Charlie Harrington sings like she does everything else. As if she’s got nothing to lose and a world full of bastards to prove wrong.
She’s up on that tiny, sticky-floored stage of the hotel pub, gripping the mic like she’s daring it to break. Her eyes are half-lidded as she singsLivin’ on a Prayer.
And fuck me, but I can’t stop looking at her.
I lean back in the booth, head tipped against cracked leather, empty glass in my hand. Tipsy but lucid. Loose, but locked in.
Because something is happening here, and there’s no stopping it.
The small crowd is eating her up. Of course they are. Charlie’s got that thing. That thing that makes people lean in without meaning to, makes them watch. It’s not about being pretty or the best. It’s about being impossible to ignore. And Charlie Harrington? Always impossible to ignore.
Butespeciallywhen she’s belting out Bon Jovi.
Barefoot, tights torn at the knee, blazer long gone, she’s a fucking sight for the gods. The simple grey dress clings in all the right places, riding higher every time she jumps, the hem threatening absolute chaos. Her hair – caramel and whisky in the stage lights – has won the battle against the straightener, waves bouncing as she moves, defiant and unruly.
And then she throws her head back and pours her whole ambitious, untamed self into one note.
She’s not just drop-dead gorgeous. She’s everything at once. Pure temptation with boardroom fangs, a high-maintenance hurricane with a heart of gold, a brilliant menace wrapped in cashmere.
I clutch my glass.
There’s something free and unguarded in her, the way she loses herself to the song. She points straight at me when the chorus hits, mischief and intent. The whole pub is screaming the words, but her voice rises over the noise. For a split second, it’s just us. And I swear to god, my dick twitches like it’s applauding her.
Something sharp braces between my lungs as it sinks in.
Imightbe fucked.
Charlie Harrington. Aye.
It hits me in pieces.
Starts with how she had my back tonight. No hesitation, no question. When that dickhead journalist tried to dig his claws in, she eviscerated him.
Not for PR. Not for herself.
For me.
She always challenges me. Pushes and pokes, calls me on my nonsense, stands her ground when most people fold. I don’t intimidate her. I fuel her. How’s that even possible?
And it’s the way I feel when she’s around. Comfortable and at ease. I can let my guard down without someone waiting to twist the knife.
But the worst part? The part that knots my stomach and makes my pulse hammer?
I find myself wanting to be near her, let her light chase away my clouds.
Yep, probably fucked.
Charlie hits the last note, winking at some poor sod in the front row, then stumbles off stage and laughs as someone claps her on the back. A blink later she’s in front of me, flushed and high on chaos, hair messy, eyes bright.
She needs this tonight. That’s why I agreed to join her.
Not for me. For her.
Charlie’s dad’s a cunt. Callum’s always been one. Pembroke? Just the latest recruit to the cuntery club.
And because Charlie’s so professional, so sharp, so fierce, it’s easy to forget that she’s only twenty-six. Same as me. After being screwed over by the men in her life, after weeks of dealing with my antics, and after fighting a battle that shouldn’t be hers at the distillery, she deserves to let loose. To be loud, to be careless, to feel good for no other reason than that she fucking can.
‘What?’ she asks as she slides onto the bench opposite me, heels in hands and voice still hoarse from singing.
