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Amari leaned in to Ivy and whispered angrily, “What the fuck are you doing? I don’t know any Christmas songs.”
“It’s Karaoke. Do what you always do. Just read the lines. And try not to change the words.”
“Then you’re doing it with me,” Amari said, pulling Ivy along with her onto the small stage in the corner of the bar. Over at the booth, Nick kept thinking:What the hell! What the hell!when suddenly the now-drunk Ivy pulled him on stage.
“How about our favorite, Nick?” Ivy smiled. She pressed a button, and the Beach Boys’ iconic “Little Saint Nick” began to play. Someone tossed a Santa hat onstage, which found its way onto Nick’s head.
Amari started it off, following the words, but the more she sang the more Ivy realized—Amari couldn’t hit the notes. Ivy had heard about performers using devices to keep pitch. But now Amari was exposed—and off-key. She danced seductively around Nick. Wiggling and twerking.Who twerks during a Christmas song?
Ivy jumped into the second verse, and she crushed it. All those years in the church choir had paid off. The crowd cheered as Ivy wrapped Nick’s arms around her. Amari then started a sing-along as she jumped into the crowd and body-surfed her way across the room, winning over the crowd. The song ended. Amari returned to the stage. She glared and winked at Ivy. Amari had won the first round.
Two more shots were handed to them. Amari was thinking she had survived and raised Nick’s hand in triumph when a new song started. The memorable opening chords to Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.” The bar crowd was enraptured. Ivy took the mic and sang it like an angel. Her voice was perfect. Amari took the second verse, did an okay job; they both broke into the chorus together. Amari masked her lack of talent under the music and Ivy’s voice. Amari closed her eyes, acting as if the spirit was moving her. The music suddenly cut out. Ivy stopped singing. Amari did not. Her voice broke, missed the high C. The applause turned into confused stares as the crew heard the real Amari sing.
Bruce jumped in. “All right, let’s hear it for our star and our screenwriter!” The crowd cheered.
Amari glared at Ivy. A death glare. “You embarrassed me. You did that on purpose.”
Ivy wasn’t going to back down, even with the crowd now watching. “Oh, really. You think I set you up, got you drunk, conned you into Christmas Karaoke, and made the music stop to expose your sorry-ass voice?”
“You are the writer.”
“I am,” Ivy said proudly, toasting Amari with a shot. “And I think your scene is over.”
Amari stormed off the stage.
Rory jumped up, microphone in hand, wanting to talk to Ivy, but Griffin got in her way. “Not now, Rory.”
Nick sprang into action. He took Ivy’s hand. “Where are we going, Nick?” she said into the mic. Nick took it away from her.
“I’m getting you out of here.”
He took Ivy out the back door. Ivy was emotionally exhausted and quite inebriated. She slowly walked with him. Nick knew there wasn’t time. He had to get Ivy away from anyone with a video camera. Nick picked her up in his arms and carried her to his truck. He placed her in the passenger seat and buckled her in. Ivy’s fingers stroked Nick’s hair.
“Why did I do, Nick. Why did I do?” she slurred.
“It’s going to be okay,” Nick said, looking into her eyes, trying to comfort her. “Relax. Breathe. You’re just a hot mess right now.”
Ivy smiled in her drunken haze. “You think I’m hot? You still think I’m hot!” That was the last thing she remembered as she fell asleep.
