“Do you really think she’s going to notice?” Hope cocks her head toward Mum. She laughs at something Danica has said, her hand on her daughter’s arm.
As much as I hate to admit it, Hope is probably right. The chance of Mum noticing our exit at all is blink-and-you’ll-miss-it tiny.
“There you are!” It’s a voice so obnoxious I know it’s the blond-haired guy from earlier without even turning to look. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Hope grabs my arm, her eyes wide. “We need to go,” she whispers, then pauses and says, “Or we could see how far we can take this thing and try make a sculpture of his penis?”
I stifle a giggle. “Run!”
CHAPTER FIVE
Hope pulls me through the crowd, expertly navigating tiny gaps between people until we finally push the doors open and end up out on the street. The cold night air assaults us, but it doesn’t stop us both from doubling over laughing, holding our glasses to the side to avoid spillage.
“Ladies, I can’t let you leave here with those drinks.” The security guard out front unfolds his arms and extends one hand, gesturing.
“Bottoms up!” Hope says, and I clink my glass with hers, and we both get rid of the remnants of our champagne before handing the empties back to the security guard.
“Can you believe it? Those guys were just ...” Hope says. She staggers down the street and I follow, eager to get out of there before anyone notices we’re gone.
“Eleanor. Hope.”
I freeze in my stiletto-made tracks. Zy.
“What?” I spin around, my arms folded across my chest.
Dark eyes flash out at me from under a mop of dark hair. There’s danger in his gaze, even though he’s wearing a suit. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Okay, Dad.” Hope laughs, and skips down the street.
I pause, trapped in that gaze a moment longer. Goosebumps pimple my arms and I rub them, whether it’s to protect myself from the cold night air or his penetrating stare I’m not sure.
The moment ends when he turns and heads back inside. I try to shake the weird feeling that’s settled inside me off, and walk to catch up with Hope who has stopped a few steps ahead, rummaging through her purse.
She finally procures what she was looking for, and hands it over. “Here.”
I look at the shiny foil object she’s placed in my hand. “A condom?”
Hope shrugs. “The way you two were eye-fucking each other, it seems like a necessary precaution.”
“Whatever!” I throw the plastic at her and she laughs, picking it up from the gutter and placing it back in her purse again as we stroll down the street.
“Where to now?” I ask. Because that’s the thing about Hope. She always has a plan.
Hope pauses, and bites her lower lip for a moment. We’re in the middle of a swanky part of town. Closed office buildings tower above us, and fancy restaurants with starters costing more than my shoes line the pavement. From out here, warm light and the gentle noise of glasses clinking and hushed nothings spill out onto the street.
“Aha!” She raises one finger in the air. “With me.”
Eleven minutes, one dodgy cab ride and an ‘are we lost/which way are we facing on the map’ later, and Hope and I walk into a dark, deserted alleyway, with empty milk crates lining one side of the entrance.
“Are you sure ...” I trail off. Part of me doesn’t want to doubt Hope, who is known for her expertise when it comes to Sydney’s small and hidden bar scene.
Another part of me doesn’t want to risk getting raped.
“Of course I’m sure.” She grabs my hand and leads me to a door I didn’t even notice against the black-as-shadow wall. A bouncer steps out from nowhere, checking our IDs before opening the door and gesturing to the stairwell beyond.
“Have a good night, ladies.”
“Thank you.” Hope and I answer in unison, then pony-wobble down the narrow metal stairs in our far-too-high heels.
As soon as the heavy black door slams behind us, one of the worst renditions of “Achey, Breaky Heart” I’ve ever heard reaches my ears. I still, my hand on the thin metal railing.
“Karaoke?” I narrow my eyes at Hope.
“What?” She shrugs. “They make a mean whiskey sour. And we don’t have to sing.”
“I’m gonna need a dozen,” I mutter.
Once we reach the ground level, a lady in a cowboy hat with a check shirt and too-short shorts seats us at a table near the bar. I rest against the high-backed wooden chair and take a look around.
Wooden beams support the ceiling, with light bulbs hanging down by industrial wires. The gleaming wooden bar runs against one wall of the room, and behind it are more whiskeys and bourbons than I can count, shiny bottles of amber to brown that rise from the bar top to the ceiling. A ladder rests to one side, no doubt so the bartenders can get the top-shelf labels upon request.
Tables are littered throughout the floor space, packed with around twenty men in suits and women in dresses, laughing too loudly and talking with extra passion to ease the midweek pain.
Up on stage, an Asian man in a freshly-pressed sky-blue shirt thanks the audience and staggers off to his table, who all cheer uproariously at his performance.
“What do you wanna sing?” I ask Hope, wiggling my eyebrows.
“Very funny, smart arse,” she says, flicking open her menu and then slamming it abruptly closed. “You know I don’t do singing.”
I place one hand over my heart. “And yet I consider it my public duty to share your gift with the world.” Hope winces, and I laugh. “You know I’m kidding, babe. I wouldn’t wish karaoke upon my worst enemy.”
“Right?” Hope nods. “There is nothing lamer, nothing less attractive than a man who karaokes. Or a woman.”
“Couldn’t agree more,” I exclaim, as the waitress places two small shots down in front of each of us.
“These are complimentary, from the bar,” she says. “They’re house whiskey, designed to help you get your night started.”
I look at the small shot in front of me, then back at Hope. I don’t usually drink much, but after the day I’ve had, I kind of feel I deserve it.
“Cheers.” Hope holds her shot out, and I clink it with mine, then tip the contents down my throat. The drink burns, and then a warm buzz races through my veins, heating me up from the inside.
“Can I please get a whiskey sour?” Hope asks, as she places her empty shot glass on the waitress’s tray.
“I’ll just have a water.” I add my empty to hers, and the waitress nods her thanks and heads back over to the bar.
The strains of Britney Spears’ “Hit Me Baby One More Time” fill the bar, and the middle-aged woman on stage runs her hands down her sides. She teases at the neck of her shirt that’s unbuttoned one hole too many. The mascara smudges under her eyes speak of the number of drinks she’s had.
“I’m going to pee. Be right back.” Hope slides off her stool and disappears toward the back of the bar, leaving me to watch Wannabe Britney oh baby-babying her way around the stage.
The waitress drops off our drinks, and I take a sip, glad to have something to do aside from enjoying this Britney rendition.
I’m so caught up in her performance, so captivated with her very obvious near-make-out session with the microphone, that I don’t notice the waitress until she places one whiskey sour in front of Hope’s chair, and a whiskey sour and a water down in front of me.
I frown. “I didn’t order—”
“I know,” the waitress interrupts, shaking her head. “It’s from the gentleman at the bar.”
With lips pursed, I turn my head. I scan the bar, the three bartenders working it. The couple sitting in the bar seats, all but canoodling. The girl lined up, waiting on service.
Joel.
Joel.
My eyes widen. I can’t believe it’s him.
Joel Henley.
Twice in one damn week.
Hi, he mouths.
Heat flushes my cheeks. It’s just the alcohol, Ellie. I glance down at my drink, then back at Joel. Or maybe not.
Hi, I mouth back.
I look at him, really look at him, and I can’t turn away. His icy blue eyes seem to burn into me, and I pull at the collar of my high-necked dress that’s far too formal for a bar on a Wednesday, feeling very overdressed for the venue and the way his eyes strip me bare.
Joel pauses, and it seems he’s just as lost in the moment as I am because the bartender waves a hand in front of his face, then says something in a voice I can’t hear. My ex turns his attention back to the bartender, and my hand races for my handbag. Because holy shit! What does my hair look like? My lipstick? And is my foundation still in place, or is it looking more like a Monet painting?
I open the purse, but before I can even pull out a gloss, or a compact for that matter, I feel his presence near me. He has that much effect.
Joel Henley has always had that effect on me.
“Hi.”
One word.
It’s only one word, but it has me shaking.
“Hi.” I slowly look up. He’s there, right at the edge of my table, a small and mysterious smile twisting his lips. A white shirt stretches across his body and blue denim jeans hang low on his waist.
“Do you mind if I ...?” Joel gestures to Hope’s recently emptied seat.
“Well, my friend is sitting there.”
Joel looks around, as if searching. He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Is she real?”
“Ha ha.” I sardonically laugh. “She’s just in the bathroom.”
“Well, perhaps I could take it temporarily, then.” Joel slides onto the seat, and places a glass of amber liquid on the table in front of him. “I have to admit ... I’ve never done this before.”
I quirk a brow. “Come to a hideous karaoke bar?”
He grins. “No.” He nods toward my drink. “The old ‘can I buy her what she’s already drinking’ routine.”
I let out a laugh. The words shouldn’t make me feel alive, but I’ve had a few too many drinks, and he’s really good looking, and completely against my better judgment, they do. “And how are you finding it so far?”
Darkness flashes in his eyes. “Really rewarding.”
Gulp.
I swallow down more of my drink, and it doesn’t taste stiff anymore. It just tastes like comfort. Confidence.
And damn, do I need some of that right now.
“What are you drinking?” I nod to his beverage.
“Scotch on the rocks.” He takes a slow sip. “I know, it’s an old man’s drink. But at least it doesn’t have a weird name. There’s nothing sleazier than drinking a Sex on the Beach.”
“How about a Wet Pussy?” I ask.
“Angel’s Tit?” Joel asks, and I grimace. “Shit, I’ve gone too far. I’m so sorry, Ellie Mayfield, of the prestigious Mayfield family.”
I poke my tongue out. “I’ll maybe forgive you. Just this once. But don’t make me sic my mother onto you.”
Joel nods seriously. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” He takes another sip of his drink, and continues. “So what brings a fine young romance basket deliverer such as yourself to a shady karaoke place like ...” he gestures to the tables in front of us, and the lady gyrating her hips over the stage, “this?”
“I came for the live music,” I say, nodding to the Britney wannabe. “What can I say? Talent is talent.”
Joel nods. “Can’t argue with you there. Although I gotta admit, you do look perhaps a little overdressed for the occasion.”
I furrow my brow. “In a bad way or a good way?”
Joel sucks in a deep breath. Somehow, I feel as if I’ve stolen it. “In a good way, Miss Mayfield.” He releases the air slowly. “Damn good.”
Tension thickens the air between us. I lick my lips, and try to ignore the part of me that wants so badly to be in his arms again. Arms that I remember wrapped around me so many times before.
I take a sip of my drink, and it goes down so smooth. It’s the kind of sip that should let you know you’ve had too much. It’s my favourite sip, until it isn’t.
“I was at an art gallery opening thing, for Mum.” Joel cocks his head. “It’s why I’m dressed like this.”
“Oh ,” Joel says. “Did someone say the artwork was deep? Please tell me the artwork was deep.”
“So deep.” I grin. “And thought-provoking.”
He nods, a veneer of seriousness washing over his face. “Could you see yourself in it? Naked?”
“Oh, yes,” I agree, my eyes rolling up to the ceiling. “Is it even art if you can’t see yourself naked?”
Joel raises his eyebrows. “And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen.” He gestures to the invisible patrons paying attention to us. “The modern-day equivalent to ‘If a tree falls in a forest ...’”
I giggle, and Joel laughs with me. His eyes change when he laughs. They’re not so much icy as they are bracing. Like a cold drink of water. A flash of the ocean against the sun. Invigorating.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Is it inappropriate?” I challenge, and it’s Joel’s turn to have red cheeks.
“No.” He laughs. “Although I guess ... maybe it’s borderline.”
I give a slow smile. “Okaaaaay.”
The new singer on stage reaches a particularly obnoxious high note. Someone knocks a glass somewhere, and it smashes against tiles. A voice yells ‘taxi’.
“Is it weird if I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you?”
All the noises stop. All of them.
Suddenly, it’s just me and him.
To hell with the rest of the world.
A chunk of the hurt and pain I’d harboured for him dissipates like fairy floss on the tongue. It sparks and sizzles into oblivion.
I really like you, Joel Henley.
Hope’s hand on my shoulder brings me back to life. “Aren’t you the famous artist?” Her jaw drops, as if she really believes her facade.
“It’s okay.” I shake my head. “Hope, this is Joel. Joel, this is Hope.”
Hope sticks out her hand for him to shake. “Joel?” she asks, the not-so-subtle subtext of do you need me to hit him clearly heard underneath.
“Yeah. I’m the idiot who left her three years ago,” Joel says, and I can’t help but smile.
“Well you got the idiot part right.” Hope agrees, taking a sip of her drink.
“You don’t need to tell me twice.”
My cheeks burn, from too much to drink or too much embarrassment, I don’t know which. I press my glass against one, desperate for the icy touch against the fire burning there.
Joel looks at me, and I feel myself falling. There’s something about those eyes. Those lips. That—
“Give it up for Joellllll Henley!”
I freeze. A group of people near the front whoop and holler, clapping with their hands above their heads. A few other groups cheer too, and the man on stage, the karaoke host, looks at us, microphone outstretched like a baton in a relay race.
“You’re ... doing karaoke,” I say, laughter creeping into my voice. “Mr Shady Karaoke Place.”
The notes of a bass guitar hum throughout the venue. The tune is instantly familiar. Instantly. “Summer Lovin’” isn’t exactly a forgettable tune.
“No.” Joel shakes his head. He pushes off the seat and to his feet, and the girl with his group of friends offers up a wolf whistle. “I am not doing karaoke.”
“Well it sure looks like—”
He extends his hand, so it’s right in front of me. “We’re doing karaoke.”
The bass line repeats itself. Britney claps, and the people in tables scattered around the bar join in.
I shake my head. “Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no.”
Hope pushes me off my seat, and I stagger to my feet. “Oh yes,” she says, just as the drums kick in.
“Summer lovin’ ...” Joel sings the first line to
the famous duet from the musical Grease, walking backward toward the stage while clicking his fingers in an overly dramatised 80s kind of way.
At first, I’m rooted to the spot. He has to be kidding me. I don’t do performances in front of crowds. I don’t karaoke. And I sure as hell don’t cheesy couple duet karaoke, and not with a guy I—
“Get up there.” Hope pushes at the small of my back and I stumble forward. Onstage, Joel’s singing both male and female parts dramatically, causing laughter and sighs alternately throughout the venue, but his eyes are on me the whole time. And damn ... those eyes.
He keeps singing, and his voice is every bit as good as I remember. The verse finishes, and even though I know deep down that this is a bad idea, that this guy left me and our ‘connection’ is likely mostly in my head, this time when he holds out his hand, I take it.
He leads me up to the stage. My body turns to wood and I inch away from the centre as breath thickens in my throat. My stomach turns. I have to get out of here. I can’t be here. I can’t do this.
Joel doesn’t appear to notice my mini-meltdown. He sings and dances, then shoves the microphone under my nose when it gets to the chorus.
I freeze. The light shines bright in my eyes. My heart leaps to my throat. I can’t.
“I’m sorry.” I shake my head and push at his chest, turning to leave.
A warm hand grips my wrist. The small crowd of less than twenty cheer.
When I turn, Joel’s bright eyes shine, encouraging me to sing. He points the microphone toward me again as the girls in the chorus begin to sing.
“Tell me more, tell me more,” I manage. The words stick like Clag in my throat, but the microphone amplifies them throughout the room. Hope wolf whistles, and my cheeks heat.
Seconds later, the microphone is back.
“Tell me more, tell me more.” My voice is louder. Stronger. More confident.
Joel hams it up. He gestures for me to come closer, then spins me out with his hand. Alcohol floods my system, and the rush of being with him, the confidence it brings—it flicks a switch inside me.
This time when he walks away, his hands flipping behind his back, I follow along as if I’m one of the cheerleaders in the musical, unable to resist his charm, then I lean forward to sing along with him in the microphone when it comes to telling more, more, more.
The Twenty-One (Emerald Cove #2) Page 4