“Breathe,” Valen says quietly into my ear. His hand finds its home on my thigh, and I instantly lean into him.
I embrace the warmth of his hand on my jeans. Enjoy the gentle weight when he presses his fingers into my thigh one at a time. Slowly, my body regulates without having to count.
“Okay.” I point to a random song. “This one.”
“Good choice,” Valen says without ever breaking eye contact.
“You don’t even know what it is.”
“Doesn’t matter. You picked it, therefore it’s perfect.”
That tightness in my chest undoes a single knot.
He stands before I can change my mind and submits my song. He and Chief return at the same time.
I’ve only taken a few sips of my Yuengling when my name is called, and I drop the beer all over the table.
“Clover,” the KJ calls. “You’re up.”
The room tilts as Valen moves quickly to mop up my mess with a handful of napkins, and my legs turn to Jell-O as I stand.
“Want me to come with you?” Valen asks, the heat of his words warming the side of my face.
How does he move so quickly?
I shake my head, pull my cardigan tighter, then tug it closed one more time for protection. Do I want him to come with me? Yes. Do I need to face some battles alone? Also yes.
Even if I hate it.
“You’re sure?”
I smile, but I can feel it sit awkwardly on my face. I probably resemble the Joker right now. “I’m sorta sure.”
He squeezes my elbow. “I’ll be right here,” he promises. “If you need me.”
I walk to the stage with my pulse rushing through my ears.
The KJ hands me a microphone that feels too heavy in my hand. No wonder Taylor Swift has biceps. She must get it from raising this damn thing for hours every day.
The microphone squeals in my grip. Oh Lord. This is real. I squeeze the microphone, letting the pressure of it dig into my palm.
When the music starts, I close my eyes, thankful I blindly chose a song I know.
The intro ends, and I sing.
Badly. Quietly. So quietly that the guy in the front row starts shouting at me to speak up.
Mr. Brightsidehas never sounded so bleak.
My voice is thin. Shaky. Off-key in places that make me wince and the crowd cringe.
But I’m doing it, and when Valen’s face appears in the front row, my anxiety loses its painful edge. Especially when he leans into the drunk guy’s space. Whatever he says has the stranger bolting for the exit.
“Louder,” Valen mouths. “Let me hear you.” He scans the exit to his right, then the left, and each time his gaze leaves me, I’m cold and untethered.
My next line is almost audible. The one after that can at least be heard when no one’s talking.
Valen holds one hand to his ear while the other hand motions for me to continue, but his gaze is still clocking patrons across the room.
