An accusing brow rises on Presley’s face. “But you want to, don’t you?”
Oh my god, I can’t win.
Right after Mercury congratulated us with hugs, we regaled her with our edited Vegas wedding story, fed her semi-cold tacos, and then she got back to work.
Or she and Presley did, that is.
I can’t tell if she’s accepted the idea of our quickie marriage so easily because she genuinely believes us or because she’s just so focused on what she’s doing.
Either way, about five minutes ago, after much deliberation, Pres suggested adding another vocal element to the song—someone to play off the male lead in the chorus.
Mercury thought it was the perfect solution. Pres thought so too until her sister said she thought Pres would be the perfect person to do it.
That’s when all hell broke loose.
“Do I think you’d be great at it, Pres? Yes. You have a phenomenal voice.” I give her sister a hard stare. “But no one is going to force you. Right?”
Mercury folds her arms across her chest. “What if I ask nicely?”
Pres scoffs. “Nicely? You didn’t even ask! So far, you’ve just dictated.”
“You did sort of do that,” I agree.
Merc huffs, looking up at the clock mounted on the wall. “Okay, yeah. You’re right. I got a little intense there, didn’t I?”
“A little?”
She slowly blinks.
Definitely not up for humor right now. “Okay, fine.” Pres throws up her hands. “But how exactly do we do this?” Pres asks. “’Cause the only singing I’ve done is in the shower.”
“Thank you, Pres,” she gushes, rushing to hug her. “You’re a lifesaver. And I’ll make sure you get credit, okay?”
“What?” Presley’s eyes go wide, realizing she doesn’t just mean name credit. She means money. “No, that’s crazy. I don’t need to?—”
“Take the credit, Pres,” I urge, pulling her into my arms. It feels effortless being able to touch her without rules or boundaries. “You can put the royalties into savings or invest them in the bar. Or buy a new car.”
She snorts. “What’s wrong with my car?”
“What isn’t wrong with your car?”
“Okay, newlyweds,” Mercury interrupts, motioning in our direction. “Love this for you. Truly. But I don’t have time for whatever this is. Go be gross on your own time.”
I let her go, grinning as she slips away to help her sister.
It doesn’t take long to set things up, and in no time, Pres is sitting on a stool directly in front of a large microphone on the other side of the glass.
She looks incredibly nervous.
“Tell me what to do,” she says. I can hear her voice shake through the headphones.
Merc presses a button and speaks into a mic. “Okay, Pres, listen to me. You’re probably not going to like this, but I need you to just go with your gut on this.”
“What?” she practically screeches. “What do you mean, go with my gut? Aren’t you the one who says music is all about precision?”
“I am.” She nods. “Which is why I knew this song was missing something. It was missing you.”
“I am not precise, Merc. I am chaos at best.”
