“You don’t need to relate to it,” I contend, breaking into this absurd squabble. “The musicians do.”
Mercy perks up with that small victory.
And Zara bites back a grin. “Your word rules, Papa Axe.”
“That’s right, Cash.” Jax lingers there, dragging his finger around the rim of his blue cocktail and making everyone wait for his imminent razzing. “But we could request one about rejection since that’s relatable for you here.”
“One fucking time,” Cash snaps. “And after tonight, it will be irrefutable that it had nothing to do with me.”
His outrage has the table devolving into laughter until the lead pianist breaks in on the microphone, drawing our attention that way.
“Let’s try something a little different. Who knows this beat?”
The drummer kicks up a steady rhythm with clanking cymbals, and a few moments later, both pianos come in. The crowd lets out hoots and hollers of excitement, right along with Cash.
“ ‘Push It!’ ,” he belts out with a celebratory fist in the air, which has the entire restaurant in hysterics.
And Mercy shrieks, “No fucking way.”
“Freaking.” Maddox swats her. “Jeez, Merce. A bun in the oven and a mouth like a trucker.”
“Salt-N-Pepa to the rescue.” Ryker chuckles, tipping his glass to Cash as he simultaneously reaches past Remy to rub his wife’s barely there baby bump.
This builds Cash’s confidence into a looming tower. He points at her with conviction. “Say this witchcraft isn’t happening now. I dare you. Even I know you’re gonna have to push that thing out.”
“Must we be so graphic?” Tessa’s eyes flutter into the back of her head. “She’s got months until we have to focus on her pushingthat thingout.”
“Who knew you’d be so squeamish?” Mercy chides before bopping to the beat and mouthing the lyrics, to which Jax offers backup.
“At least I don’t refer to the peanut as athing,” Tessa volleys, knocking back her martini as a symbolic middle finger—in jest.
Tessa and Zara have been determined to shower Mercy with the love she missed in her first pregnancy. We’ve all doted on the expectant mother. And Ryker. The man is beside himself with excitement.
Zara stretches to speak low into my ear. “Work your magic, all-powerful Atlas.”
“I have no idea what you mean, my conniving Thorn,” I whisper back, but she ignores me and grabs a napkin to take her turn.
Axel and Zara, falling in love.
Cash glances at what she wrote while swigging his Belgian beer. “Nice. But if they nail this, we’re calling it.”
Always an instigator, as lawyers tend to be, Mercy shrugs. “I don’t agree to those terms unless it’s indisputable.”
Jax bobs his head. “Stay strong, Merce.”
“This”—Cash flips his hand between the two of them—“is confirmation bias. Right, Rem?”
“Right,” Remy sings.
When we all gape at the speed of that reply, Maddox fills us in.
“Part of Cash’s homeschool class is teaching Remy to always agree with him.”
Mercy is aghast, but the rest of us howl, and the next song begins.
As the first chords hit our ears, I glance at the pianist closest to us.
“Nah, not that one,” she announces into the mic, which receives mixed murmurs from the audience.
