I shake my head. “No, you don’t. I mean, I can carry a tune, I guess, but I’m nothing special.”
She hums beneath her breath. “I think you should let me be the judge of that. I like hearing a man sing. I like it a lot.”
I arch a brow. “Yeah? How ‘a lot’ are we talking?”
“Enough to drag a man back to the family bathroom at the bar, perhaps,” Charlotte says. “I’ve been looking for an excuse to check it out. Mack says there are some creepy taxidermy things in there that still give her nightmares. Even months after she and Parker decided against doing the deed on the changing table.”
“Gross,” I say, laughing as I dump my gear bag in the back of her SUV.
“Very,” Charlotte agrees, handing me the keys.
We agreed I’d drive tonight, which is just fine with me. I like to be sober when deciding whether or not to fuck in a semi-public place.
“But I’d still do feral things to you in that bathroom if it’s a secure location,” I add as I move to open the passenger’s door. “Just not on the changing table.”
She stops in front of me, close enough to feel her breath warm on my lips as she whispers, “Obviously not. You’re way too classy for that.”
I settle a hand on her hip, curling my fingertips until they dig into the top of her ass. “I was just thinking the same thing about you,” I murmur, the urge to kiss her so strong it’s all I can do not to go feral on her right here.
But there are still players behind us and people waiting at the bar, including my sister. But once we’re settled and everyone’shad enough to drink to stop paying attention to who wanders off for a moment alone…
Well, if a vocal performance is the only way to get Charlotte’s skirt up around her hips and my mouth between her legs, so be it.
Fourteen
CHARLOTTE
Ican’t remember the last time I had so much fun.
I’m practically giddy as Mack and I giggle our way into a second round of karaoke, giving in to calls for an encore after our rendition of “Edge of Seventeen.” The old women in the corner insisted they needed another song because I sound “just like Stevie Nicks”—have I ever been more flattered? No, I have not, and the old men in the other corner insisted they needed another song because Makena is “the best dancer in Louisiana.”
And she is.
My sweet friend can’t sing on key to save a life, but her moves are unparalleled. She’s so shameless in her body that it’s even rubbing off on me, a woman programmed by years of cotillion classes to keep it “tasteful” on the dance floor.
But we’re not on the dance floor.
We’re on The Brass Monkey’s little pink stage, and as the opening chords of “Stand Back” blast through the speakers, I lift a hand and sway back and forth, letting the beat into my hips as Makena goes wild. One minute she’s writhing beside me, the next, she’s on the floor, doing a split into what looks a lot like a stripper routine as the crowd erupts in a roar of approval.
I pull in a deep breath, the microphone warm in my palm and my body shot through with lightning as I thrust a finger toward my silver-haired queens in the corner and launch into the first verse.
In a beat, they’re on their feet, dancing and singing along. The bachelorette party girls waiting in line for the mechanical bull join in next, then the bikers playing pool, and half the dance floor.
By the time the chorus hits and Makena joins in, singing backup, there are so many people wailing along, you can barely hear her tone-deaf crooning of “stand back, stand back!”
Which I think she would agree is for the best.
She’s here to shine in other ways, a fact she proves as the key change lifts us all on its wings, and she dominates the musical bridge. I “la la la la,” and she swirls and swivels, tossing her increasingly wild blond hair and making over-the-top sex eyes at the entire bar.
The old men cheer, the old ladies whoop even louder, and our friends scream like groupies at a concert. Elly laughs so hard, she’s crying. Beatrice bounces up and down, bright-eyed and beaming, and Parker is so proud he looks like he might burst. He keeps pointing a finger at Makena as he bops from side to side, as if to say, “That’s my girl! Look at her go! Isn’t she the fucking best?”
Then I get to the verse about the one man who didn’t fall, the one who “asked me for my love and that was all,” and my gaze naturally finds the gorgeous man leaning against the bar a few yards away, every ounce of his attention fixed on me.
Our eyes lock, and my voice goes deeper, huskier, the lyrics taking on new meaning.
Suddenly, this song about a woman looking for a good man, a man who will give her the attention she craves without makingher stand in line for the fucking pleasure, becomes so much more personal.
Nix would never make me stand in line.
