He promised me karaoke in exchange for wearing that damn bathing suit, and he’s staying true to his word. To be honest, it wasn’t as horrendous as I anticipated. The way he couldn’t stop drooling over me made it worth it. Unless he was wrestling Kane in the water, his attention was fixed on me, drinking in every one of my curves. It was a major boost to my self-esteem. I started this trip with massive body insecurities, and I was positive Ezra would be disgusted with my new figure. But that is not the case. While I’m still not totally comfortable in my skin, it eases my mind to know that he isn’t judging me in the least.
We indulge in authentic shave ice before walking to the Japanese BBQ place next door to the bar where we sang karaoke last time and both immediately drool over the menu.
“I think telling Kane the truth went well,” I say, picking up my glass of water.
He’s silent for a moment, eyes fixed on the menu. Finally, he cups my free hand and looks at me. “It did.” He squeezes. “Thank you.”
He releases me, but I grasp his wrist to stop him. “You’re welcome. I meant what I said, too, about staying in his life. If that’s okay with you, of course.” I bite my bottom lip and inspect his expression, searching for clues about how he feels. Maybe I’m overstepping here. Kane and I don’t have any type of link connecting us now that our fake marriage has been revealed. But in the short time I’ve known him, I’ve come to really like the kid. Not only that, but I understand what it’s like to be a queer person in this world; it’s beautiful, but it’s not easy, and I feel the urge to be a safe person in his life.
Ezra pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
“You’re something else, Mills. You know that?” His dark eyes bore into me, his expression so endearing I swear it causes the elastic on my panties to snap.
The blush I’m now sporting is not from the Hawaiian heat. “So, um…” I pull my hand away.
He does the same, picking up his own water. “Have you picked out a song for me yet?”
I perk up and bite back a smile. “Yup.”
“And…” He raises a brow. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Nope.”
Dinner was delicious, and the conversation flowed as smoothly as my mai tai, but I’m most excited about karaoke. Ezra tries to perform the second we arrive, but I make upexcuses to put it off; I’m waiting till there’s a full house. We pass the time by playing a stupidly competitive round of darts that nearly has me aiming for his stupidly tight ass.He’s wearing his slutty shorts again, paired with a button-down. His chest is smattered with dark hair, distracting me in a way that makes it impossible to aim. I make up for the loss, though, when I beat him at foosball. All those years at theater camp have finally paid off.
Just as I’m about to win another round, Ezra is called to the stage.
“Go get ’em, big guy.” I slap him on the ass.
He scowls playfully. He’s only a little annoyed that I still haven’t told him what song I picked.
Leaning against a tabletop to the side of the stage, I pull my phone out, ready to record.
At the podium, Ezra grips the mic but leaves it in the stand. His hair is pulled back in a low bun, and beneath the colored lights, his temples are dotted with perspiration. It’s the only hint that he may be nervous. He stands tall, his shoulders back, the perfect picture of confidence. That facade slips a little, though, when the title is revealed on the screen behind him and on the smaller one in front of him.
“Man, I Feel Like a Woman!” by the one and only Shania Twain.
This oughta be good…
He hangs his head, and for a second, I think he’s going to back out. A single curl falls from his bun, and he tucks it behind his ear without looking up. The first seven notes played by the horns come through the speakers, and on cue, he announces, “Let’s go girls.”
I scan the crowd, finding a mixture of secondary embarrassment and amusement plastered on each face.
His voice is quiet at first, but as soon as he pants “Uh!” andthe crowd cheers, his entire demeanor changes. He sways his hips and—no, no, no. This is not how this was supposed to go.
He might as well be fucking Harry Styles in a sequined jumpsuit with the way he’s working the crowd right now.
Annoyance licks up my spine. This was supposed to be payback for making me wear the flimsy bikini; instead, he looks like he’s having the time of his life. And when the lyric about letting our hair hang down appears on the screen, Ezra pulls out his own elastic and shakes his curls free.
The women in the bar go absolutely feral in response, making it impossible to hear the next few lines.
That’s it.
I concede.
There’s no way I can come back from this.
