Page 101 of Royal Desire

Do I know every word to every song requested?

No.

Did I make up shit to fill in the difference?

Yes. Yes, I did.

And they loved it.

It started a domino effect, and the night went long. Blake told me to keep it going, so that’s exactly what I did.

Our last song was scheduled over forty minutes ago. I know Devon doesn’t care what we do. The liquor is flowing, the tips are coming in, and his guests are happy. He pays us to put on a show, and sometimes that requires an extra hour.

It was just a week ago that Payne introduced me as the love of his life at his private client party and planted a kiss on me that will go down in the history books. I would put that kiss up against any Broadway performance. It still takes my breath away.

To think about where my life was a week ago compared to now is overwhelming in the best and worst ways.

Ansel Reid is behind bars, and Enzo is running from his family. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he’s got more pressing things to worry about than me. He killed his own brother, and his family is after him. I don’t want anyone D-E-A-D, but better him than me.

Payne has kept his word. All week he hasn’t taken his eyes off me, whether I’m working at the Combover or I’m behind the mic in The Speakeasy. He’s tried to start the conversation about dropping my day job waiting tables, but I’m not leaving Winnie and Carl in a pinch. It’s a temporary job anyway. There’s no way I’ll quit until Winnie is back to one hundred percent.

Payne stands at the end of the bar sipping his drink of choice—soda water with a lime. His parents did a number on him. He said the reminder of what it’s done in his life is too much to stomach.

Dean made good on his promise. He got here in the middle of the second set and hasn’t left Payne’s side. Devon even joined them an hour ago. They sit next to Payne and have talked all night, but Payne’s attention has been solely on me.

Until two minutes ago.

He took a phone call. And I doubt one of his clients had an investment emergency into the wee hours between Friday and Saturday.

It’s all I can do to focus on the song and not throw the mic on the old wooden floor and rush over to him. The last time this happened, Grandma almost died and we lost our home.

Something isn’t right.

Dean abandons his half-drunk beer and stands. Devon huddles with them. None of them are calm or cool. I’d say they’re on guard, but that’s not quite it.

Payne has a look on his face I’m not sure I’ve ever seen. The adult Payne might be new to me, but I know him better than I know anyone. This expression is between pained and angry and...

I don’t know.

Murderous.

There’s no other description.

I turn to give Blake the signal to start the last song. It has to be good to end a night like this when Blake, the bar, and I will walk away with more tips than ever.

Journey.

Don’t Stop Believin’.

It doesn’t get any more iconic than that. If they don’t know every word to this song, they’ve lived under a rock or on a commune their entire lives.

When you’ve been singing in bars as long as I have, you become skilled at performing and staying attuned to your surroundings. My attention might seem like it’s on the crowd, but it’s not.

Payne slides his cell into his pocket and drags a hand down his face.

Yes.

Fury and manslaughter are written all over him.