Page 42 of Never Sleep with the Enemy

“You’ll know this one.”

I signal to Goldie to count us down. She raises her sticks high, her grin devilish, before bringing them down with a snap that starts a beat familiar to anyone who’s ever turned on a radio in the last forty years.

Soldier Onby Dade Connery.

Katrina’s face shifts in recognition, and she glares at me. Tesla plucks the opening chords on her guitar, the crowd clapping in time, their excitement building.

I glare right back, silently daring her to disappoint them.

A sigh escapes her lips, and the corners of her mouth twitch upward. “Fine,” she says, pulling up her hoodie sleeves. “Just one song.”

I grin and step back, motioning for her to take control of my keyboard.

She approaches it with the respect one would expect from another professional musician. When her hands rest on the keys, her index finger trailing down the center of middle C, I feel it. That small, delicate motion is like a caress down my spine.

I push aside the urge to reach out and touch her back, turning away before my thoughts get any messier.

Katrina slides effortlessly into the rhythm, her muscle memory kicking in. She plays like she was born to be here, and the audience responds with cheers, delighted by the unexpected show. For the last summer, they’ve watched the rivalry between Criminal Records and The Electrics, a battle of words and pranks, videos leaking, interviews turning into utter chaos. Constant tabloid nonsense for the fine folks over atGossipa.I can only imagine what they’re expecting of this tonight.

I won’t lie. In the moments of her slow walk toward the stage, I feared they’d reject her. Our bandsarerivals. And tribalism runs deep. But as Katrina plays, her natural talent shining through, our fans roar with approval. It’s smiles and applause from the stage to the exit. There’s no judgment here, just admiration.

Anything less, and I would’ve shut it down in a heartbeat.

No one hurts my girls.

I sing into the mic, Connery’s classic rock anthem filling the air, and the crowd sings along with me, a hundred voices echoing back. But there’s only one I hear.

Katrina.

Not at first. But once we reach the second verse, the chorus swelling to its peak, I hear her voice. A perfectly pitched soprano that layers seamlessly with Tesla’s deeper tone.

I glance over my shoulder, drawn to her like a moth to a flame. My blood heats under my skin as I watch her smile, her fingers dancing across my keys.

I stare so hard, I miss my fucking cue.

Instead of scrambling to catch up, I tell the crowd to keep singing for me before dropping the mic and stepping toward Katrina.

As I approach, her back stiffens, but she doesn’t flinch. She keeps playing, years of experience keeping her elbows steady, her fingers sure, even as I stand beside her. Without missing a note, she steps slightly to the right, giving me space to join her at the keyboard.

I place my fingers on the keys, and we play together.

We have our own little piano battle, exchanging flats and sharps, high notes and low ones. We’re lost in the music, lost in each other. The song comes alive in our hands.

I lean into her mic, my voice low and intimate as I sing.

“When every step forward feels like a lie,

it takes courage to know when to say goodbye.”

She looks at me, her left hand brushing against mine, and her head drifts closer. Together, we join in for the final chorus, our voices blending. It’s just the two of us now—the sold-out venue suddenly empty, the world itself fading away. The spotlight on us feels like the only thing left. It’s as if we’ve been raptured away from this city of sin and dropped into a world of music all our own.

I stay there, willfully lost in the moment, until the song ends and the roar of the audience pulls me back into the reality of the stage.

With a grin, I let my hand graze hers one last time before I grab the mic and step aside, allowing her to be bathed in our spotlight alone.

“Katrina Benton, ladies and gentlemen,” I announce, my voice full of pride.

And the crowd goes wild.

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