Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
ANDI
I’m not over-analyzing why Brandon is here, or why Luke looks like he wants to swing on him, or what Luke was about to say before Mitch stepped in and stole the moment as if he owned it. I’m not doing it.
Tonight is about the show.
Tonight is about getting in character, singing my song, and having fun with a bunch of people I like, and I am not going to ruin it by dragging last night’s mess into the middle of the stage.
I will not think about how seductive this song is or how my body is going to react to singing it to Luke in front of the entire club.
I will not. I will not.
And now that’s all I can think about.
Backstage is chaos wrapped in glitter and cables, the kind of chaos that makes your heart race too fast even when you’ve done this a hundred times.
People dart by with clipboards and headsets, the air smells like hairspray and spilled beer, and the curtain ropes creak with every movement onstage.
Luke doesn’t need the dressing room since he’s already wearing his “costume,” which is just all black, and that look he gets when he’s trying to act like nothing affects him, even though everything does.
He’s standing there with his arms folded like a bouncer who got dragged into the theater against his will, and I decide not to poke the bear until I absolutely have to.
Which, apparently, is now, because the only thing missing is the mask.
I hand it to him like it’s no big deal, like I didn’t just place a very specific kind of humiliation in his palm.
It’s a Lone Ranger-type mask, and I may have forgotten to mention that detail.
His expression goes flat as he stares down at it, then back up at me, and I can practically hear the gears grinding in his head as he decides how much he hates this.
“You want me to wear this,” he says, like it’s an accusation and a prayer all in one.
“Please?” I lean into innocence because I’m not above manipulation when the clock is ticking. “It’ll work. Trust me.”
He huffs, mutters something under his breath that I’m pretty sure would get him smacked by a Southern grandmother, then finally concedes with a look that says he’s filing this away for later.
“It’s perfect for our song,” I add quickly before he can change his mind. “Familiar Taste of Poison.”
That earns me another long stare, but he lifts the mask like he’s going to do it, and relief loosens the knot in my chest just enough for me to breathe.
His reluctant consent earns him a kiss on the cheek because I can’t help myself, and because I like seeing the crack in his armor even when I’m pretending I don’t.
“If I’d known you were going to do that,” he murmurs, his tone low and dangerous, “I would’ve turned my head and made you put it where it belongs.”
Heat crawls up my neck so fast it’s almost embarrassing. I tell him to behave, because if I don’t, I’ll forget I’m supposed to be mad at him, and then I’ll forget everything else after that.
“Give me one minute to change, and we’ll get set up,” I say, already moving, already trying to stay focused on the show instead of the way his voice makes my stomach flip.
Now, here’s where I should’ve told him the truth.
I should’ve been upfront about what I planned to wear, because springing it on him like a trap is the kind of thing that invites a blowup, and I don’t have time for a blowup.
But I don’t tell him, because the stage is waiting, and I’m not about to hand my nerves another weapon.
I change fast, tug Shane’s oversized button-down into place, check the mic over my ear, and take one steadying breath that tastes like adrenaline.
Then I open the door and casually say, “Come on, Luke,” like I’m not about to throw a match into gasoline.
He steps forward, and the air shifts the second his eyes drop. His gaze stops like it hit a wall, and before I can blink, his hand clamps around my arm, and he spins me so fast I nearly stumble.
“Where the hell are the rest of your clothes?” he growls, and the sound is so real it almost makes me laugh, except it doesn’t feel funny. It feels possessive. Territorial. Like he’s forgotten, for one split second, that we’re in public… and that we’re “just friends.”
“This is it,” I say, widening my eyes like I’m innocent and confused instead of fully aware. “This is my costume.”
The color climbs his neck and settles into his face, turning him a lovely shade of furious. His eyes narrow, jaw flexing like he’s biting back a dozen things he refuses to say out loud.
“The hell you say,” he snaps. “You are not going out there like this.”
“Yes, I am,” I insist, keeping my voice calm on purpose, because yelling will only delay us, and I can’t afford a delay. “It fits the scene, Luke.”
His stare goes darker. “Whose. Shirt. Is. That?” he asks, each word sharp enough to cut.
“Shane’s.” The answer visibly relieves him for half a second, like his brain approves the name, and then his eyes flick down again. “Why is it unbuttoned?” he demands, and I can practically feel the explosion building.
“It’s not unbuttoned,” I start, but his posture turns downright menacing. “Not all the way,” I clarify quickly. “The last two are buttoned.”
That does not help. Not even a little.
And then Mitch saves my life by calling out, “Andi, you need to be onstage now.”
I answer way too cheerfully, already moving away, already choosing the stage over the argument. “Okay!” I call back, then throw over my shoulder, “Luke, it’s time for you to get in position.”
Luke follows because he has to, because the current performer is finishing up, because the club is about to swallow us whole.
The curtain opens, the first notes hit the air, and the world shifts.
The club blurs into noise, heat, and shadows, and the stage becomes its own universe.
The mic sits snugly over my ear, so my hands are free, and my voice slides into the slow, ominous seduction the song demands as soon as I sing the first line.
“Familiar Taste of Poison.” It fits our relationship perfectly.
Love is the poison, the wine is the metaphor, and the lover is the temptation you know will ruin you, but you drink anyway because you want it.
Because you crave it. Because the destruction feels familiar enough to be comforting.
I lift the bottle and glass, moving to the edge of the stage as the verse unfolds, and behind me, Luke rises from the shadows in black, holding the sickle like a warning.
Death. The idea of him and the inevitability of him.
I don’t look at Luke fully yet because I don’t trust what will happen if I do, but I can feel him behind me, close enough that my skin registers his presence before my mind catches up.
I lower to the floor, place the empty bottle beside me, and when the chorus comes, I break the capsule and pour the powder into the glass, so the audience understands the story without me ever saying it out loud.
Poison. A choice. A slow surrender.
I drink, then stand and leave the bottle and glass on the floor well in front of me. That’s when Luke moves, stealthy and controlled, laying the sickle down and stepping in behind me like a shadow taking shape.
When I glance over my shoulder to sing the next line, he’s close.
Too close. And I can’t tell where the performance ends and Luke begins, because my body reacts like it doesn’t care which is which.
My movements mirror his like I’m caught on a string, and he guides without touching at first, circling, tempting, letting tension build in the space between us.
Then the chorus rises again, and his arm snakes around my waist. Because the shirt hangs loose, his hand finds skin, warm and steady and possessive.
The touch should be harmless, just choreography, but my pulse doesn’t get the memo.
He pulls me back against him, and my voice stays steady even as the rest of me threatens to unravel.
At the end of the chorus, he shifts to my side, and I turn to face him in profile to the audience, the music climbing, my voice cresting, and something in me reaches for him without permission.
We didn’t rehearse it this way, but my hand slides around the back of his neck anyway, our faces inches apart as I sing straight into his eyes like I’m confessing instead of performing.
His arms move down my back with that same steady surety, and the room seems to hold its breath as if it knows it’s witnessing something real. Then he lifts me, and my legs wrap around his waist by instinct, and the crowd’s reaction is a sound I barely register because I’m not in the club anymore.
I’m in him.
In this moment.
In the tug-of-war between us that has been building for months.
He carries me toward the bed, careful not to block the audience’s view, and lays me down as if I belong there.
Like I’m already his. I stretch out, fold my arms over my chest, becoming the stillness that follows surrender, and death stands over me.
Luke leans down and kisses me in a way that sells the story so completely my mind blanks, and when the music fades and the curtains close, the applause hits like thunder.
We take our bow when they open again, and I smile like I’m fine, like my heart isn’t trying to claw its way out of my ribs.
Backstage, I move fast. Not running, but close. My body is humming, and my thoughts are scattered, and I don’t trust myself to stop walking. I reach the dressing room and step inside, and I don’t turn around yet, because if I do, I might break.
Then I hear him behind me, and the door slams shut with a finality that makes my breath catch.
LUKE
If anyone had told me karaoke could be foreplay, I would’ve said they were full of it.
That was before tonight, before Andi stepped onto that stage wearing nothing but a man’s button-down and confidence like armor and sang that song as if she wasn’t performing at all.
She was summoning something she couldn’t say out loud.
We did not rehearse it the way it happened, not even close, and the second she wrapped herself around me onstage like it was the most natural thing in the world, I had to use every ounce of restraint I’ve ever had not to forget where we were and what we were doing.
I hated her outfit.
I loved her outfit.
I’m not proud of either of those truths, but I’m done pretending I don’t feel things when it comes to her.
She moves offstage like a freight train, cutting through the backstage crowd with purpose.
I don’t know if she’s trying to get away from me or be alone with me, but I know one thing for damn sure: I’m not letting her create distance tonight.
I’m not letting her crawl back behind that wall she builds when she’s hurt.
Not after the way she looked at me up there, not after the way her body trusted mine without asking permission of her pride.
She steps into the dressing room, and I follow, closing the door behind me with a hard finality that makes the air feel smaller.
Before she can turn around, I’m there. I spin her around, lift her off the floor, and pin her to the door.
When her legs wrap around my waist again, it feels like the night is rewriting itself, like everything we’ve been circling finally collides.
My mouth finds hers, and the kiss is hungry, furious, and desperate, with nothing to do with performance and everything to do with months of holding back.
I don’t even know who started it. I only know I can’t stop.
Then the world interrupts, as it always does.
A pounding on the door. A voice calling her name.
Andi drops her forehead to my shoulder like she wants to scream, frustration shaking through her, and she forces out a calm answer.
I press my mouth to her temple and murmur low, “We are not done,” because I need her to know that, because I need her to believe it.
She doesn’t argue. Her fingers curl into my shirt for a brief second, as if she agrees.
Then she slides down and fixes her clothes with shaking hands while I stand there watching her as if the sight alone might steady me.
It doesn’t.
When she reaches for the doorknob, I catch her hand and pull her back just enough that she has to look at me.
“Andi,” I say, and my voice isn’t playful now.
It’s raw. “I don’t want a one-night stand, and I don’t want friends with benefits.
I want you. I want to be with you, and only you.
I want to give us a real chance.” The words come out like a line I can’t take back, and I don’t want to.
If I hesitate again, I’m going to lose her. I can feel it.
Her expression softens in a way that makes me feel seen—really seen.
For once, she doesn't dodge, doesn't deflect, doesn't cover her heart with armor.
She just holds my gaze, a hint of hesitation, and then something steadier.
Her lips part as if the words are right there, but instead she breathes out slowly, then lets her hand find mine and squeezes, anchor-firm.
Whatever she was about to say lingers between us, unfinished but understood. In this quiet, I know—she's with me.
Then the door opens, and the moment snaps back into noise and movement, people spilling in, congratulating, and pulling us back into the crowd.
After Andi changes clothes, we make it to our friends, and I can feel the shift in her, the way she stays a fraction closer to me now, even while she’s pretending everything is normal.
Brandon’s eyes catch mine, sharp and satisfied, and he throws his little dig like he can’t help himself.
“You two sure are good friends, Luke.”
Andi tenses beside me, just slightly, because she’s remembering last night.
So I make it plain.
“Yeah,” I say evenly, “I couldn’t ask for a better friend than Andi.” Her head snaps toward me, disbelief flashing across her face as if she’s bracing for the sting again, and then I finish it before she can flinch. “I couldn’t ask for a better girlfriend, either.”
The tension in her shoulders eases like a held breath finally released, and her smile is so bright it knocks the wind out of me. Brandon leans over, in a low voice, and says, “Best decision you’ve ever made, little brother,” and for once, I don’t fight him on it. He’s right.