22. Karaoke Boss
KARAOKE BOSS
SAWYER
The crowd is amped up as I sing about a city boy who was born and raised in South Detroit who’s now taking a midnight train. Like they do nearly every Thursday, the crowd cheers, some of them singing along too, beer sloshing over cups, fists raised in the air in rocker salutes.
It’s infectious, their enthusiasm. It emboldens me as I prowl across the stage, microphone in hand, letting go, letting loose, doing one of my favorite things.
When we reach the part about strangers waiting in the night, I can feel the weight of the day sliding off my shoulders—the worries about the shoot and the business and pleasing everyone, including the bottom line, just slink away.
Here, with the microphone and the crowd, I’m no longer Mister Responsible.
I’m just a guy who likes to blow off steam with a little bit of rock ’n’ roll.
I’m Sam Silversmith. A man who likes to rock out with strangers.
Some women in the front—who come every week—are dancing. They wear T-shirts and short skirts, and it’s their girls’ night out. Nurses, I’ve learned from Duke, the guy who owns the place. A couple of older dudes are always here too, looking like they just got off work from a construction job.
As the beat pounds through me, I reach the chorus and the famous words that everyone loves to sing along to. As I hit those title words, I hold the mic out to the audience so they can sing along with me too—and they do. Holy hell, do they.
I’m nodding, swaying my hips, enjoying the moment with fifty to one hundred people I don’t know when…
My gaze snaps to a redhead moving through the crowd.
She’s wearing jeans and that pretty blue top that slopes off her shoulder. Her hair falls in soft, loose waves. Her hazel eyes are locked in on me, and she looks like she’s just unearthed buried treasure.
For a moment, I stumble over the next words. But I’ve got to get my shit together—because I have an audience that suddenly includes Chloe in the front row. Arms crossed. Smile smug. Eyes absolutely dancing with utter glee.
And fuck—my secret is out. All I can think, as I hit the next words, is that if she’s here, the whole team is probably behind her, and the “Where should we have drinks?” convo ended with Pour Decisions.
Talk about a poor decision on my part.
But if I’ve learned anything in my ten years performing karaoke in off-the-beaten-path dive bars, it’s this: try to stay off the beaten path, and the show must go on.
So with Chloe here, shimmying her shoulders and wearing a cat-ate-the-canary smile, I go full Steve Perry, and I sing my music-loving heart out until the final note of the famous song.
“Thank you. It’s good to be back,” I say to the audience, avoiding her—absolutely avoiding eye contact.
“Do the one!” a woman shouts.
“The one? You sure about that?” I ask.
“So sure,” she shouts back.
I hum doubtfully. “I need to know you’re really sure.”
A new voice pops up. Chloe’s, as she says, “Positive. Do the one. Do it, do it.”
She’s egging me on. She doesn’t even know what tune the one refers to. But she doesn’t care. She’s here to play with her food. But no one else has come in from work, which leaves me wondering if she came just for me. And how did she know?
Duke is already queuing up the next tune, and I go for it, launching into the classic karaoke number about Tommy working on the docks. And as I sing the Bon Jovi crowd-pleaser, Chloe looks more pleased than she does after she comes—and that’s saying something.
I stop thinking about why she’s here, or that she’s clearly a cat playing with a mouse and enjoying every second of busting me, or the potential fallout from her learning my secret.
I’m just a guy giving the crowd what they want—five or six songs they know by heart.
Sung well. I roll through Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come,” making sure I don’t look too hard at Chloe during that tune, since we were smashing mouths the last time it played in my car.
Then I take a turn with “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and close out with a changeup: “I’ve Got a Crush on You. ”
With this one I go a little lounge singer, a little crooner, and I’m not gonna lie—the ladies go wild. It’s so fucking satisfying. But the clock is ticking, and I know the second I step off the stage, I’m going to have to answer for my jeans, my name, and my alter ego.
When I finish, I say, “And now it’s your turn. Thanks again.”
Duke bounds back up to the stage, taking the mic and saying, “Give it up for the one, the only, Sam Silversmith.”
The crowd cheers and claps, and I wave as I head offstage while Duke invites audience members to step right up and pick their tunes. A woman in the front row who comes every week eagerly waves her arm, probably ready to belt out her favorite anthem, “Love is a Battlefield.”
I make my way to the bar, saying hi and thanks to a few people on the way.
“That was great,” a woman with a tight perm says.
“Thank you,” I reply, still amazed anyone comes to these shows—it is karaoke, after all, not a performance people come to just for me—but grateful nonetheless. I try to keep my interactions friendly and brief—I’d rather blend in and disappear at the end of the night, returning to my regular life.
Trouble is, my regular life’s caught up with me, and as I get closer to the bar, I count in my head. Three, two, one…
And there’s my regular life tapping on my shoulder.
“I believe you left this at work,” she says, waggling my phone.
Ah. That’s the answer to why she’s here.
I don’t listen to music before I perform or even podcasts.
They distract me. I didn’t realize I’d forgotten it till I got to Duck Falls.
Once I realized I’d forgotten it, I’d already arrived.
I’d planned to swing by Dog Tails later to grab it.
But she brought it to me, and I like her thoughtfulness far too much.
Even though it’s exposed me.
“Thanks. Appreciate it,” I say, taking my phone and doing my best to keep my cool, then nod to the shelves of liquor. “Can I buy you a drink?”
I’m aiming for normal right now as I whip off the shades.
Her smile never leaves. It only grows more pleased as she parks her sweet ass on a stool. “You bet you can buy me a drink…Sam Silversmith.” She lets my stage name roll around on her tongue, and fuck, I like that too.
“That’s me,” I say, owning it, since what else can I do?
Her smirk grows smirkier. “And I guess your hot date…is with a microphone?”
“Yeah. Yes, it is,” I say.
She shakes her head like she can’t believe her luck. “Well, well, well. Looks like I discovered the secret of the karaoke boss.”
I cringe at those words. “Is that what you’re going to call me?” I really don’t want her to tell anyone at work. It’s bad enough that she knows my secret.
Her smile vanishes. “Oh, you don’t want me to say a word?” She sounds sweetly naive, but she damn well knows the answer.
“Shockingly, I don’t.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul,” she says, then taps her chin. “In exchange for a favor, to be determined.”
I lift two fingers and ask for a scotch, then turn to her. “And what’ll it be for you, Miss Blackmail?”
“A Coca-Cola, with a cherry,” she says, “and the full story.”
How does this woman always get my secrets out of me? From the smartwatch debacle to my secret life—it’s Chloe’s superpower.
After the bartender slides our drinks over, I lift my glass toward her, a reluctant admission. I’ve got to hand it to Chloe. She doesn’t back down.
She lifts her glass. “Oh, I’ll toast all right,” she says, nodding toward my drink. “To your tab.”
“Like I’d expect anything less from you than insisting I pay.”
“But I’d pay for this story,” she says. To her credit, she’s on point. She hasn’t once relented in her eager beaver-ness to extract the tale.
I clink glasses with her, half wishing this confrontation weren’t happening, half glad it’s her that found me out. “To my tab,” I say, but then I stage-whisper, “Truth be told, it’s all on the house.”
“But that’s not the secret I want, Sam,” she says in a flirty tone.
So damn flirty. Like my stage name tastes good on her tongue.
I try not to stare at her glossy lips, but it’s impossible as she takes a sip of her soda like she’s celebrating.
I knock back some scotch. It burns going down, but it makes me feel alive.
I set the glass on the beer-soaked wooden counter, marred by scratches from the years.
She sets her glass there too, seemingly no worse for the wear, then makes a beckoning gesture with her fingers. “Serve it up. Your story.”
“This needs to stay between you and me,” I warn, since I do not want the staff to know a single detail.
She shoots me a look like give me a break. “I believe I’ve already demonstrated my ability to keep secrets. Now, make it worth my while.”
She drives a hard bargain, but she’s holding the cards. I let out a long sigh. “I sing.”
The eye roll that comes my way is nothing short of record-breaking. “Come on. I want more.”
I smirk, adding one more detail. “I sing onstage.”
“Sawyer Dumont,” she says, her tone making it clear I am not upholding my promise to tell the story.
“Fine, fine. I like music, I like rock ’n’ roll. Several years ago, my sisters dragged me out for a karaoke night for Rachel’s birthday. I resisted—I’m not big on performing in front of people I know.”
“You don’t say,” she replies dryly.
“Smart-ass.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Do you want the story or not?”
“Oh, I want it. Badly.”
I lean a little closer because with Chloe, I have never been able to resist flirting. I drop my voice and say, “Then be a good girl.”
She looks down coyly, then back up at me with a purse of her lips. “If I must,” she says, petulant and sexy all at once.