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This appears to appease her as she hands me back the papers. I prop them against the music stand attached to the back of my keyboard and await her cue to start playing.
Hannah nods in my direction and my fingers begin to tickle the plastic ivory-colored keys, my hands gliding over the black and ivory with as much finesse as one would expect after six months of not playing at all.
The moment Hannah starts to sing, the hair on my arms stands to attention, her voice slipping up my neck in a way thatsends shivers down my spine. I’ve heard her sing before, but never like this—never with her actually trying. I wouldn’t consider singing along to Lady Gaga in the car to be trying, nor do I remember much from her forcing performances on us when she was little. This is different.
Thisis incredible.
I find myself wondering if her mom is aware of how talented her daughter is, or if she refuses to have faith in her abilities despite them being irrefutable.
As she embarks on what I assume to be the hard part of the song, she navigates it with grace. Hannah reaches for the highest note in the song, her finger pointing upward as she urges herself forward. She doesn’t appear strained, so the moment the song comes to an end and Hannah tosses her sheet music in frustration, I find myself puzzled.
“What’s wrong?”
“I messed up,” she huffs, picking the papers back up off the couch and inspecting them for damage.
“I thought it sounded great,” I say as I reach for her hand now holding the papers. “Hannah, you’re insanely talented.”
She allows my hand to linger for a moment before her eyes meet mine, a level of vulnerability in her gaze that I haven’t seen in a long time.
“I’m serious, Hannah, you’re amazing.”
“Not amazing enough to book a job,” Hannah says. She pulls her hand from mine, but she doesn’t walk away.
“It’ll happen, it just hasn’t been the right job.”
The room grows quiet—too quiet. Yet, it’s not uncomfortable; it’s a content kind of silence.
“Thank you.” Hannah’s faint voice lingers in the air, the whisper barely leaving her lips.
I wrap her up in my embrace and instinctively take note of her rhythmic breathing as she rests against me. I am sure of one thing.
I’m completely fucked.
TWENTY-SIX
LIAM
The moment my ass meets the leather seats in the back of our Uber to head to the next bar, I realize for the first time since we embarked on this bizarre bachelor party evening that I might actually be drunk.
Jackson asked not to go to a strip club, and while I get it, also…what the hell, man? Not everyone here is about to get married. Even married guys like strip clubs—you don’t have to touch in order to watch.
Whatever. I lost that fight to Wes and Jackson pretty quickly.
As we pull up in front of Enigma, I can’t resist letting out a groan.
The entrance to Enigma resembles an old vintage movie theater, which I think it actually might be. A glowing marquee comes into view, reading something about their nightly drink specials, but as we enter the club, it shifts from bright city lights to complete darkness. Strobe lights of varying speeds give us a faint view of the rest of the crowd.
A U-shaped bar sits in the middle of the room and flows back into the dance floor, which is flush with the edge of a stage. The DJ is set up center stage toward the front with a few girls lined up down the stairs to stage left, waiting to put in their requested song for the night.
Bumping music matches up perfectly with the light intervals, making it nearly impossible to ascertain faces amongst the crowd. However, I spot the unmistakable head of shoulder-length bright blonde hair facing away from me and know instantly who she is.
“Wes…what did you do?” I don’t dare pry my eyes from Hannah for fear that she might disappear into the crowd.
“What do you mean?” he says as he grabs his double shot off the edge of the bar, placing a twenty-dollar bill in its place.
“Are the girls here?”
“Shouldn’t be, why?” Wes scans the room, but the lights make it nearly impossible to make out faces.
