“If I’d known you were going to do that,” he murmurs, his tone low and dangerous, “I would’ve turned my head and made you put it where it belongs.”
Heat crawls up my neck so fast it’s almost embarrassing. I tell him to behave, because if I don’t, I’ll forget I’m supposed to be mad at him, and then I’ll forget everything else after that.
“Give me one minute to change, and we’ll get set up,” I say, already moving, already trying to stay focused on the show instead of the way his voice makes my stomach flip.
Now, here’s where I should’ve told him the truth. I should’ve been upfront about what I planned to wear, because springing it on him like a trap is the kind of thing that invites a blowup, and I don’t have time for a blowup. But I don’t tell him, because the stage is waiting, and I’m not about to hand my nerves another weapon. I change fast, tug Shane’s oversized button-down into place, check the mic over my ear, and take one steadying breath that tastes like adrenaline.
Then I open the door and casually say, “Come on, Luke,” like I’m not about to throw a match into gasoline.
He steps forward, and the air shifts the second his eyes drop. His gaze stops like it hit a wall, and before I can blink, his hand clamps around my arm, and he spins me so fast I nearly stumble.
“Where the hell are the rest of your clothes?” he growls, and the sound is so real it almost makes me laugh, except it doesn’t feel funny. It feels possessive. Territorial. Like he’s forgotten, for one split second, that we’re in public… and that we’re “just friends.”
“This is it,” I say, widening my eyes like I’m innocent and confused instead of fully aware. “This is my costume.”
The color climbs his neck and settles into his face, turning him a lovely shade of furious. His eyes narrow, jaw flexing like he’s biting back a dozen things he refuses to say out loud.
“The hell you say,” he snaps. “You are not going out there like this.”
“Yes, I am,” I insist, keeping my voice calm on purpose, because yelling will only delay us, and I can’t afford a delay. “It fits the scene, Luke.”
His stare goes darker. “Whose. Shirt. Is. That?” he asks, each word sharp enough to cut.
“Shane’s.” The answer visibly relieves him for half a second, like his brain approves the name, and then his eyes flick down again. “Why is it unbuttoned?” he demands, and I can practically feel the explosion building.
“It’s not unbuttoned,” I start, but his posture turns downright menacing. “Not all the way,” I clarify quickly. “The last two are buttoned.”
That does not help. Not even a little.
And then Mitch saves my life by calling out, “Andi, you need to be onstagenow.”
I answer way too cheerfully, already moving away, already choosing the stage over the argument. “Okay!” I call back,then throw over my shoulder, “Luke, it’s time for you to get in position.”
Luke follows because he has to, because the current performer is finishing up, because the club is about to swallow us whole.
The curtain opens, the first notes hit the air, and the world shifts. The club blurs into noise, heat, and shadows, and the stage becomes its own universe. The mic sits snugly over my ear, so my hands are free, and my voice slides into the slow, ominous seduction the song demands as soon as I sing the first line.
“Familiar Taste of Poison.” It fits our relationship perfectly.
Love is the poison, the wine is the metaphor, and the lover is the temptation you know will ruin you, but you drink anyway because you want it.
Because you crave it. Because the destruction feels familiar enough to be comforting.
I lift the bottle and glass, moving to the edge of the stage as the verse unfolds, and behind me, Luke rises from the shadows in black, holding the sickle like a warning. Death. The idea of him and the inevitability of him. I don’t look at Luke fully yet because I don’t trust what will happen if I do, but I can feel him behind me, close enough that my skin registers his presence before my mind catches up. Ilower to the floor, place the empty bottle beside me, and when the chorus comes, I break the capsule and pour the powder into the glass, so the audience understands the story without me ever saying it out loud.
Poison. A choice. A slow surrender.
I drink, then stand and leave the bottle and glass on the floor well in front of me. That’s when Luke moves, stealthy and controlled, laying the sickle down and stepping in behind me like a shadow taking shape.
When I glance over my shoulder to sing the next line, he’s close. Too close. And I can’t tell where the performance ends and Luke begins, because my body reacts like it doesn’t care which is which. My movements mirror his like I’m caught on a string, and he guides without touching at first, circling, tempting, letting tension build in the space between us. Then the chorus rises again, and his arm snakes around my waist. Because the shirt hangs loose, his hand finds skin, warm and steady and possessive. The touch should be harmless, just choreography, but my pulse doesn’t get the memo. He pulls me back against him, and my voice stays steady even as the rest of me threatens to unravel.
At the end of the chorus, he shifts to my side, and I turn to face him in profile to the audience, the music climbing, my voice cresting, and something in me reaches for him without permission.
We didn’t rehearse it this way, but my hand slides around the back of his neck anyway, our faces inches apart as I sing straight into his eyes like I’m confessing instead of performing.
His arms move down my back with that same steady surety, and the room seems to hold its breath as if it knows it’s witnessing something real. Then he lifts me, and my legs wrap around his waist by instinct, and the crowd’s reaction is a sound I barely register because I’m not in the club anymore.
I’m in him.
