“What’s the song about?” I ask, even though I already suspect. We’ve practiced the movements and the timing, but she’s been cagey about the lyrics.
“About choosing something that could ruin you,” she says calmly. “And wanting it anyway.”
“And I’m death.”
She nods. “You don’t force anything. You don’t even speak. You just wait. You circle. You let her decide to step closer.”
The message isn’t subtle at all.
“And if he waits too long?” I ask, needing to hear her say it.
She meets my eyes without hesitation. “Then she learns to live without him.”
There’s no anger in her voice. No threat. Just certainty.
Someone calls her name from beyond the curtain.
She turns back to me. “You ready?”
No.
But I nod anyway.
Because if I hesitate again, I won’t just lose the moment.
I’ll lose her.
CHAPTER TEN
ANDI
I’m not over-analyzing why Brandon is here, or why Luke looks like he wants to swing on him, or what Luke was about to say before Mitch stepped in and stole the moment as if he owned it. I’m not doing it.
Tonight is about the show.
Tonight is about getting in character, singing my song, and having fun with a bunch of people I like, and I am not going to ruin it by dragging last night’s mess into the middle of the stage.
I will not think about how seductive this song isor how my body is going to react to singing it to Luke in front of the entire club.
I will not. I will not.
And now that’s all I can think about.
Backstage is chaos wrapped in glitter and cables, the kind of chaos that makes your heart race too fast even when you’ve done this a hundred times. People dart by with clipboards and headsets, the air smells like hairspray and spilled beer, and the curtain ropes creak with every movement onstage. Luke doesn’t need the dressing room since he’s already wearing his “costume,” which is just all black, and that look he gets when he’s trying to act like nothing affects him, even though everything does. He’s standing there with his arms folded like a bouncer who got dragged into the theater against his will, and I decide not to poke the bear until I absolutely have to.
Which, apparently, is now, because the only thing missing is the mask. I hand it to him like it’s no big deal, like I didn’t just place a very specific kind of humiliation in his palm. It’s a Lone Ranger-type mask, and I may have forgotten to mention that detail. His expression goes flat as he stares down at it, then back up at me, and I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he decides how much he hates this.
“You want me to wear this,” he says, like it’s an accusation and a prayer all in one.
“Please?” I lean into innocence because I’m not above manipulation when the clock is ticking. “It’ll work. Trust me.”
He huffs, mutters something under his breath that I’m pretty sure would get him smacked by a Southern grandmother, then finally concedes with a look that says he’s filing this away for later.
“It’s perfect for our song,” I add quickly before he can change his mind. “Familiar Taste of Poison.”
That earns me another long stare, but he lifts the mask like he’s going to do it, and relief loosens the knot in my chest just enough for me to breathe.
His reluctant consent earns him a kiss on the cheek because I can’t help myself, and because I like seeing the crack in his armor even when I’m pretending I don’t.
