My orc.
The thought catches me off guard, makes my breath hitch. When did that happen? When did Grath stop being the awkward neighbor with the too-small apron and become mine?
Somewhere between the flour fight and the dumpster sex, probably. Somewhere in the messy, terrifying space between wanting him gone and needing him to stay.
"You're on in two." The stage manager, a harried woman with a clipboard and the haunted look of someone who's seen too many amateur acts tonight, jerks her thumb toward the curtain.
I nod. My throat is dry. I should have brought water. Or vodka. Preferably vodka.
The plan is simple. Get onstage. Make noise. Keep everyone's attention on me long enough for Grath to find what we need and get out. We've got allies scattered through the people, regulars from the café who owe me favors or just hate the developer enough to help. They'll cause minor disruptions if things start to go sideways. A spilled drink here, a loud argument there. Chaos as cover.
But the heavy lifting is on me.
I peek through the gap in the curtain. The ballroom stretches out like something from a fever dream, all crystal chandeliers and marble floors and people in clothes that cost more than my monthly rent. The developer holds court near the center, surrounded by politicians and business owners, everyone laughing at his jokes like he's not actively trying to destroy their town.
My hands curl into fists. The anger helps. Steadies me.
Then I see Grath.
He's near the service entrance, dressed in the catering uniform we scrounged from a friend of a friend. The white shirt strains across his shoulders, buttons threatening mutiny. His bow tie sits crooked. He's carrying a tray of champagne flutes with the careful concentration of someone defusing a bomb, weaving through the persons like he's trying not to be seen.
Which is hilarious, because he's seven feet of solid orc muscle. Invisible is not in his skill set.
But he's trying. For me. For us.
The curtain parts. The stage manager gives me a shove that's probably meant to be encouraging.
Showtime.
The lights hit me like a wall. Too bright. Too hot. I blink, momentarily blind, and then the crowd comes into focus. Faces turn toward me. Curious. Polite. Already bored.
I clear my throat. The microphone squeals feedback, and I wince.
"Hi." My voice comes out too soft. I adjust the mic stand, and it screeches again. Someone in the back winces. "Sorry. Technical difficulties. Story of my life."
A few polite chuckles. I can see the developer in the third row, looking vaguely annoyed that his event has been interrupted by whatever this is.
Good. Stay annoyed. Stay focused on me.
"So, I'm Maris Smith. I own the Saltwater Cat Café over on Harborview. Maybe you've heard of it? We're the place with all the cats and mediocre espresso."
More laughter now, slightly warmer. I'm winning them over. Or at least confusing them enough to keep watching.
"I'm here tonight because I was told there would be an open mic, and I thought, you know what this fancy gala needs? A woman who can't sing attempting to entertain rich people."
Real laughter now. The developer's smile is tight. His assistant, a weasel-faced man in an expensive suit, whispers something in his ear.
I launch into the song. It's supposed to be a jazz standard, something sultry and sophisticated. What comes out is closer to a cat being strangled. I hit notes that don't exist in nature. I forget half the lyrics and improvise badly, inserting words like "gentrification" and "predatory development" where they absolutely don't belong.
It's a disaster. Perfect.
The crowd doesn't know whether to laugh or cringe. Some do both. I keep going, hamming it up, moving around the stagewith exaggerated gestures that make my borrowed dress bunch in weird places.
And out of the corner of my eye, I see Grath slip through a service door and disappear.
I'm three verses into my musical massacre when the first disruption happens. One of the café regulars, a retired librarian named Edith,accidentallytrips a waiter. Champagne cascades across the developer's table in a sparkling arc. There's a flurry of napkins and apologies.
I use the distraction to belt out an improvised chorus about property rights.
