Page 40 of Sweeper
I take the beer and swipe at the stinging in my eyes, hoping he doesn’t notice anything is off. It might not be tears, but it’s the closest thing I’ve felt to them in a long time. I nod toward the bathroom first. I just need a minute. One minute and then I’ll be ready to celebrate with my new team.
When I finally get my shit together, I walk through the small hallway that leads back into the beer garden to look around for my teammates. My eyes take in the space with appreciation. The beer garden looks a lot nicer from this vantage point than from my apartment window, that’s for damn sure.
It’s scattered with an array of picnic tables illuminated by Edison bulbs strung up overhead. People are huddled around a large fire pit in the center and some propane heaters along the ivy-covered walls to keep warm. I zip my coat up to my chin and glance over at the outdoor bar off to the right in search of the guys.
“Z, over here!” Link calls out from the far corner.
I begin to head over but my boots falter on the cobblestone when a familiar voice breaks through on a microphone. “This is so not my thing.”
With a frown, I turn to the right to find the source of the voice and spot a small, empty stage. It’s got a few lights strung over it, some large speakers, and an empty microphone stand in front of a wooden stool. There’s no sign of life up there, so I look down at the crowd to see where the voice may be coming from.
“I hate singing in public almost as much as I hate my best friend, Phoebe,” Daphney’s voice utters from the speakers, and chills rush over my body because it must be her. No one has a voice like Daphney.
Daphney emerges from the crowd as she steps up onto the dimly lit stage with the microphone in hand. “This is what happens when you lose a bet.”
The crowd replies with sympathetic murmurings as she thumps the mic into its holder and grabs an acoustic guitar off the nearby stand. She thrums a quick chord on the guitar as she adjusts the tuners at the top.
With a rueful smile on her face, she steps back up to the mic and says, “This one’s for Phoebe. You bitch.”
A loud cheer echoes from the crowd, and I catch sight of what looks like her friend’s dark black hair that I saw at Old George the other day. The crowd pushes in closer as Daphney situates herself on the wooden stool and adjusts the mic to her level.
I freeze as I take a moment to check her out because she hasn’t seen me yet. It’s dark where I’m standing, so I feel a bit like a voyeur as my eyes travel over her oversized coat. Her blonde hair is loose and curly around her shoulders, blending in with the tan faux fur jacket. Her lips are a dark red, and her eyes have more makeup on them than I’ve ever seen before. She looks stunning.
She crosses her legs on the stool and positions the guitar on her thigh, revealing a short black skirt, and patterned tights with black ankle boots. She looks edgy with a touch of glam, and I’m not ashamed to admit that my cock thumps with attention. And the fact that she’s about to sing makes me wonder if I am dreaming right now.
She begins strumming the guitar, and the beginning of John Legend’s “All of Me” projects loudly through the speakers. When she leans into the mic and her husky voice echoes through the beer garden, the patrons all grow quiet, clearly caught off guard by her ability.
I was already aware Daphney could sing. Even hearing her through the wall of my apartment, I got chills, and I’m pretty sure she was singing about tires. Not that it matters. The girl could sing the alphabet, and her unique tone would enrapture me.
But tonight, what she’s doing now…this is bone-chilling. Her raspy tone is like a cry as she sings the soft melody, yet her face is cool as a cucumber, despite her mentioning she hates singing in public.
The performance is intense. And the fact that I’m able to sit here and take it in is a gift I did not expect tonight.
As she finishes the song, I have to physically shake off my stunned reaction when the crowd goes wild. Her friend joins her up on stage, and the two hug and laugh while Daphney rolls her eyes.
They move off the stage, and I attempt to make a beeline to them when an arm wraps around me. “Is that your neighbor?” Link’s voice booms in my ear as he takes a drink of his beer.
“Yes,” I reply through clenched teeth, wishing I didn’t have to go join my teammates right now.
“Fucking shit, she was hot before, but she’s off the charts now,” Link states, and I grind my teeth at the realization that every guy in this pub is probably thinking the same thing. “You going to do something about it?”
“I’m not sure yet.” I turn my hat backward as strange nerves take flight in my belly. “Hey, let’s go get another beer.”
I’ve never needed liquid courage with a girl before, but after listening to Daphney sing, I fear she might be painfully out of my league. When we make our way over to the team, my heart leaps up into my throat when I see that Daphney is seated on top of the picnic table next to Booker, looking perfectly at ease as she visits with everyone.
When her eyes find mine, I give her a slight head nod, and she shoots me a secret smile that I think might be saying something, but I don’t know what exactly.
My head jerks back when her friend steps in front of me. “Hiya there, naughty neighbor. I’m Daphney’s best friend, Phoebe.”
My focus shifts from Daphney to her raven-haired friend. I offer her an easy smile. “Hi, Phoebe, I’m Zander.”
“Oh, I know all about you,” she says with a wicked glint to her eye. “And who might this bloke be?”
“I’m Link Conlin. Striker from Arizona.” Link reaches his hand out, and she takes it with a laugh.
“Is that how you always introduce yourself? Well then, I’m Phoebe Oxley of Essex, romance narrator to the stars.”
“Come again?” Link asks, his brows furrowing curiously.
