More Than Want You

Keeley shakes her head. “I like the song, but Nicole Scherzinger isn’t hard to sing, either. How about something with teeth?”

“Britney Spears?”

She rolls her eyes. “Stop insulting me. Harder.”

“You want it harder, baby?” I flash her a leering grin. I know I’m about to get smacked but it’s too fun to stop.

“Vocally, not sexually. Give me the book.”

Oh, I’m still making it too easy on her? Fine. “No. I said I’d pick something. I will.”

I whip out my phone and after a little Google, I choose three songs and dart up to the deejay. Despite having a bad-hair decade, the guy is really easy to talk to, and we soon settle on a great song I can’t wait to hear. He has me jot her name and info on the sheet attached to his clipboard. Then it’s done. All I have to do is wait.

When I head back to the table, Keeley looks beyond annoyed.

“We were supposed to discuss this,” she grits out as I slide onto my stool beside her.

“We did. But since you’re such a pro, and my selection wasn’t difficult enough, Google helped me go for the gusto.”

“What did you sign me up for?” Now she sounds almost nervous.

I just smile. “Not telling…”

It’s hard to find patience until Keeley is called, especially when I have to sit through a terrible rendition of “Smooth Criminal” and an even worse stab at “Waiting on the World to Change.” The bar finally starts to clear out. A version of “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” that’s only slightly awful follows.

Finally, the deejay, who really does the comb-over proud, grabs the mic. “Time for Keeley on the stage. Keeley, everyone.”

“What am I singing?” she asks as she gets to her feet.

“You’ll see.” I’m stubborn like that when I want to be.

“I’m totally getting you back for this.”

“You’re welcome to try…”

She sends me something like a snarl before she heads to the front. After a verbal interaction with the deejay that includes a little arguing and a lot of nodding, she finally grabs the mic off the stand and takes a deep breath. God, she really looks stunning, especially when the first note hits and she lifts her head to meet the song head on.

Three minutes later, I’m absolutely floored. She’s nailed “Titanium,” including every one of those high notes the deejay swore to me tripped up most. I didn’t give her this song to watch her fail, though. In my head, I could hear her singing it. I knew she could do it. I wanted her to know that she could, too.

But messing with her in the meantime was too much fun.

The crowd cheers. She smiles back. On her way off the stage, she speaks to the deejay. He looks over at me. Oh, that’s how she intends to get me back, make me embarrass the hell out of myself in public. No way. No how.

As soon as Keeley reaches the table, I grab her hand. “Let’s go.”

“Nope.” She plants herself firmly on the floor and raises a brow at me. “Your turn.”

“You promised I didn’t have to sing.”

“If I don’t get to have a say in my own song, I don’t have to keep my word,” she points out. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

“Not happening. I’m leaving.”

The waitress finally comes with our cocktails and hustles away before I can pay. I don’t even know how much the drinks cost. Shit.

“You were saying?” Keeley smiles and flutters her lashes innocently.

“This sucks.”

She laughs. “You’ll live.”

I’m nervous. It’s stupid because I know I’ll never see these people ever again. Hell, half of the patrons in this dive are so sauced I doubt they’ll remember being here at all tomorrow, much less some tone-deaf chump butchering a tune. That still doesn’t stop me from looking for the waitress, cash in hand, so we can find the exit.

“Maxon,” the deejay calls. “Where is…” He spots me and motions me over. “Come on down, buddy.”

With a groan, I get to my feet. I shoot Keeley a glare that promises retribution. When I reach the stage and grab the mic, I try really hard not to realize that about fifty people are staring at me like they expect awesome.

I will sorely disappoint them.

“Keeley says you’re a karaoke virgin,” the deejay begins.

I nod. “I haven’t been called a virgin in a long time.”

The crowd laughs. At least I’ve got a little comedic goodwill going before I burst their eardrums.

“Your fine lady picked an oldie for you. She said you’d want a challenge.”

Oh, that’s it. Despite paying a small fortune for her makeover, I’m going to kill Keeley the moment we get home. I stare across the bar at her. She’s smiling and looking so damn happy. I put that expression on her face. My stupidity and sheer lack of talent are making her downright gleeful.

Okay, I’ll suck it up this once.

I’m worried she’s assigned me a song that requires fast thinking, like Eminem. Or worse, chosen something damn near impossible, in the neighborhood of “Bohemian Rhapsody.”

Instead, when the monitor lights up, I see a song title scroll across my screen. “Wichita Lineman” by Glen Campbell. Wasn’t this was one of my Granddad’s favorites? I think…yeah. It reminds me of summer, of sneaking ice cream past Grandma and into the barn for an afternoon treat, of good times with a good man. Maybe if I focus on my fond memories of tinkering with the old guy, I can get through this.

After the whiny opening notes, the words on the screen flash and it’s clear I’m supposed to start singing. I don’t really remember the melody or cadence. Hell, I barely remember the song at all. Somehow I make it through the first couple of lines, but I can’t disguise how badly I suck. Not a single note is on pitch. I look to Keeley for help. I know I should be a good sport and all, but I’m really not equipped to make an ass of myself in public. Say what you want about the male ego, but this kind of torment is making my insides curdle and my balls shrivel.

I’m so focused on how tragic my singing must be on everyone’s eardrums that I miss the next line altogether. She makes a hand gesture at me, and I look at the monitor. I’m behind. Damn it. The words flashing are blurry. I’m sweating. My fingers are tingling as I try to hold the mic. Why can’t I breathe?