Page 83 of Unmanageable

“It’s a classic, Sharky.”

Ten minutes later, the bartender calls out over the small house speakers. “Alright, we got Cash and Scottie coming up next. Let’s see what they got.”

The three old guys at the bar don’t even turn around, unbothered by our existence, which makes the whole thing even better. I stand up, grabbing Scottie by the hand and pulling her up from her stool.

I hand her the microphone with the blue tape around the handle. She takes it, a sudden flash of genuine nerves crossing her face before she covers it with a wide, reckless grin.

“Just follow my lead,” I say.

The intro music starts—the unmistakable, synth-heavy bounce of Ain’t No Mountain High Enough.

I take the first verse. I don’t look at the screen; I know the words, and honestly, I spent three years in college singing in the locker room showers to annoy the defensemen.

“Listen, baby… ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low…”

Scottie’s jaw drops. She stares at me, her microphone lowering slightly from her mouth as her eyes go wide. Then, the monitor flashes yellow for her line.

“If you need me, call me…”

The sound that comes out of Scottie’s mouth is spectacular. It is loud, flat, and entirely missing the key by about three full octaves.

One of the old guys at the bar actually stops his glass halfway to his mouth, turning around to stare at us with a look of profound confusion.

I burst out laughing, almost missing my next cue.

I slide closer to her on the tiny stage, our shoulders touching, the smell of her perfume still hanging on her jacket.

“No wind, no rain…” I serenade her, leaning down until my face is just inches from hers, my eyes locked onto her green ones.

Scottie doesn’t back away. She steps right into my space, her red hair bouncing as she takes the next line, intentionally screeching the high note until the microphone feedbacks slightly.

She is so proud of how awful it is, her face bright.

By the time the chorus hits, we’re both singing terribly on purpose, destroying the song while laughing so hard we can barely gasp for air.

“Ain’t no mountain high enough!!” we scream together into the microphones, our voices out of sync, a chaotic mess of laughter and bad pitch.

The song fades out with a cheesy synthetic drum roll, and the three guys at the bar give us a slow, pitying round of applause. The bartender just shakes his head, wiping a glass with his towel.

“Thank you, Atlanta!” Scottie yells into the mic, dropping a dramatic, theatrical curtsy before dropping the microphone onto the stool.

We scramble off the stage, practically tripping over each other as we head back to our table, both of us breathless and red-faced. Scottie slaps her hand down on the wood, taking a giant gulp of her beer to clear her throat.

“I told you,” she pants. “I told you I was a hazard to music.”

“That was amazing,” I say. “The high note on the chorus was particularly moving. I think the guy at the bar is going to write a review.”

“He was terrified, Cash. I saw his soul leave his body.” She sets her glass down. “Where did you learn to sing like that, anyway? You set me up.”

“Locker room dynamics,” I say. “You have to have a go-to track when you’re managing the team speaker. Otherwise, the rookies take over and it’s all techno. It’s a survival tactic. Unlike your scouting tactics. I mean, Vance? Really? I’m still recovering from that blow to my ego.”

Scottie rolls her eyes, but she leans her chin on her hand, a lazy smile playing on her lips. “Okay, well, he was hot until he opened his mouth. The moment the live sports commentary started, the fantasy died, I promise. And anyway, you’re just jealous.”

“Yeah, I am.”

There’s a short, quiet beat between us.

Scottie blinks, her cheeks taking on a different kind of flush this time, her eyes dropping to my mouth for a split second before coming back up.