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She was on the street waiting for him within the hour. He pulled up with Sam in a truck that had Royal Flush and a picture of a tap painted on the side. The two of them were surfer boy cool in their board shorts and singlets, both of them rocking sunglasses and caps.
Damon leaned out the passenger side window. He said, “Going my way?”
From inside the truck Sam said, “Lenny Kravitz.”
Damon shook his head as he got out to let her slide in between them. “Bing Crosby.”
Sam said, “Never heard of him.”
Damon climbed in behind her, cleared his throat and sang the first line of White Christmas.
Sam turned the music up to drown him out, MKTO’s God Only Knows, one of those playboy meets the one songs with a snappy beat. Damon simply switched tunes and he and Sam rocked it out, Sam drumming on the steering wheel. She sat there grinning stupidly happy, explosively so when Damon felt for her hand.
“You’re not singing.”
“I engineer it, I don’t do it. I’ve got the musicality of a loaf of bread.”
Sam laughed. “You picked the wrong crowd to fall in with. It’s like battle of the vocal chords every weekend with us.”
She shrugged and Damon must’ve felt it. “You really don’t sing.”
“I really, really don’t.”
“Ever.”
“Never.”
She caught Sam’s smirk. “Heather doesn’t sing,” he said.
Damon leaned his shoulder into hers but turned his face to the window as if he was studying the scenery. “Might have to rethink this.”
Sam snorted. Which meant they’d talked and Damon was having a lend of her. “I didn’t realise it was a prerequisite.”
His hand came down on her thigh and he turned to face her. “It’s not a prerequisite, it’s a challenge.”
“Hah. One you’ll lose.”
“I’m backing Damo. Sorry Georgia, you seem like a top bird, but he’s got a way about him.”
“No contest, I’ve already won.” Damon’s expression gave superior a slack reputation.
“How do you figure that?”
He took his cap off and dropped his head to the headrest, eyes closed, dimple kinked. Sam laughed and pulled into a beachside car park. He unclipped his belt and got out.
Georgia touched Damon’s shoulder. He was going to give that up. She repeated her question. “How do you figure that?”
He unclipped his belt and leaned in so his face was close to hers. “I’ve already heard you sing and it was the sweetest sound.”
There was no way. She wasn’t even a hummer. Tap a rhythm out, dance badly when no one was watching, sure, but sing. “You’re hallucinating?”
“Every tight breath, every little vocal hitch, every sigh, all those throaty moans and murmurs.”
Oh, God. Oh. She checked over her shoulder, no sign of Sam.
Damon’s hand went from her thigh to her waist, to her shoulder and trailed up her neck. He took her chin and angled her head so he could whisper in her ear. “I’m going to take it personally,” his voice was secret crystal cave bright and stealth of night wicked and it made her flush, “if you don’t sing for me, and only me, every time I make you come.”
“Oh dear God.” She put her hand over his mouth. “That’s not… Damon… Hoo. That’s not fair.”
