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Replete and warm, we sit around waiting for the entertainment. Once the band sets up, we’ll move to the front room and grab some stools at one of the cocktail tables.
“Do you want to sing with me?”
Micki turns, eyes sparkling, and my body fizzes like I’ve just downed an entire bottle of vintage champagne.
“What do you have in mind?”
Several French titles run through my mind, but in the end I say, “How about ‘You’re the One That I Want’?” I waggle my eyebrows suggestively.
She crosses her hands over her heart, and wiggles like she’s restraining herself from jumping up to dance. “Oooh, John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John.”
Max smirks while Cress’ jaw drops, eyes wide and staring.
Finally, she gives a little mouse squeak. “Are you singing, Max?”
Lines crinkle around his eyes. “‘Annie Laurie,’ I thought.”
We gaze, astonished.
“What? Cress wants me to vary my repertoire.”
“Not so appropriate for karaoke,” I tell him.
“Why not? I’ve seen people win with opera arias.” His jaw hardens.
“'Annie Laurie” isn’t ‘Nessun Dorma.’ It’s too lachrymose. People want something upbeat.” Cress’ dryly, acerbic observation makes Max wince.
He glares at her and rubs the back of his neck. Then, in a kind of metamorphosis, his eyes twinkle with a new idea. He starts to make another suggestion, but Cress puts a palm against his lips.
“Not the Proclaimers. Or ‘Scotland the Brave.’”
Max scowls and she slaps his arm.
Eyes squinched to show she’s thinking hard, she pauses, then mimes a lightbulb going on. With a mischievous look in her eye, she makes another suggestion. “How about ‘Chelsea Dagger’? The Fratellis are Scottish.”
“And it’s the Blackhawks goal song,” Micki adds. “Double points. You can sing it together, Cress.”
Once he gets over the outrageousness of the suggestion, Max gazes at her like a dog begging for a piece of bacon. “Please sing with me,” he murmurs.
“Yeah, okay, if they have the words for us.”
Micki’s long nails click on the screen of her phone. “Got it,” she says, waving the instrument in Cress’ face. “Just take this up with you. I bet everyone here will sing along.”
Cress puts her hand out, palm up and Micki gives her the instrument.
With her hands free, I lean forward and slip Micki’s hands between mine to capture her attention. My voice sounds like gravel when I tell her, “We need to talk.”
Her eyes glaze into icy pools. “What about?” She removes her hand from mine with a grimace, scoots back on the banquette, and crosses her arms.
“You need protection for when Sam’s released on bond.”
“He’s not that dangerous,” she scoffs.
I huff, “He seemed plenty dangerous tonight.”
“Small rocks, name-calling, and a not-very-successful fight.” She waves her hands as if shooing something away. “He didn’t bring a gun.”
I point to my nose, glaring. “He might next time. Let me arrange some coverage for you.”
