Page 12 of The Only Thing That's Real

“Here you go.” Nick hands me the tablet as his dad’s song approaches its end.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The song titles are a blur. I scroll and scroll and everything on the list makes me want to puke. My voice isn’t your typical female voice. I lean toward songs usually sung by men.

Trevor, tonight’s MC, says my name into themicrophone. “Next up we’ve got Ryan. Come on, girl, show us what you got.”

“No thanks, I pass,” I say, pushing the tablet back into Nick’s hands.

The room erupts. Everyone except the brooding singer in the armchair, positioned at the end of the couch, yells in protest. Well, he hasn’t been broody with anyone but me. Whistling and yelling his praise when the kids or his friends sing a hard part or do something funny. He’s engaged. Dare I say, having fun. But he hasn’t spoken to me. Hasn’t looked in my direction.

Someone shoves the microphone in my face. Trevor shakes his head, giving me no option but to take the blasted thing.

“Fine, but you all have to be nice,” I say to the room, my voice bouncing off the wall. “I don’t think I’ve ever done this sober. And well, I suck.”

With shouts of ‘you got this’ and ‘we all suck’ cheering me on, I find my song. Can I sing the high parts with this voice of mine? Nope. Have I figured out how to sing around them? I think so. I select “EatYourYoung”by Hozier and a little countdown appears on the TV, but I keep my butt planted firmly on the couch cushion.

Kristen isn’t having it. She takes my free hand and pulls me up just as the song begins. My fight-or-flight instinct kicks in and I imagine racing to the door before anyone can catch me. But as I search for the exit, I notice Knox. Tonight’s fun-loving version of him nowhere to be found. He’s sprawled out in the oversized chair, his size making it look like it’s made for a child.

He looks bored.

Unimpressed.

And this pisses me off.

Fight.

I choose fight.

Fuck this guy.

I’m not going anywhere.

When I deliver the first line, it’s right to him. Do I wish the lyrics were different? Sure do. Singing about being starved and wanting to put my lips to something isn’t ideal, but I’m proving a point here. He doesn’t intimidate me.

I sing with my whole chest, eventually closing my eyes and belting out the words to the song I know by heart. The song is hypnotic and subconsciously I know I’m swaying to the music. There’s no way not to when this song plays. When I get to the line that says,You can’t buy this fineness,my eyes open and I focus on him again as my hand trails down the side of my body.

My audience goes crazy. Shrieking their encouragement of my taunting.

Except Knox is no longer sitting back in his chair, as though he is our benevolent leader. He’s leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his sole focus on me, his face is intense. Stern. Angry. And maybe even hungry.

His reaction does nothing but fuel me. Not missing a word, I close my eyes to Knox and the other eyes watching me and lose myself in the song. It feels good to let loose. It feels freaking fantastic to know I’ve bothered Knox in some way.

Getting him to react has become my new favorite pastime. He makes it so easy. I don’t even have to speak. Mebeing in the same room as him is all it takes to irritate him, and it turns me on.

As much as I want to pretend he doesn’t exist, I can’t. The jerk has given me a small dopamine rush every time we’ve interacted because he’s awful at ignoring me. Try as he might, I always catch his eyes following me across the room or sliding over me at the dinner table. His disdain isn’t great professionally, but I’ll be damned if it doesn’t turn me on, on a personal level.

After the last notes of my song, I open my eyes; then, two heartbeats of silence pass before the room erupts. Everyone is on their feet, including a glaring Knox who has risen from his throne. When his hands slowly come together in a clap along with everyone else, my eyes narrow, not sure I believe his sincerity. The kids don’t give me time to contemplate Knox or whether his intentions are cruel. They run up for high-fives, congratulating me onslayingthe song.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Matt yells from the back of the room.

“What the fuck was that? Two weeks in and we’re just now finding out we’ve got a replacement singer in our midst,” Jay interjects. “We can kick this dickhead to the curb and finish the tour with you.” He blows Knox a kiss and Knox returns his affection with his middle finger.

The burning feeling moving up my chest, neck, and cheeks means I’m blushing. I was fine while I performed, but this much praise is unexpected. I’m not really sure what to do with it.

“You’re all very kind. Thanks for taking it easy on the new kid, but somebody please take this mic out of my hand.”

Sweet little Anna relieves me of the mic and withinseconds another Taylor Swift song starts and thankfully, all the attention focuses on her. Using her as a distraction, I slink off to the kitchen to get a drink. With an ice-cold beer bottle pressed against my chest, I stand in front of the open refrigerator to cool my flushed skin when a throat clears behind me.

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