♫ If I lay here
If I just lay here
Would you lie with me and just forget the world? ♪
(Snow Patrol—Chasing Cars)
The Swirled Lady was packed. It wasn't the biggest venue in town, though it could host many events at once; but Coralie had never seen it like this. Every table had several patrons gathered around it, their beers sloshing as they clinked them. Every bar-stool was occupied, and her co-workers behind the bar hustled, delivering drinks faster than ever.
As she waded through the throng of folks of all ages—the usual bros, a few groups of middle-aged women on a lady's night out, a handful of older men with their wives—she felt a surge of adrenaline pumping through her. And fear; lots and lots of fear.
How can I perform in the presence of all these people?
Terror jarred her, crawling up her legs as she pushed further into the bar, desperate to locate Delilah, or even Roger. Both would have the right words to kill her panic, or they'd yell at her until she had no choice but to swallow the negativity.
Passing a couple dancing to the soft background music, she hyperventilated, picturing herself failing one of the biggest nights of her life.
She sensed a hand wrapping around her upper arm, and gasped as she jolted towards its source—and unleashed a giant breath of relief at the sight of a friendly individual.
"Michael!" Before she could stop herself, she hurried into his arms, her heart throbbing in her rib-cage—whether from her anxiety at the open-mic, or her nerves at seeing him, she wasn't positive. "I'm so glad you're here!" She'd need amicable faces in the crowd to help her get through this, and though she was nervous about singing in front of Michael, she was also reassured to have him among all the strangers.
And Delilah, wherever she was.
"Of course I'm here. I told you I would be!" He hugged her tight, and she sensed his muscles bulging under his thin, long-sleeved shirt. "And you are—" he pushed her away from him so he could eye her from head to toe, "—perfect. I saw the picture you posted earlier, but it doesn't do you justice. You're rocking this outfit!"
She rarely wore high-waisted jeans, and this was her first time being audacious enough to tuck a top into them. Blushing, she adjusted her purse strap as she peered at the tips of her shoes.
"Stop, you're going to turn me into a tomato! I'm nervous enough already!"
He planted a hand below her shoulder, his gaze slightly narrowing as he smiled. "No need. You're going to kill it. Just... look at me, I'll be down here cheering you on."
She dared to lift her chin and connect with him, which prompted her cheeks to overheat faster. Her skin became so warm she felt faint, and she worried he'd start laughing at her bashfulness.
"Well, that's no help, have you seen yourself?"
"Who," he jammed a thumb to his upper torso and winked, "me? No, I'm not even near your level of stunning, Cora."
He wore jeans that were just tight enough, a buttoned shirt that hugged his chiseled chest to perfection, and had forgone his usual sneakers for some classy shoes Coralie wasn't sure she'd ever seen him wear. He smelled like sugar and spice, his hair was tamed and not under a baseball cap, and as he licked his lips, she almost wanted to kiss him. She almost wanted to forget about her upcoming event and get lost in his gaze, in his arms, in him.
But as he inched closer and placed a quick peck on her cheek—and quite close to the corners of her lips—she stilled. She closed her eyes, hoping to prolong the moment, to imagine what would happen if his lips slipped an inch.
Only one image came to mind, only one sensation—that damn near-kiss in London, with Ryan.
She hated herself for ruining what could have been a delightful, intimate moment with an awesome guy. She hated that she couldn't enjoy Michael's affectionate gesture. A wonderful man who was there for her, and who wasn't married and about to betray his wife for a brief stint in the sheets with her.
Fuck.
She opened her eyes and grinned, but it wasn't heartfelt, and she hoped he wouldn't notice. She hoped the dimmed lights and the loud conversations and the bodies bumping into theirs wouldn't allow him to focus on how hard she tried to hide her disappointment.
His lips were so soft on her skin, and his alluring aroma still swirled in her nostrils and relaxed her—but she needed to get away from him. She didn't want to ruin her shot at dating him, at letting feelings develop. They would, in time, she had no doubt; but for now, she had to work on getting over Ryan.
"You're sweet," she said, squeezing his arm as she glanced up at the stage. "I need to find Delilah for my pep-talk; she promised me one."
As if magically overhearing the conversation, Delilah hurdled up behind her, with Roger in tow. Her copper-colored dress shimmered so much, one would have thought she was about to go up on the podium and whip out some Lady Gaga song.
"Girl you look fabulous," she said, kissing Coralie's other cheek. She then peeked over at Michael, batted her lashes, raised her eyebrows, and nudged Coralie. "Ahem, uh, introductions?"
After ensuring Delilah's tiny frame but big personality didn't devour Michael, Coralie meandered to the back room, where a few other performers were waiting. Roger gave her a quick hug and whispered "you'll win, go get 'em girl" before leaving them be.
She realized she was a tad overdressed compared to most of her competitors. One girl wore leggings with so many holes, it was a wonder it covered her skin at all. One guy had on neon flip-flops with matching sunglasses, and another sported no shoes at all.
Where the heck did Roger find these people?
A handful of them had a more professional look; slacks, pressed shirts, polished pumps. They didn't fidget about like she did, instead enjoying cold beverages and chatting amongst themselves, no nervous airs about them.
Coralie glimpsed herself in her compact mirror and pouted. Had she overdone it? Did she have that much to prove? She had a great voice, all her viewers said so; but would these judges agree? Would they give her a chance to perform weekly at her bar, to practice her skills and one day reach her dreams? Did she have a shot against these cooler, much calmer performers?
The background music switched off, and Coralie heard Roger testing the microphone. He belted out a speech, declared the rules, introduced the band and the judges, then called out the first singer—the dude in the neon flip-flops.
Coralie wanted to watch them all, so she snuck to the end of the bar and leaned against the counter, sipping on a glass of red wine to soothe her tension.
With each sip, her mind wandered to Michael. He hid in the pack of attendees, so she couldn't see him. She remembered his close-to-the-lips kiss, and it woke her attraction to him—but she had too much trouble not comparing him to Ryan. Would she ever develop the same kind of magnetism towards Michael? The same excruciating pull, the same toxic desire, the same urge to rip his clothes off? She imagined with time, with healing, with trust, she'd get to that point; but would Ryan ever leave her thoughts?
By the time she ceased her debating, Roger popped over to warn her she was on deck. She drained her cup, followed it up with a few gulps of water, stretched and cracked her knuckles, and took a few deep, meditative breaths.
Show time.
"And now, folks, our next performer, who is my favorite," said Roger, as he glanced across the room at Coralie, who was taking her time walking to the stage stairs. "But I'm biased, because she works for me and is like family to me, like a niece. No clue what she's singing, since she chose to be all mysterious, but here is Coralie Amber Watson!"
Delilah clapped, Michael cheered, and others in the audience mimicked them. Some were friends, some were strangers, but many had seen Coralie's YouTube videos and were there to see her in person. To see her belt out a tune with a real band, to see her live, and hopefully not fail.
She offered her song choice to the band—the members all approved—and settled in front of the microphone, smiling at those gawking up at her.
As she perked up and wrapped both hands around the singing instrument, she immobilized. The sea of people below made her stomach muscles clench and her legs lock. Thank goodness she'd chosen platform heels, otherwise she would have rolled her ankle, lost her balance, and collapsed to her knees from her intense shaking.
As the band prepared, she feared she might fall off the stage, revealing herself as a blubbering mess of unease and uncertainty.
Sweat gathered on her temples and her throat was dry and her vision blurred—
No, Cora! Don't fuck this up!
She wasn't sure if it was her voice, or Michael's—because at that same moment, her gaze connected with his, and he mouthed you got this, which somehow quieted the panic in her brain and the worry clogging her wind pipes.
The music started—the particular first notes that anyone who had watched Grey's Anatomy would recognize—and Delilah squealed in delight from somewhere near Michael, pleased her roommate had followed her advice.
"We'll do it all... everything... on our own..."
Her voice was smooth, subtle, swift as she'd wanted it to be, despite a bit of crackling that she hoped would dissipate after a few verses. Everyone was quiet, swaying left to right, engrossed in the melody and how she carried it. Their expressions were serene, as if her words were a lullaby easing them into a restful slumber.
When she reached the first chorus, her shaking subsided. She no longer twitched about and found her rhythm, moving side to side, daring to stare at those in the first row who gaped up at her with stars in their eyes.
Though absorbed in her notes, she couldn't help but notice when the bar door opened, letting in a darkly dressed patron.
She'd made it to the middle of the tune, and was eager to get to her favorite parts, but the newcomer drew her attention.
Trying not to lose her concentration, she fixed her gaze on them—a man, from what she deduced from how he walked, carried himself.
She was curious about who'd show up this late to an open-mic event. He trudged through the clients, not caring who he bumped into, his chin dipped and a hat over his head, concealing his features.
Coralie could tell he was a man of expensive tastes, as he stood out among the other attendees—most of which wore casual outfits of jeans and t-shirts. He had airs of a European executive from a high-end company, an international spy, a secret agent on some mission.
"Let's waste time... chasing cars... around our heads..."
She noticed him getting closer until he located a surprisingly vacant bar-stool and hopped onto it. He was a few dozen feet away, and she detected the color of his impeccable suit—navy, and so pressed it was as if he'd spent hours ironing out every single wrinkle to appear as put-together as possible.
His arms were big, muscular, hard to pry her eyes from as she tried her best not to fumble with the lyrics.
"If I lay here... if I just lay here..."
Who was he? She'd never seen the likes of him in this bar before, though there was an odd familiarity about how he sat on the stool, about how he crossed his arms. His shoulders were squared yet somehow relaxed, and he tapped a foot to the song's melody. His expression remained cloaked in obscurity, beneath his black fedora.
The last words were approaching, and as she made one last effort to captivate her audience, Coralie opened her mouth, pushed the air out of her lungs—
And nearly choked when the mystery man removed his hat and looked straight at her. He fixed his emotionally charged ocean eyes on her, and she'd recognize them from miles away.
He still had that smirk that made her knees buckle, those soft-looking lips she'd been so close to tasting, those bulky arms she'd melted into about a week and a half ago.
She all but said "Ryan?" instead of the last line of the song, and caught herself before making a terrible mistake.
She was hallucinating, right? There was no way Ryan Bennett was there, in her bar, watching her sing "Chasing Cars" to score a Friday night gig that might make her career take off. There was no way he'd sauntered in as if he owned the place, dapper and deliciously handsome, his fingers grazing his chin as he admired her, his other hand grasping a drink.
No. No fucking way!
So stuck in her daze, she hadn't realized the music had stopped and the crowd was clapping, roaring, yelling her name.
Shaking her head, she bowed to them, her cheeks on fire, her heart thrumming in such an uneven rhythm she worried it might stop, or explode, or both.
As she turned around to thank the band, they all gave her thumbs up, and she clapped for them. And as she descended from the podium, Delilah ran up—as best as she could in her ridiculously high heels—and embraced her.
"So good, girl! You fucking destroyed it! You'll win, one hundred percent!"
Coralie squeezed her hand, but shoved her aside at the realization that she had quite the dilemma developing at that moment. Two men were likely shoving through the patrons to reach her. One with a genuine smile of pleasure, eyes filled with pride, a comfortable aura about his easy demeanor; and the other with a sexy venom dripping from his every step, a spicy cologne to bedazzle her senses, a body to unleash chaotic shivers to spiral up and down her limbs.
But how to avoid the two of them taking note of one another and colliding? How to pick which one to run to first, and how to ensure neither saw the other nor questioned her?
Michael or Ryan?
♥♥♥