ASHORT JEEP RIDElater, we’re standing inside Annie’s, a small, dimly lit dive bar in Atlanta.
Glancing around, I take in the glossy black walls lined with red leather couches and matching ottomans. A handful of wooden tables and chairs are scattered across the floor and two oversized chandeliers hang from the ceiling.
“Oh, Lexi. This is going to be a night to remember,” Jake says, drawing out each word carefully.
“Yeah? And why is that?”
Jake looks at me devilishly, barely able to contain his excitement. “Because tonight is the night you make your musical debut.”
I follow his gaze over my shoulder and notice there’s a makeshift stage and mounted television screen in the center of the room. And that’s when it hits me: Jake Taylor has dragged me to a karaoke bar.
“Nope. Absolutely not.” My face must be a mask of horror because Jake takes one look at me and laughs.
“Aw, come on, it’s only fair! You get to hear me sing all the time, but I have yet to hear your Britney impression.”
His brown eyes are dancing, and I realize with mounting dread there isn’t a chance in the world that I’m about to turn him down.
“Fine,” I huff after a minute. “But I’m definitely going to need a cocktail.”
“One order of karaoke punch, coming right up!” A moment later he returns, carefully balancing two red plastic cups.
“Do I even want to know what’s in karaoke punch?” I ask as I peer inside the rim. It’s filled to the top with red juice, cherries, and a single lime for garnish.
Jake ticks the ingredients off on his fingers. “Hawaiian, punch, liquid courage.” He clinks my cup in a toast, and I raise it to my lips. The drink is way too sweet and tastes nothing like alcohol, a sure sign that it’s incredibly dangerous.
“So, what vibe are we going for tonight? ‘Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman’? Or are we going fully ‘Toxic’?”
After adding our names to the sign-up, we slide into one of the leather couches facing the stage. My head is already fuzzy from thealcohol (Seriously, what is in this?) and I slide closer to Jake, my thigh brushing against his. He wraps a lazy arm around my shoulder, running his fingers through the bottom of my hair, and I lean into him, breathing in his clean, comforting scent.
From behind us I hear muffled voices, and I peer over my shoulder to see two women, their heads bent close together as they whisper excitedly. They’re staring right at Jake and one of them is covertly trying to snap a picture on her phone.
I swivel my head back toward Jake. “I think you’ve been spotted,” I whisper as I press against him. “Should we get out of here?”
Jake offers me a half smile and shakes his head. “No. This is still my city, and for once, I don’t want to hide. Tonight I just want to be Jake. Let’s have fun, okay?”
When our names are called, Jake grabs my hand, leading me up to the stage. We’ve only provided our first names, but as soon as we’re standing up there beneath the lights, a faint murmur ripples through the crowd and several audience members begin hooting with appreciation. I look over at Jake to gauge his reaction, but he’s busy flipping through a binder full of laminated song sheets, unbothered by the attention.
After settling on “Oops!… I Did It Again,” Jake grabs me by the hand, a microphone clenched tightly in the other. The music cues and the lyrics pop up on the screen across from us. By the time the chorus begins, the liquid courage is pumping through my veins, and I grab the mic from his hand, gyrating as I do my best Britney choreography. From the corner of my eye, I see Jake doubling over, his arms wrapped around his stomach.
He’s panting beneath the hot lights as we hit the last note together, his chest rising and falling as the crowd explodes with applause. He’s never looked more beautiful to me than he does at this moment, and I can’t tear my eyes away from him as I study the brightness of his eyes and the way his cheeks have grown pink with excitement. He may not love everything about fame, but thejoy he derives from being onstage is undeniable. I wonder how much happier he’d be if he could do this every night, to just sing and entertain without all the pressures of being a celebrity.
I’m so lost in him that I fail to register the exploding flash of a camera in the crowd.
“THAT WAS QUITE Adebut you made this evening,” Jake observes as we stumble into the back of our waiting Uber. “It’s a shame you forgot to pack your red pleather jumpsuit, though.”
“Who said anything about it being my debut?” I retort, and Jake squeezes my hand while laughing softly.
“You hungry?”
“Starved. And I want McDonalds.”
“McDonalds?” He snorts. “Aren’t you a classically trained chef?”
“I contain multitudes, Jacob. And right now, my spirit demands a Quarter Pounder with Cheese.”
Jake asks the driver if he’d be willing to take us to a drive-thru, and fifteen minutes later, I’m clutching a grease-soaked paper bag.
“Happy?” Jake asks after the driver drops us off in front of his house.
