“Yes!” she says, almost shouting. “Do that!”
I laugh under my breath. “No one wants a six-foot-three decorative lamp post on stage.”
“I do,” she mutters.
She looks so damn scared, but underneath it all, there’s a longing she won’t put into words. She wants to be out there. She’s just terrified of wanting it.
“You could just stand there and look structural,” she says. “Nobody has to know.”
“I haven’t played an instrument since I was nine. Even then, it was three chords on a guitar because my grandmother made me,” I say, which isn’t the point right now. “I can’t play violin.”
From beyond the wall, Cal’s voice comes through the mic. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a very special guest joining us tonight—”
Piper freezes.
“Oh God,” she whispers. “Why would they say that? Why would they use those words? Special guest? I’m going to vomit, or faint, or die.”
“Hopefully not all three.”
She shoves me in the chest. “You’re not helping!”
“I’m trying to keep your expectations realistic.”
She grabs my shirt. “Griffin, if I shit myself on stage, I will never forgive you.”
I rub a hand down her back. “Noted.”
Another cheer rises from the crowd when the band calls her name, and Piper looks at me like I’m sending her into battle.
“I can’t,” she whispers.
“You can,” I counter.
“I’ll trip.”
“Then fall gracefully.”
“I’ll mess up.”
“They won’t know.”
“I’ll—”
I stop her by putting my hands on her cheeks with just enough pressure to pull her back into herself. “Piper, you are going out there.”
She swallows hard.
“And you’re going to take the roof off this place.”
Her lower lip trembles, so I do the only thing left.
I smack her ass hard.
She gasps. “Griffin!”
I point toward the stage. “Go.”
The band calls her name again.
