Wade beamed at me. “See, you’re going to be fine. Sticks, just a steady soft beat.”
I grabbed Wade’s arm as he went to move away. “Stay beside me, in case I choke.”
“I am your new glue,” Wade promised me.
“Tell me how you talked me into this?” I asked him as I reached for my water again.
“Sheryl lets us practice on a Sunday. I remembered you saying about singing, and I phoned you, thinking you would say no, and you said yes.” Wade beamed at me, basically telling me it was all my own fault.
I’d been standing outside my boarded-up home, not able to get in and nowhere else to go. Wade had called to ask me, and singing on a Sunday afternoon sounded better than sitting on the stairs outside my apartment. What if the people who did this came back?
“‘Amazing Grace,’ Mia?” Wade prompted me as he took a step back, and I could see the bar, the people, and more importantly, the door.
“Hey, Mia, if you suck, ain’t nobody here gonna remember.”
I turned to look at Sticks, and he tipped his baseball hat to me. Shaking my head in despair at his “pep talk,” I turned back to the front.
“I can do this.”
“You can do this in your sleep,” Wade assured me.
“They’re just people.”
I saw Shane smother his laugh, and I didn’t care.
“And I have nice clean underwear on.” Okay, so maybe I should have kept that bit to myself as I suddenly had more of Shane’s attention than normal. Which was awkward since he had been so into Ava; he just hadn’t known a Devil had claimed her before poor Shane even met her.
“Okay . . . so I also have clean boxers on,” Wade told me, thinking he was encouraging me. “Shane?”
“Eh, yeah.” He was no longer hiding his grin.
“Sticks? You got clean underwear on?”
Sticks snorted again as he turned his baseball cap around. “Fuck no, ain’t worn boxers since I was fourteen. Gotta let the boys breathe.”
Shane leaned forward toward me. “Please, Mia, sing before he tells us anything else,” he pleaded.
“I’m ready.”
Wade started to play the melody softly, and I heard my cue as I looked at the eight men, who had all stopped talking andturned to look at the stage expectantly. I froze. Sixteen eyes were on me. Eighteen if you counted Sheryl behind the bar.
“Close your eyes,” Wade whispered as he pretended to fix his strap and began to play again.
Closing my eyes, I took a breath, and when I heard the intro, I opened my mouth, and a croaky squawk erupted from my mouth. My eyes flew open, but Wade moved into my vision, and his cheeks dimpled.
“Just feel it, Mia, it’s your favorite song,” he said. “You can sing it in your sleep.”
Rolling my head on my shoulders, I shook my arms out to loosen up.
“Again,” I instructed. “Slower.”
Wade stayed in front of me, and together we listened to the intro, and then when I opened my mouth this time, I sang the words as I had so many times before.
Wade stayed in front of me through the first verse, and as long as he was in front, with Shane to the side and the slight beat coming from Sticks, I could sing.
It really was my favorite song. Not a pop song, not a country song, but a song from my childhood, with words so simple and pure. It was the first song I fell in love with and the first one I learned all the words to.
I saw Wade move to the side, and I instantly closed my eyes to shut out the spectators, but I kept on singing.
