"Why are we here?" I asked.
"I promise you'll love it," she shouted excitedly over the street noise.
"I don't think so."
"Why are you so certain if you've never done this before?"
When she glanced at me over her shoulder, that grin on her face said everything. She was drunk and radiant and completely impossible, and although I was about to walk into a sealed room with one exit while Valmont's people were still looking for us, I couldn't refuse her. Maybe because I wanted to try all these things she'd calledfunonce. And I wanted to try them with her.
"Okay, next up," she announced, selecting another song. "Whitney Houston. Classic."
She was gloriously, catastrophically off-key. Her voice cracked on the high notes, she missed entire verses, and she didn't seem to care one bit. She swayed across the small room like she was performing at Madison Square Garden, throwing her arms wide, completely lost in the moment.
I watched from the couch, my jaw tight, trying not to think about how vulnerable she was in this moment. How exposed. And how much I wanted to be closer to her.
When the song ended, she turned to me, breathless and flushed. "Your turn."
"No."
"Come on." She scrolled through the menu, shouting drunkenly, "Pick something. Anything."
"I'm not singing."
"Why not?" She pouted, already queuing up another song for herself. "Don't you want to feel alive?"
I was plenty alive. Too alive. Especially when she called the waitress for her fourth drink tonight.
She sang three more songs—mangling someone named Ariana Grande, attempting an off-key rendition of a song titled "Blinding Lights," and somehow making Taylor Swift (I've heard of that one) sound like a cat being strangled. Each time she finished a song, she'd look at me expectantly, offering me the microphone like it was a peace offering.
Each time I refused.
By the time we'd been in that room for thirty minutes, I'd already messaged Viper to clean the security feeds from the diner and any other surrounding businesses that might have caught us.
When Kimmy was butchering a rock anthem from the nineties, Viper messaged back.
Feeds are clean. Working on your current location as we speak.
PS Mr. 'I don't do attachments' is now apparently doing karaoke. Who are you and what have you done with Operative Seven?
I debated between afuck youand ago fuck yourself, when Kimmy screamed into the microphone so loud, I almost fell off the couch.
I looked up. She was flushed from the alcohol but her movements grew slower, less coordinated.
She swayed slightly as she belted out the final chorus, nearly missing a step.
That was enough.
I stood and crossed the room, reaching for the microphone. "That's it. You're done."
"Nooooo," she whined, pulling it away from me. "One more song. Just one more."
"You can barely stand."
"I can totally stand." She demonstrated by taking a step that was more of a stumble, then caught herself on my chest. "See? Standing. Nailing it."
"You're slurring."
"I'm not slurring. You're slurring." She giggled at her own joke, the sound loose and unguarded. "Besides, the night is young and so am I."
