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 likegive 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.”
