Page 74 of No More Bad Boys
“Oh—sorry to bother you. I want to… Ineedto sing.”
He grins, his close-cropped goatee and mustache making him resemble a cartoon devil character.
“Yep. You and every other Arianna Grande wanna-be. There’s a list on the outside of the booth. Put your name at the bottom and look through the song catalog. Probably about a forty-minute wait at this point.” He reaches for his book again.
I glance up at the stage, where anotherchanteuseis preparing to dazzle the crowd with her vocal stylings. Then my gaze darts to the booth where Blake and friends are sitting.
No—nonono. He’s no longer sitting. He’s standing. And it looks like he’s saying goodbye to the group.
“No,” I practically shout at the master-of-karaoke. “I have to do itnow. Forty minutes will be too late.”
His arched eyebrows lift. “Emergency karaoke, huh?” He chuckles. “What’s the big rush? There a talent scout here or something?”
“No. But the guy I love is about to walk out the door—forever—and I have to stop him. This is the only thing I can think of that might work.”
His mouth turns down and he nods in an I’m-impressed kind of way. “You’rethatgood, huh?”
“No,” I tell him honestly. “That bad.”
He laughs out loud. “Excellent. Okay, baby. Name your tune.”
“Do you have any Elvis?”
NINETEEN
Love Song
Feedback squeals through the club as I grab the microphone from the perturbed singer whose spot I’m stealing and take the stage.
“Sorry,” I mutter into the mic.
The opening bars of the old-school song come through my monitor, and I’m squinting through the blinding spotlights, trying to locate Blake.
Has he left already? I can’t see him, but I have to do this. I have to try.
“Wise men say…” I begin to sing, suddenly mortally ashamed of having dissed the dying whale. That girl sounded like an opera diva compared to the sounds currently being emitted from my vocal chords.
People in the bar, who normally ignore and talk through the singers for the most part, are actually stopping their conversations to listen because it’sthat awful.
I don’t care. Blake’s worth it.
If they’d let me (which they won’t) I’d come back and do an encore performance every night—I’d withstand catcalls and booing and rotten tomatoes if necessary—if he’d only give me a chance.
Giveusa chance.
Still blinded to most of the club-goers, I continue warbling and wailing my way through the King’s beloved hit song, undoubtedly brutalizing its timeless melody.
But I put my entire heart into the performance, imparting every bit of love I have for Blake to the words, meaning every one of them right down to the last line… “I can’t help falling in love with you.”
The music ends, and the place is almost eerily quiet. Did I scare away the entire crowd?
There’s a smattering of unenthusiastic pity clapping. But then for some reason, the applause increases and is joined by somewootsandall rights.
What is going on? They didn’t actuallylikethat caterwauling, did they?
And then I see why they’re clapping.
Blake steps onto the stage, crossing it to join me in the over-bright circle of light. My heart seizes then starts galloping as he approaches, wearing a look of amusement mixed with… love. I could swear it’s love.
