Chapter 15 Jack #2
I’m surprised when my name is called again, but Arjun has signed the pair of us up for a duet, and apparently I’m taking Kiki Dee’s part on “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.
” I do my best, but when Arjun’s enthusiasm leads to him singing both parts and attempting some interesting harmonies, I’m laughing too hard to concentrate on hitting the notes. I wonder why it feels better that way.
Eventually, the guy with the clipboard shouts Cynthie’s name. Hannah’s head snaps up.
“Cyn…” she says as her friend gets to her feet. “What are you singing?”
That wild look is back, and Cynthie says nothing.
Apparently this means something to Hannah, because her eyes widen in alarm. “No,” she shakes her head vehemently. “Cyn, you promised after last time…”
“Don’t worry about it,” Cynthie murmurs, sliding around the table and heading for the stage to raucous applause from the crowd.
“Oh, shit.” Hannah’s head sinks into her hands.
“What’s going on?” Patty asks, frowning in confusion.
“It’s a Code Black Velvet,” Hannah whispers, as if that means anything. “Just… brace yourselves.”
I’m as baffled by this as the others around the table, but we all turn to watch as Cynthie moves to the center of the stage and picks up the microphone.
A moment later the air fills with the sultry twang of a guitar, a pulse of bass, the soft crash of a snare, and Cynthie sends Hannah a wink, before she starts moving in time to the beat, her hips swaying in a hypnotic, sinuous motion.
Something electric moves through the room. There’s a collective intake of breath, even before she opens her mouth and starts to sing about Mississippi in the middle of a heat wave.
Her voice.
I was so unprepared for her voice. It’s dark, husky magic. It sounds like the title of the song she sings—soft, seductive, just a little rough. The entire room is spellbound, and something alarming is happening inside me. I wonder, dimly, what total organ failure feels like.
A whoop from the crowd breaks the spell, and the temperature spikes, the room suddenly ten degrees hotter.
“Whoa,” Scott murmurs, his eyes like saucers, but this time I don’t think it’s drugs; this time it’s all Cynthie.
“Oh my God,” Patty croaks. “This is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“I am having some very confusing feelings.” Liam is breathless.
I can’t say anything. Nothing at all.
“She promised she wouldn’t do this song anymore.” Hannah’s voice is muffled, her head still in her hands. “Last time she caused an actual riot.”
The news doesn’t surprise me. As the music continues, it’s like someone is pumping waves of pheromones straight into the air.
Arjun and Patty have shifted closer together, their gazes locked, and they’re not the only ones—one of the camera operators is enthusiastically making out with one of the runners in a dark corner.
Someone actually howls like a wolf. I know I’ve heard this song before, but has it always been so… fucking hot?
Cynthie’s eyes meet mine, and I’m glad we’ve called a truce because I can’t summon the energy to sneer.
I just look and look, as her voice wraps around me.
I watch her red lips move and imagine them leaving their mark all over my body.
Whatever she sees in my face makes her voice just that tiny bit huskier, and I have to put my beer glass down so that it doesn’t shatter between my fingers.
She finishes singing and the backing track ends. There’s a second of pure, crystal silence before the whole room is on its feet, stamping and whistling and calling for an encore.
Cynthie doesn’t break eye contact with me. For an endless, hungry beat we stare at each other, and it’s like everything else falls away. The sound of the crowd is a dull roar under the pulsing of my own blood in my ears.
Eventually, Cynthie seems to snap out of it, shaking her head and grinning at her audience. She murmurs her thanks into the microphone and steps down from the stage, chatting for a moment with the young guy who is visibly enthusing over her performance.
I turn back to the table and find five pairs of eyes trained on me.
“Well. That was… interesting,” Arjun says.
I want to take a swig of my drink, but I can’t be sure that my hand is steady, so I clench it in my lap instead.
“What?” I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m not pulling it off. I sound whatever the opposite of nonchalant is: really-fucking-chalant.
“How we all just watched you and Cynthie eye-bang each other across the room?” Patty says like it’s a question. “You don’t think that’s interesting?”
I can’t cope with this. I already feel like my brain has been put through a blender. I am painfully aroused in the middle of a room full of my coworkers. I’m not up to fielding questions about what just happened when I don’t know what just happened.
Fortunately, Cynthie arrives back at the table then, and the attention shifts to her.
“What?” she asks, looking puzzled. Her eyes flick to mine.
I clear my throat. “Arjun was just saying he’s getting the next round in.” I look at my friend, who takes pity on me, leaping to his feet.
“Yup,” he says quickly. “What are we all having?”
As everyone shouts out their drinks orders, I avoid looking at Cynthie and wait for the conversation to settle back into its normal rhythm.
I tell myself I’m fine.
I tell myself nothing happened.
I tell myself I’m in control.
I lie. I lie. I lie.