ryder
Lacey isin rare form tonight.
Not only does she manage to show up on time, she delivers the kind of set I’ve only seen a handful of times in the year I’ve been playing with her. We do six of our best original songs and the crowd responds with roaring appreciation. My lyrics and her stage presence make for a killer combination — a fact that does not go unnoticed by the two record execs from Red Machine Records sitting at a table in the far corner.
This moment, right here, is everything I’ve been working toward. I try to keep my eyes on the prize.
Record deal.
Los Angeles.
Freedom.
But my goddamned eyesaren’ton the prize. Instead, they keep wandering to the pretty, dark-haired waitress delivering drinks during our set. Her hair is in a high ponytail tonight, swaying every time she takes a step like a metronome designed to mesmerize me. No matter how hard I try to focus on the music, I find my eyes straying to her every few minutes.
It’s fucking infuriating.
Half of me wants to drag her into the back hallway and tell her to get lost — out of this bar, out of my head, so far from me I’ll never think about her again. The other half wants to drag her into the nearest dark corner, wrap that ponytail around my fist, and kiss her until we forget to come up for air.
I bite my lip so hard I taste blood, hating the unfamiliar sensations swirling through me.
Maybe I should just screw her out of my system. It’s always worked before.
Her ponytail swings.
I play harder.
Her hips sway beneath that little black apron.
I sing louder.
We shift gears into “Liar” — our final song of the night. I wrote it a few months ago on a diner napkin at two in the morning after a particularly wild bender with Linc and Aiden. It might not be emotionally moving, but it’s a certifiable hit.
If this doesn’t convince the talent scouts to sign us, nothing will.
Linc lays down the beat and Aiden fills in the sound on his bass as Lacey slithers across the stage, running her hands up and down her body as if it’s her own instrument to tune. She leans in to share my mic for the opening verse, her brown eyes gleaming fever-bright beneath the stage lights. Strumming the chords, I force a grin on my face and go along with her act, putting on a show for the crowd.
The lyrics pour out of her cherry red mouth like a viper hissing venom.
“Kiss me like you mean it. Come on, make me feel it… They say I’m bad, but I’ll show you a good time.”
Lacey turns her back to me so our shoulders brush and starts to shimmy. She cranes her neck to put her cleavage on better display and sings directly to every man in the crowd.
“You say I’m no good, but you’re a bad, bad liar.”
I can practically taste the testosterone thickening in the air as they watch her. I know what they see — tight shorts, big tits. I know what they hear — breathy sex kitten voice, promises of ecstasy. There’s not a man in that crowd who doesn’t want to fuck her. Hell, they can hardly keep their eyes off her.
If only they knew beneath the surface, she’s emptier than a china doll.
She bounces back to center stage and grabs the mic stand, pulling it into an embrace like a lover she’s intent on seducing.
“Honey, I’m so good I’ll set your heart on fire.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the record execs whispering to each other… and I know, in my gut, that something is about to change. Something big.
My grin turns genuine for the first time all night as we finish the song.
* * *