Page 30 of The Best Wrong Move

“Don’t tell me that’s a—” I start to say, but my question is cut off by the woman’s voice booming into the microphone.

“Aloha, everyone, and welcome to karaoke night!” She draws the last word out but is quickly drowned out by a loud cheer erupting from everyone in the bar.

Oh my God.

“Let’s kick this off right!” she yells into the microphone over the mounting music.

The first few notes sound familiar . . .

I know this song. Everybody knows this song.

I look around as dozens of grinning faces start bobbing to the beat.

“Dom, you didn’t mention it was karaoke night!” I yell over the music as “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey starts blasting through two huge speakers.

Dom settles back into the seat next to me, scooting it closer, and wraps one arm around the back of my chair, pulling me against him. He wasn’t kidding about this fake date vibe. I lean into him, enjoying the fact that no one has come up to me with any rude comments yet. It feels good to be out again, without a care in the world. Maybe no one will recognize me after all.

“Benny, you’re up!” Isla shouts. She reaches behind me and slaps the heavily tattooed guy on the back.

I can’t remember everyone’s name yet, but the guy she slapped must be Benny — he suddenly bounds up on stage and grabs the mic, swinging his hips to the beat of the song that everyone in the bar immediately knows by heart, just before the words kick in.

Karaoke night has never been my thing. It’s also something Dom skillfully failed to mention on the drive over. Thankfully, Benny — who turns out to be Isla’s husband — is pretty decent at singing the song. He knows every word without looking at the lyrics. Clearly a seasoned pro.

Everyone in the group eventually takes a turn at the microphone, including Dom, who is hilariously bad at his very own rendition of Bonnie Tyler’s “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” but in an absurdly charming way. Midway through the song he drops to his knees, belting the chorus into the mic, before hopping back up and singing the bridge at the top of his lungs. The whole bar is out of their seats, cheering for him by the end — his friends standing on top of their barstools, whistling and shouting his name. The whole thing is bad-karaoke perfection, and, by the end, my cheeks are stretched and sore from laughing.

There’s a two-for-one special on mai tais, so I offer to buy the whole table a fresh round before making my own way up to the microphone. It’s my turn, and the extra drinks may or may not be my feeble attempt at greasing them all up a bit before I shock them with my terrible voice.

I’ve chosen “Sweet Caroline” by Neil Diamond, knowing everyone here will sing along and hopefully drown my own voice out. I make my way to the small stage, wishing I had my disguise with me, hoping everyone is just too tipsy to recognize me. But when I step up on stage, a drunk, middle-aged man stands up near the bar.

He’s wobbly on his feet.

“Hey, baby!” he shouts at me. “You’re that girl fromTheGood Day Show!” Then he pulls out a phone and starts taking a video of me. Before I can hop off the stage, Cliff is at his side. He grabs the phone out of the drunk man’s hands. Then Dom bounds across the bar and jumps on stage to block his view of me.

“Time to go,” Dom growls at the drunk guy, while Cliff quickly deletes the video from his phone. The drunk man starts to protest, but Cliff points to the door, handing his phone back to him.

“Not tonight, dude. This girl’s not here to be hassled or recognized. Especially by you.”

“Aw, come on. I was just—”

“Leaving,” Dom interrupts, not smiling. “You were just leaving.” He points to the door and takes a step forward. “Time to go, bro.”

The guy stumbles toward the door. Cliff follows him, making sure it shuts firmly behind him when he finally disappears outside.

My heart is pounding.

I look around at the sea of faces surrounding the stage, mortified by what just happened. If no one recognized me yet, they definitely do now.

Dom turns around, cupping my face between his hands. The whole interaction has made me feel a bit dizzy.

“Are you okay?” he asks gently. “That prick shouldn’t have done that.”

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I tell him quietly. “I’m so sick of hiding from what happened. Thank you for stopping him from taking another video to post online. That’s the last thing I need.”

He holds my eyes in his gaze, studying me like he’s not ready to let go, heat building between us so swiftly that I think he might kiss me. A cheer erupts from the crowd, and somewhere in my haze, I think it might be because we’re about to start making out right there on the stage. It’s not until the unmistakable first notes of “Sweet Caroline” ring out through the speakers on either side of us that I realize the cheers have nothing to do with us, and everything to do with the popular song that’s starting.

“Oh my God.” I breathe out, laughing. “There’s no way I’m singing now.”

He laces his fingers through mine and we turn to walk off the stage, but Isla and Rooney are standing near the edge of it, blocking our path off.

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