Page 82 of The Pucking Date
Then the opening chords drop.
Tennessee Whiskey.
A ripple moves through the room, players smirking, women perking up, a few already leaning forward like they’re ready to be seduced.
But he doesn’t scan the room or play to the crowd. He findsme. And holds. And then he sings.
The first note knocks the air out of my lungs. Smooth, low, and sin wrapped, like velvet soaked in bourbon. Not flashy or practiced.
It’s raw.
This isn’t a performance, but a confession.
Every word is a caress. A vow. A wound he’s tearing open and showing only to me. His voice wraps around my ribcage, slow and smoldering, and suddenly I’m not in a lounge; I’m in his hands. Everywhere he touches with sound, I burn.
He’s not singing about whiskey. He’s singing aboutneed, about me. My heart punches against my ribs. Every nerveending sparks alive. I’m hyperaware of everything—his voice, his gaze, the way the room holds still like even the air is listening.
No one moves.
Even the drunkest sponsor seems to sense they’re intruding on something sacred. But they can’t see it, not really. Because the only two people in this room right now are me and the man who’s staking his claim with every breath.
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. Not once.
The way his voice catches on certain words, like they hurt to sing. Like theymatter.
Like I matter.
By the time he hits the last note—low, deep, wrecked—the entire room erupts. Cheers. Whistles. A standing ovation from the testosterone section.
He hands off the mic. Then he moves through the crowd, straight toward me. Every step pulls the oxygen thinner. My body’s locked between the urge to bolt or fall into him.
He doesn’t ask permission to slide into the seat beside me. His thigh presses against mine—hot, firm, intimate. The scent of him—cedar, sweat, something male and dangerous—wraps around me like a noose.
He doesn’t say anything. Just lets the silence stretch between us. Lets the heat of what he just did throb in the space we share. Then, voice low and wrecked, “You enjoyed the song?”
I don’t look at him. I can’t. “Nice voice,” I manage, aiming for cool. Missing. “You really know how to work a crowd.”
“Wasn’t for them.” His words are simple. Quiet. But they land like a punch straight to the chest. “I meant every word, Red. Every goddamn one.”
My breath catches. I try for levity, but it comes out half strangled. “So you sing now, too? What’s next, fire-breathing? Sword-swallowing?”
He leans back just enough to smirk. But the heat in his eyes doesn’t ease. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
“I’m trying to figure out what else you’ve been keeping quiet.” My voice wavers. “First dancing, now karaoke? What else are you hiding?”
He looks at me like he’s deciding whether to tell me something big. Then says, “When I was a kid, I used to walk my sister to dance class.”
I blink, surprised. “Seriously?”
He nods, slow and easy. “Figured I’d sit in the hallway with my Game Boy.”
“You were a Game Boy kid?”
“Mario Kart, baby.” His grin is cocky, but warm. “Didn’t last. Her teacher didn’t believe in video games or sitting on the sidelines.”
I laugh now, full and involuntary.
“You got roped in?”
