Hold Me (Fool's Gold #16)(51)

She thought about the Hendrix brothers and their unbelievable bet about getting their wives pregnant and her father devastating his daughter with a thoughtless phone call and how she didn’t know what she was going to do with Starr when this job ended and how no matter how much she knew that being sensible was the right thing, sometimes she just wanted to let go.

The twisting restlessness inside her grew. The bartender passed her the drink, and Destiny drank deeply. She knew what the alcohol would do. How it would loosen the tight grip she kept on herself. Because of it, she would give in to the unthinkable. Because she had to. Because there was only one way to feel better.

Time ticked by. She finished her drink and ordered another. At 7:55 she walked up to the karaoke stage. Kipling was there, hooking up the equipment.

He didn’t see her at first, which meant she could study him without being caught. She took in the slight hesitation in some of his movements, juxtaposed with his athletic grace. Someone said something to him, and he responded with a quick smile. She knew his eyes were a beautiful shade of blue, that when he kissed her, she forgot she had a plan and that he loved his sister and looked out for her.

If she were someone else, looking for something else, she would already be sleeping with him. She might even be falling for him, which would be worse. But she’d learned to protect herself, so she was careful. Careful about the man, at least. If not careful with the rest of it.

Because tonight she was going to sing.

He looked up and saw her. “Hey, Destiny, what are you—” His expression turned worried. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. There’s something. What is it?”

She couldn’t explain. Not the swirling unease. The sense of not fitting in her skin, of needing something more. Impatience gripped her. Tension made her tremble. There were too many emotions and not enough places to put them.

“I have to sing.”

She’d thought he might laugh or grill her, because how could her statement make sense? Instead he put out a hand to help her up on the stage.

“Want to do a set?” he asked.

She nodded. “If that’s okay.”

He smiled at her. “Let me think. Free entertainment for my guests and listening to you sing more than one song. Yeah, it’s kind of okay.”

They scrolled through songs together. She selected one by Tumpy Shanks. It was old, but one of her favorites. “Under the Willow Tree” would be followed by her father’s hit “Barstool Blues.” She added a few more of her mother’s songs, then “What Hurts the Most,” a Rascal Flatts hit, closing with Kenny Chesney’s “Come Over.”

She put her drink on the small table by the karaoke machine. “I’m going to need another one of these in about fifteen minutes,” she said.

Kipling touched her arm. “You sure you want to do this?”

“I have to.”

“We can go somewhere, if you want. Talk. Drive. Yell at trees.”

Because he saw she was in pain. He knew there was a problem, and he wanted to fix it.

“This is the only way,” she whispered. “It doesn’t happen often. Maybe once every couple of years. But when it does, this is all I can do. At least I didn’t have to look very far for a karaoke place. You have one so conveniently located.”

“I do what I can.” The tone was light, but she saw the worry in his eyes.

She picked up the microphone. It was a good weight. Solid in her hand but not too heavy. The lighting could have been better, but this wasn’t a professional performance. She scuffed her boots against the wooden floor, anchoring herself.

Kipling left the stage, and she was alone. Gradually, the room got quiet as people noticed her. She pushed the button to start the first song, drew in a breath and lost herself.

“I left you there, under the willow tree,” she sang. “Tears falling, you always missing me.”

The words came without her having to look at the screen. She’d probably learned the song when she was four or five. She’d sung it on tour with her parents.

Song after song, she worked her way through the playlist. She lost track of time, of how much she drank, of where she was. She gave herself over to the music, letting go in the only way she knew how. The only way that was safe. The knot in her gut relaxed, and the restlessness eased. She spent her whole life denying who and what she was. Every now and then she had no choice but to let that part of her out, and tonight was the night. By the time she was done, she was exhausted but at peace.

She put down the microphone, and the bar exploded with applause. She nodded once and walked to the edge of the stage. Kipling was there to help her down.

“You’re shaking,” he said, putting his arm around her.

“It’s okay,” she told him.

Instead of leading her to the bar, he took her through the back and into a small office. She sank onto the chair by his desk and watched her hands tremble.

“Have you eaten anything today?” he asked.

“Not since lunch.”

“Liquor on an empty stomach. Never a good idea. Wait here. I’ll go grab you a sandwich.”

She nodded because speaking was suddenly too difficult. When he left, she looked at the clock on the wall and was shocked to see it was after eleven. Had she really been singing for three hours? No wonder she was exhausted.