Wicked Torture (Stark World 3)

"Noah!"

The smile he flashes is wide and a little smug. "Do you trust me?"

Considering everything in our past, I consider saying no. But I can't. Because somewhere between him leaving me for Darla and now, things have changed. And, yes, I trust him.

Not that I say that. Instead, the words that slip from my lips are, "Dammit, Noah!"

At least he has the grace not to laugh.

Our destination isn't far at all. As the crow flies it's about halfway between his condo and Griffin's house, right downtown on Fourth Street. It's a little bar I've never heard of called Tipsy, and when we step inside, I realize exactly why he's brought me here.

"Oh, no," I say.

"Oh, yes," he counters, tugging my hand.

"Are you singing?"

"Trust me. You don't want me to sing."

He snags a recently abandoned table by the stage, then signals for the waitress. He orders Chardonnay for me, bourbon for him, and then hands the waitress a slip of paper and asks her to put me on the Karaoke performer list.

"You are so going to owe me," I say. But my heart isn't in it. I'd had a great time performing at The Fix the other night, and even though a Karaoke bar isn't exactly the Hollywood Bowl, I can't deny that I'm feeling the music--even if I'm cringing at most of the folks who go up to sing.

"This is wretched," I say a half-hour later when a guy who looks like he plays defense for the University of Texas butchers Michael Jackson's Thriller.

"I know." Noah grins. "Awesome, isn't it."

I take another sip o

f my Chardonnay and agree that it is.

"Okay!" The girl in charge of the evening claps as the football player leaves the stage to applause, laughter, and a few catcalls. "And now it's time for Kiki!"

I hurry up front, actually looking forward to it, and hoping I get a song that isn't entirely lame.

The music starts before the lyrics post, and my stomach does a total flip-flop. I stare out at Noah, who's looking smug.

I want to leap off the stage and ask him what he thinks he's doing, but this song is too engrained in me, and I dive into the first verse of Turnstile as if I were on autopilot.

This, I know. This, I can do.

Soon enough the audience realizes who I am. Then they're standing and clapping and phones are out snapping pictures and, I'm sure, recording every moment.

Celia's probably going to see this on social media before I'm even finished singing.

I don't care. I just want to get lost in the words as I belt out the chorus.

"Turnstile, I slide away,

Turnstile, you'll leave today

Turnstile, I need you now

Turnstile, I don't know how

To love you anymore.

And I go around and around and around and around