Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111980 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
And he’s belting out the lyrics to “Don’t Stop Believin’” at a seedy dive bar as the crowd goes wild for his pipes.
It’s official. Sawyer does not have a hot date. He has something even juicier—a secret identity as a karaoke star in a dive bar a few towns over.
Talk about payback.
22
KARAOKE BOSS
SAWYER
The crowd is amped up as I sing about a city boy who was born and raised in South Detroit who’s now taking a midnight train. Like they do nearly every Thursday, the crowd cheers, some of them singing along too, beer sloshing over cups, fists raised in the air in rocker salutes.
It’s infectious, their enthusiasm. It emboldens me as I prowl across the stage, microphone in hand, letting go, letting loose, doing one of my favorite things. When we reach the part about strangers waiting in the night, I can feel the weight of the day sliding off my shoulders—the worries about the shoot and the business and pleasing everyone, including the bottom line, just slink away. Here, with the microphone and the crowd, I’m no longer Mister Responsible. I’m just a guy who likes to blow off steam with a little bit of rock ’n’ roll.
I’m Sam Silversmith. A man who likes to rock out with strangers.
Some women in the front—who come every week—are dancing. They wear T-shirts and short skirts, and it’s their girls’ night out. Nurses, I’ve learned from Duke, the guy who owns the place. A couple of older dudes are always here too, looking like they just got off work from a construction job.
As the beat pounds through me, I reach the chorus and the famous words that everyone loves to sing along to. As I hit those title words, I hold the mic out to the audience so they can sing along with me too—and they do. Holy hell, do they.
I’m nodding, swaying my hips, enjoying the moment with fifty to one hundred people I don’t know when…
My gaze snaps to a redhead moving through the crowd.
She’s wearing jeans and that pretty blue top that slopes off her shoulder. Her hair falls in soft, loose waves. Her hazel eyes are locked in on me, and she looks like she’s just unearthed buried treasure.
For a moment, I stumble over the next words. But I’ve got to get my shit together—because I have an audience that suddenly includes Chloe in the front row. Arms crossed. Smile smug. Eyes absolutely dancing with utter glee.
And fuck—my secret is out. All I can think, as I hit the next words, is that if she’s here, the whole team is probably behind her, and the “Where should we have drinks?” convo ended with Pour Decisions.
Talk about a poor decision on my part.
But if I’ve learned anything in my ten years performing karaoke in off-the-beaten-path dive bars, it’s this: try to stay off the beaten path, and the show must go on.
So with Chloe here, shimmying her shoulders and wearing a cat-ate-the-canary smile, I go full Steve Perry, and I sing my music-loving heart out until the final note of the famous song.
“Thank you. It’s good to be back,” I say to the audience, avoiding her—absolutely avoiding eye contact.
“Do the one!” a woman shouts.
“The one? You sure about that?” I ask.
“So sure,” she shouts back.
I hum doubtfully. “I need to know you’re really sure.”
A new voice pops up. Chloe’s, as she says, “Positive. Do the one. Do it, do it.”
She’s egging me on. She doesn’t even know what tune the one refers to. But she doesn’t care. She’s here to play with her food. But no one else has come in from work, which leaves me wondering if she came just for me. And how did she know?
Duke is already queuing up the next tune, and I go for it, launching into the classic karaoke number about Tommy working on the docks. And as I sing the Bon Jovi crowd-pleaser, Chloe looks more pleased than she does after she comes—and that’s saying something.
I stop thinking about why she’s here, or that she’s clearly a cat playing with a mouse and enjoying every second of busting me, or the potential fallout from her learning my secret.
I’m just a guy giving the crowd what they want—five or six songs they know by heart. Sung well. I roll through Sam Cooke’s “A Change Is Gonna Come,” making sure I don’t look too hard at Chloe during that tune, since we were smashing mouths the last time it played in my car. Then I take a turn with “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” and close out with a changeup: “I’ve Got a Crush on You.”
With this one I go a little lounge singer, a little crooner, and I’m not gonna lie—the ladies go wild. It’s so fucking satisfying. But the clock is ticking, and I know the second I step off the stage, I’m going to have to answer for my jeans, my name, and my alter ego.