Convict: A Bad Boy Romance (61 page)

Kirsten narrowed her eyes playfully.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then we’re gonna
kill
tonight,” he said.

The bar had filled up since they’d gotten there, and for the first time, Kirsten realized that actually, quite a lot of people were about to watch her get on stage in a sparkly dress and sing a Meatloaf song with two wolf shifters.

Instead of wondering if it was a good idea, she took another sip of the Moscow Mule for liquid courage as Diane sang her lungs out to
Girls Just Wanna Have Fun
.

“We should’ve sung that,” she teased, and Jack rolled his eyes.

“That would’ve gone great,” he said. “The two of us and you, up there, singing that on a Saturday night in Vegas.”

“I’d have had a good time,” she said. “We should have prepared more, maybe the two of you could come up with some backup singer dance moves.”

“Don’t push your luck,” Houston said.

Diane’s song ended, and she held up her microphone to raucous applause, walked off stage, and hugged every person in a group full of middle-aged women.

“Up next is Kirsten, Houston, and Jack, singing
Paradise by the Dashboard Lights.
Come on up, you guys!”

Kirsten put one hand on each man and pushed them toward the edge of the booth, then followed them out to the stage, drink in hand.

H
ouston was well
on his way to seriously drunk. Kirsten was there already, he could tell, though something about it just made her even more appealing. She wasn’t a sloppy drunk, she wasn’t spilling her drink or tripping over herself, but she sure was a
giggly
drunk, and every time she giggled, Houston felt something deep inside him glow.

So he kept trying to make her giggle.

The DJ in charge of karaoke handed them each a cordless microphone and switched them on. Houston looked at the thing in his hand like it was some sort of exotic animal.

Where do I hold it?
he wondered.
A foot away? Six inches? What if I break it?

And what the hell do I do with my other hand?

The song started, and TV screens all over the bar flashed red, then showed the first screen full of lyrics. Houston stared, open-mouthed, suddenly panicking.

This isn’t even the song that I thought it was
, he thought.

“Is this it?” he hissed to Jack.

Jack just winked, then turned to the screen and went for it. It was obvious that he didn’t know what he was doing, either, but then Kirsten missed her first musical cue, cracked up, and Jack cracked up too.

Houston took another swig of his drink, took a deep breath, and gave it shot.

He was bad. There was no way around that, as he tried to read the words on the screen — not the easiest, given his state — at the same time that he tried to figure out the melody to this song that he’d
thought
he knew.

But he did it loud, and he gave it his all, and Kirsten was laughing and giggling, looking over at him with her eyes sparkling, and that was all he really gave a shit about.

Houston sang louder. He went even more off-key and stumbled over the words even more, but the crowd was starting to get into it now, especially the gaggle of middle-aged women down in the front.

Finally, just as he was out of breath, the screen went blank, then flashed:
32 measure break.
Houston wasn’t really sure what that meant, but Kirsten and Jack seemed to be taking a break as Jack took Kirsten’s hands, did a couple of very bad dance moves, and spun her around as she laughed. Her drink was empty again, and she’d set it on the stage, where a waiter had already grabbed it.

Then she spun over to Houston, who stuck the microphone in his pocket, grabbed Kirsten, and dipped her until her hair nearly touched the stage. As she stood she grabbed Houston’s shoulder for support, and the middle-aged ladies went
wild
.

Kirsten shouted something that Houston couldn’t hear, so he bent down, putting his ear right by her mouth.

Instead of saying it again, she kissed him on the cheek, her lips warm, soft, and heart-stopping.

In the crowd, someone whistled, and then the screen had even more words that Houston didn’t know. Not that he could hear the backing track over the pandemonium, either way — now the ladies were shouting for Kirsten to stop playing favorites and kiss Jack, who grinned and made a “what about me?” face at Kirsten.

Between lines, she threw her arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the cheek, too, leaving bright red lip prints, like she’d marked him. Their antics left Houston to stumble through the words alone, even as the piano and horns in the song built to a crescendo.

As a substitute for singing well, he did it loudly and raised his glass into the air. Everyone in the bar raised a glass and cheered in response, and luckily, most of them knew the words better than he did.

Suddenly, the song went quiet, practically the only noise in the bar Houston’s shouting voice, and everyone cracked up. Houston just shrugged. Then Kirsten was at his side, slipping an arm around his waist. Jack joined in on the other side, and Houston put his now-empty glass on the stage and swayed with the two of them, moving back and forth in time with the song’s final few bars.

A picture of a treble clef flashed on the screen, and it was over. Houston grinned and held his microphone in mock-victory.

“I made it!” he shouted, and somewhere below him, he heard Kirsten laughing. Then he looked over at the two of them, Kirsten nestled below his arm, Jack’s face hovering above his head.

“You’ve got lipstick on your face,” Jack shouted, his green eyes sparkling.

“So do you,” Houston shouted back.

Then he leaned right over Kirsten’s head and kissed his mate. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so ecstatic, and about what? A kiss on the cheek and singing so badly that he’d probably broken a row of glasses in the back?

The ladies in the front whistled, and then the DJ announced the next person. Jack grabbed Kirsten’s hand, she grabbed Houston’s, and they walked offstage and back to their booth. As they did, Houston heard the opening strains of something much quieter and slower than what they’d just sung.

I think we did way better
, he thought smugly.
We were way louder, at least
.

“More drinks?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Jack.

“Water?” asked Kirsten, still breathing hard from singing. Houston had a hard time ignoring the way her chest moved up and down in her dress, but he went to the bar, where the bartender smiled at him and served him first, and at least two women in leather jackets congratulated him on his performance.

He thanked them politely, took his champagne and water, and went back to the table. Jack had his arm around Kirsten now, and she leaned against him, looking drunk and happy. Houston had to concentrate on not spilling the glasses everywhere, but managed to land them properly on the table, sliding two of them toward Jack and Kirsten.

“Okay,” he said, trying to gather his thoughts.

It wasn’t really working. Something in his brain kept misfiring at the sight of his mate and Kirsten together like that, and whatever he was about to say just turned into a warm, gushy feeling deep inside.

“Okay!” Kirsten said in response, waiting.

Houston slid into the booth, pressing himself against Kirsten, their faces only inches apart.

“Okay, no, here goes the toast,” he said, looking from her to the bubbly glass of champagne.

“We did great!” Jack said. “How’s that?”

“Yes,” said Houston. “Here’s to us and how great we did. We totally killed whatever that song was.”

Kirsten threw her head back and laughed, and over her head, Jack and Houston exchanged a glance, then smiled.

Usually we’re balls-deep by now,
Houston thought.
But I’d way, way rather be here, slurring over dumb toasts.

Weird
.

“Okay,” said Kirsten. “Here’s to divorce parties with happy endings.”

“I thought we were just getting started,” said Houston.

He drank anyway.

“It’s barely midnight,” Kirsten said. “What else have you two got in store?”

“Room service champagne?” suggested Jack, a familiar glint in his eye. “We splurged on a pretty good suite this year.”

Beside him, Houston could feel Kirsten stiffen, her glass freezing halfway between her mouth and the table, her big eyes looking up at Jack.

“Uh,” she said, blinking.

“Just to hang out,” Jack said, a little lamely.

Houston could tell his mate had just said the first thing that had come to mind, the sort of thing he’d
usually
say.

“I’d rather stay out,” Kirsten said, her spine still perfectly straight. She looked down at her glass, and suddenly seemed shy. “I’m not really...”

She didn’t have to say
that kind of girl
.

“There’s a country western bar at Harrah’s that a bunch of the rodeo guys went to,” he said. “If you want to watch some very drunk men fall off of a mechanical bull.”

The moment he said that, Kirsten relaxed, going back to herself.

“Can I watch
you
fall off a mechanical bull?” she asked, a sly look coming into her eyes.

“Me, yes,” Houston said. “Jack, maybe not. He can hang onto them things pretty good.”

Jack just nodded.

“Don’t forget I was a champion,” he said. “What about you?”

“I’m wearing a skirt,” Kirsten said, as primly as she could. “It would be unladylike.”

Then she laughed.

* * *

H
ouston closed his tab
, and a few minutes later, the three of them were standing on the edge of the casino floor, trying to figure out which way to the exit.

They were drunk, and it was basically impossible.

“Fuck it,” said Jack. Then he spun around, shut his eyes, and pointed. “Walk that way.”

“Wait,” said Kirsten. She looked nervous again, tugging on a strand of honey-brown hair, her lipstick slightly faded but her eyeliner still perfect as ever around her wide brown eyes.

“What?” asked Houston.

“Listen, this is really
really
fun and everything, but, uh, I’m probably not going to sleep with you guys tonight,” she said, flushing a bright pink that went all the way down her neck. “That’s kind of not what I do? Nothing against people who do! It’s just, I never really could, for whatever reason, and I didn’t want you guys to get the wrong idea...”

She trailed off, still bright pink, looking from one to the other.

“I’m still in,” said Houston, looking at his mate. “You still in?”

“I’m still in,” Jack said. “Are you kidding?”

Kirsten smiled weakly.

“Thanks for being cool, guys,” she said.

“What makes you think it would be a one night thing?” Houston said. Jack started walking, and Houston took Kirsten’s hand, lacing their fingers together as they weaved through other drunk people rushing every which way.

“We did ask for your number,” Jack reminded her. “You were the one who wouldn’t give it to us.”

“I didn’t think you’d seriously come find me,” she said, looking up at Houston. It made her weave a little, and she bumped into him.

A couple feet ahead, Jack stood frowning, a row of emergency exits in front of him.

“The casinos do this on purpose,” he said, looking from side to side. “They just want you to gamble all your money and leave.”

Then he spotted a hallway off to one side, lined with shops.

“This way,” he said. “I think this connects to... I don’t know what.”

Houston and Kirsten looked at each other, shrugged, and followed Jack.

The hallway had a handful of drunk people stumbling along it, some laughing. Only one storefront was open, a neon blue sign that Houston was far too drunk to read gracing the outside.

Out in front of the open store stood a man in a sparkly jumpsuit, complete with a shiny cape, and a wig with a black pompadour.

As they walked past, on the opposite side of the hallway, the fake Elvis suddenly crouched down on one knee, and pointed at another couple.

“Hubba hubba!” he said in a thick and terrible Southern accent. “What do you two lovebirds say to tyin’ the knot right now?”

The couple just laughed and walked on.

Elvis was not deterred.

“What about y’all three?” he asked, still on one knee, pointing at Jack, Houston, and Kirsten, all walking hand-in-hand. “How about you make that hunka burning love legal?”

Kirsten giggled, and Houston grinned over at Jack.

“Want me to finally make you an honest man?” he asked his mate.

“Nah,” said Jack. “We’ve been living in sin for years, why stop now?”

Houston grinned.

There was a real reason that the two of them hadn’t just gotten married. They could have, and then gotten re-married when they found the right girl, of course. They’d talked about doing that, but something had always felt wrong, felt off — they wanted to save getting married for when they were finally complete.

There’s three of us now
, Houston thought quickly.

That’s ludicrous
, he reminded himself.
You’re drunk, and she only met you two tonight
.

“Come on!” shouted Elvis. “It’s legal now, all three of you can get hitched and say ‘Love Me Do’ tonight!”

He rolled his hips suggestively, and Kirsten laughed.

“That’s the Beatles!” she shouted.

“Crap,” Elvis muttered.

“He seemed
all shook up
,” said Jack.

Kirsten groaned.

“Not you, too,” she said. “How much further is that mechanical bull?”

“Almost there,” said Houston, who had no idea where they were or where they were going, but felt good about it.

Over Kirsten’s head, Jack shot him a look, then darted his eyes back to the Elvis, still accosting people behind them.

Houston shrugged.

There have been worse ideas
, he thought.
I’d get married tonight
.