The Lies That Bind

13: Wingman

Calla frowned at the dilapidated facade of the karaoke bar, its grimy windows decorated with flickering red and blue and green neon lights. A disjointed cacophony of voices drifted through the main entryway, belting out the lyrics of some vaguely familiar pop song.

"I despise karaoke," she muttered darkly, glancing doubtfully down at her fake ID.

"It'll be fun," Cooper assured her. He stood beside her with an easy confidence she was unaccustomed to, his eyes alight as he took in the sights and sounds and rather deplorable smells of the karaoke bar. "We'll take a couple shots to loosen you up."

She scowled. "I don't need to loosen up." He glanced sideways at her, clearly amused. "What?"

"That look on your face."

"What look?"

"Like you're disgusted by everyone and everything."

"Well, maybe I am. People are generally disgusting."

Cooper just shook his head and laughed, presenting his ID to the bouncer. "Then do what you do best. Lie."

The bouncer, utterly uninterested in their conversation, barely glanced at his ID before waving him through, Calla following closely behind.

The inside of the karaoke bar looked exactly as she'd been anticipating, with its low, dingy lights and mismatched barstools that perfectly complemented the eclectic karaokers both on stage and in the queue lined up against the far wall, waiting eagerly to play their favorite chart-topper.

Calla eyed the low bar to their left hopefully.

"Come on." Cooper sounded suspiciously close to laughter. Scowling, she gripped the back of his pullover and let him lead her through the overzealous crowd, all vying for a drink to drown out the off-key voices booming from the stage.

He glanced over his shoulder at her. "What do you—"

"Tequila," she said immediately. He pretended to gag. "Oh, don't be such a wuss. If you want me to sing—"

"Fine." But his attempts to flag down the bartender failed spectacularly, and Calla, impatient, elbowed him aside. "What are you doing?"

"Doing what I do best," she said innocently as she caught the bartender's eye and flashed him a winning smile. Within seconds, a round of tequila shots had materialized at her elbow.

Cooper shook his head as he passed over his credit card in defeat. "Incredible."

"Of course I am." She handed him one of the glasses. "To me."

The tequila burned a line of fire down her throat. She licked her lips, eager to order another round. Cooper just stared at the ceiling, fighting to keep his liquor down with a pained grimace.

He refused to take another and so, in a rare show of compromise, they ordered a round of Vegas bombs, which Cooper seemed to enjoy more than the tequila, at least. And then, at his insistence—and much to Calla's dismay—they left their spot at the bar to sign up for karaoke.

One group was called and then another, and finally it was their turn.

Calla remembered little of the song itself; she had the vague impression of blinding lights and poor acoustics and a smattering of polite applause, a backdrop to the pleasant buzzing in her head. Apathetic as she was, Calla was content to let Cooper take center stage for their performance, a role he played with gusto.

He likes this, she realized, and was even more surprised to discover he had a rather nice voice. A group of girls in the corner, hemmed between the stage and the bar, were particularly avid fans of his, whistling appreciatively—Calla had no illusions the whistles were for her sake, anyway. Cooper's face was flushed when they returned to the bar for a second round of drinks, but whether it was from the attention or the lack of air circulation, she couldn't say.