sway back and forth, letting the beat into my hips as Makena goes wild. One minute she’s writhing beside me, the next, she’s on the floor, doing a split into what looks a lot like a stripper routine as the crowd erupts in a roar of approval.
I pull in a deep breath, the microphone warm in my palm and my body shot through with lightning as I thrust a finger toward my silver-haired queens in the corner and launch into the first verse.
In a beat, they’re on their feet, dancing and singing along. The bachelorette party girls waiting in line for the mechanical bull join in next, then the bikers playing pool, and half the dance floor.
By the time the chorus hits and Makena joins in, singing backup, there are so many people wailing along, you can barely hear her tone-deaf crooning of “stand back, stand back!”
Which I think she would agree is for the best.
She’s here to shine in other ways, a fact she proves as the key change lifts us all on its wings, and she dominates the musical bridge. I “la la la la,” and she swirls and swivels, tossing her increasingly wild blond hair and making over-the-top sex eyes at the entire bar.
The old men cheer, the old ladies whoop even louder, and our friends scream like groupies at a concert. Elly laughs so hard, she’s crying. Beatrice bounces up and down, bright-eyed and beaming, and Parker is so proud he looks like he might burst. He keeps pointing a finger at Makena as he bops from side to side, as if to say, “That’s my girl! Look at her go! Isn’t she the fucking best?”
Then I get to the verse about the one man who didn’t fall, the one who “asked me for my love and that was all,” and my gaze naturally finds the gorgeous man leaning against the bar a few yards away, every ounce of his attention fixed on me.
Our eyes lock, and my voice goes deeper, huskier, the lyrics taking on new meaning.
Suddenly, this song about a woman looking for a good man, a man who will give her the attention she craves without making her stand in line for the fucking pleasure, becomes so much more personal.
Nix would never make me stand in line.
He would never let me walk away.
And if I want him to take me home, all I have to do is ask.
God, I want to ask. I want it so, so much.
As the song reaches its end and the crowd cheers us off stage, it’s all I can think about. And apparently, I’m doing a pretty shitty job of hiding it.
“Go, girl,” Makena says as we reach the bottom step. “Go get you some in the family bathroom. You deserve it.”
I shake my head, laughing as I press the backs of my hands to my flushed cheeks. “Stop.”
“Ain’t no shame in being frisky in public,” she says, bumping my hip with hers. “Especially after singing like that. You should have been a pro, Char. For real. You’re incredible.”
“No way.” I shake my head. “I couldn’t handle the pressure. Or that much attention. You know I’m a private person.”
“Which is why you should go and be private,” she says, cutting a meaningful look to her right as we near our booth. “Preferably with the guy who’s clearly dying to show you how much he appreciates your talent.”
I glance back to the bar where Nix is collecting two fresh Trash Pandas.
But even as he pays, he barely looks at the bartender. His eyes are locked on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle and my heartbeat kick into overdrive.
As he crosses the crowded room, his gaze drops to my mouth.
Lingers.
Then drags slowly back up to meet my eyes.
And for once, the hunger in his expression isn’t restrained or even particularly respectful. He looks like he wants to shove me against the nearest wall and fuck me until I forget my own name.
My nipples tighten in my bra as things low in my body twist and clench.
Maybe it’s the booze. I’m two Trash Pandas deep, and that second one went down way smoother than the first. Maybe it’s the performance high, the adrenaline still pulsing in my veins, assuring me you only live once, and I’ve already played it safe for far too long.