Karaoke Chemistry: A Witchy Small Town Romcom (Sacred River Book 2)

21. Riggs

IPUT MY name down, then whisper my song selection to Carol instead of writing it down. When Seven takes the pen from me and sees the blank space, she chuckles. “Afraid of some competition, Riggs?”

I hold my hands up. “Not at all. Just trying to keep you on your toes.”

Carol looks back and forth between the two of us. “I’ve got a better idea.”

We look at each other, then back to Carol. “Hit us.”

With a glint in her eye, and no small amount of pleasure, she says, “Let me pick your songs. We’ll have a little contest. See who the crowd likes.”

“Done.” The word is out of Seven’s mouth so fast that I don’t have a second to consider.

“Hang on,” I start.

“Nope. Done,” Seven repeats, then turns to me, her eyes sparkling. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to.”

“I just want to be sure that Carol is fair.” It’s a weak protest, and I know I’m beaten by the way they turn to me as one and cross their arms. “Okay, okay,” I give in. “Winner gets to pick their victory song.”

“And picks the loser’s songs for a month,” Carol adds.

I whistle. “Damn, Carol. That’s brutal.”

Carol takes the high-five Seven gives her. “Not like either of you can’t sing whatever you want. The both of you are ridiculous. Now shoo. I’m gonna get this thing going.” She grabs a mic and flips the lights on, turning the corner into its own little disco party. “Okay, Al’s, who’s ready to sing?” The crowd claps, and she turns on Kelly Clarkson’s Since You Been Gone.

“The real ridiculous person is Carol,” I note as we head to the bar.

Seven hums in agreement. “Buy me a drink, handsome?”

“With pleasure.” We get our standard — a beer for me, a whiskey neat with water on the side for her — and settle in for the night.

After three songs that weren’t bad but weren’t great, Seven leans against me the way she did at her house. “I can’t believe we’re here. Like this.”

I take her in. The thick, wavy blonde hair that I now know she unbraids and brushes out to make it look that way. The bit of makeup that manages to make her look so vastly different from the high school chemistry teacher I looked at just a few hours ago. The streak of silver in her hair that we haven’t talked about, that I know showed up the same night we traded I love yous. I lean down and coast my lips over hers, tasting the whiskey. “I can.”

Her eyes search mine, looking for something. And I don’t know if she finds it, because Carol is calling our names up and breaking down the rules for the crowd.

“You ready to eat my dust?” Seven puts her drink down and saunters to the stage.

I tug her back to me, putting my mouth at her ear. “Ready to eat something,” I growl.

She cackles, then pirouettes away from me once more. When we get to Carol, she asks who’s going first. “Me.” Seven holds her hand out for the mic.

Carol hits play, and as the unmistakable sounds of the BeeGee’s “Stayin’ Alive” come out of the speakers, the smile that crosses Seven’s face is absolutely feral. The crowd hollers, and Seven glides onto the riser, dropping into the seventies groove in two seconds flat. My glorious, witchy woman utterly slays it.

She sings the lyrics in a perfect falsetto, her eyes shining as the bar sings along with her. She grabs a woman to get up and do some of John Travolta’s classic moves from the movie, and more join her. Everyone is dancing and singing, and Seven’s got the whole place helping with the chorus so she can take the runs that Barry Gibb kills on the track, and the energy in the air is absolutely electric. By the time the song’s over, I figure I’m beat.

Before the crowd’s enthusiasm wanes, Carol goes straight to my song, Maroon 5’s “Moves Like Jagger.”

Seven’s eyes narrow as she smiles and hands over the mic as I step up. The temptation to rip off my shirt is legitimately—and concerningly—strong, but I ignore it and start singing. The lyrics kick in quickly, and I know, without question, what Carol’s going to do next.

And honestly? God bless her.

I start singing, hamming it up for the crowd. The full bar is watching now, so I give them…well, the moves like Jagger, and sing as much.

I keep going as Carol gestures for Seven off to the side, then slips her the other mic. I turn to Seven and curl my finger in a come hither move, and she slinks up next to me just in time for Christina Aguilera’s portion. She sings right to me, crooning that I have to keep her secret if she shares it, and the words hit me entirely differently than ever before. She sounds almost exactly like Christina, the chameleon that she is, and she kills it.

I step close, running my hand over her waist before my part comes up, and then we duet, dancing and singing with each other. I’ve never been happier, and as we take the song to its conclusion, all I can think is how much I love her.

The song ends, but Carol isn’t done. She nods at Seven and hits the next song.

I laugh and keep the mic. This is Seven’s song, but it’s possible that I have more lyrics than she does. I’m Wyclef Jean, and Seven is Shakira, because “Hips Don’t Lie” swings into gear.

Seven’s eyes go wide, beads of sweat starting to form on her forehead, and I lean into her. “You got this?”

She scoffs. “Hope you know Spanish.”

“I know the Spanish in this song,” I shoot back. Sort of. I’m going to mangle the shit out of it, and hopefully that won’t count against me. I step up and start the rap, not caring that I have to look at the screen to make sure I’ve got the lyrics right.

Seven laughs into her mic, and during a break in the lyrics, asks the crowd if I should be dinged for having to rely on the screen.

Yeah, I don’t care. I’ll do whatever this woman wants. Especially as she starts to dance like fucking Shakira.

I. Am. Dead.

I can’t decide whether Carol’s a genius or if she’s simply been waiting to spring this back-and-forth on us for a year. Probably both.

I swing up for a half-English, half-Spanish portion, singing about her dancing and what it makes me want to do.

And there’s Seven, singing at me to read the signs of her body and for us to go slow.

Yeah, that might be a problem. She’s swinging her hips side to side, singing in fucking Spanish like a champion, her blonde hair swinging across her body, strands of hair sticking to her face as she sweats, and all I can think is how I want that body sweaty above me.

I completely mangle the last portion of the song, and I don’t give a shit. All I want to do is take Seven outside and lick her.

Carol isn’t done. She puts Nelly’s “Hot in Herre” on next, and a laugh gusts out of me as I put my hands on my knees. Still bent over, I put the mic up to my mouth. “Really, Carol?”

Seven chuckles into the mic. “Let’s go, big boy. Nelly’s calling.”

Carol waves a bottle of water at me with the biggest smile I have ever seen, so I straighten and start singing as the lyrics kick in. “Want a little bit ah…and a little bit ah…” I grab the bottle, chug half of it, and swing around to point it at Seven, who knows good and damn well she’s got a part to sing in this song. Here we go. Thank god for down time in the Marines. “I was like, good gracious…” and I’m off like a shot.

When it’s Seven’s time, she coos at me about wanting to take her clothes off while shaking that gorgeous ass at me. I’m losing my breath, and it’s all her fault. I have to look at the screen for the last main push, because I have totally forgotten this song in the face of Seven writhing in front of me.

And damn if she doesn’t take over, spitting the last section like a pro, and my jaw drops.

So what do I do? Obviously I sing the chorus again, hitting my own falsetto and crooning about taking my clothes off.

The crowd has lost its mind at this point, and Seven and I are grinning like fools. When the song finally ends, I’m certain we’re done.

We. Are. Not. Done.

Carol moves to the next one, and it’s “Hollaback Girl” by Gwen Stefani. Seven wilts for half a second, and all I can think is thank fuck. I get a break.

Like the clear champion she is, Seven morphs right into Gwen, her spine straightening while she sways back and stomps her feet, waving her arms to get the crowd to go with her. She sings into the mic and gives me a glance, and I confirm. I know what she wants without her asking, and I will be this woman’s back-up singer until the end of time.

She lets us all know she’s not a hollaback girl, and I pull my mic up to sing along with the crowd: “Ooh, this my shit, this my shit.” When it’s time to spell bananas, we even get Carol and the bartender going with us.

Carol finally takes pity on us when the song ends, stepping onto the small stage with more water for the two of us and addressing the crowd. “Okay, folks, time to choose our winner!”

Surprising no one, Seven takes it. She giggles and squeals, jumping into my arms and giving me a kiss in front of everyone. And as she presses into me, I don’t care about the loss. I’m too busy enjoying the press of her body against mine.