Wicked White
Page 24

I nod, remembering how not too long ago I set off to California in search of a music career as a soulful indie artist. Iris and I aren’t so different after all. Matter of fact, it’s almost as if we were cut from the same cloth.
I’m not sure where her parents are, but I’ve been around her long enough to figure out that they aren’t in her life—that her grandmother raised her. So there’s that, which we have in common, but we also both apparently really dig music, and not just any music, but music that almost takes on a life of its own—music that we can throw ourselves into and sing with every inch of our beings because we love it. In order to sing show tunes, you have to feel the music. Emotion is impossible to fake through them if performed well.
Iris sighs, pulling me out of my thought. “I started going to every open audition I could find. So far, I haven’t had much luck, so I’m waiting tables until I can catch a break, but I know it’s going to happen for me one day, because I’m never going to give up.”
I smile, excited by her passion. “Well, let’s hear it then.”
“This one’s my favorite. It’s called ‘I’m Not That Girl.’”
The music plays softly, and she steps up to the stand and licks her lips as she wraps her hands around the mic. Even though I don’t know this particular song, the symphonic melody sets a dreamy atmosphere, and I already know she’s about to blow me away before she even has the chance to open her mouth.
She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes like she can’t bear to look at me while she sings. The moment the first word leaves her mouth, I smile at the buttery tone of her voice.
I was right. This girl is a fucking angel.
The pitch of her voice is perfect as she lands every note that the song calls for. I get lost in watching her perform this song, but I wish she would look at me. That’s where I feel she’s losing connection. If she does that when she auditions, it’s the one thing holding her back from getting those parts she wants.
There’s so much with the performance aspect of her singing I could help her with, but if I do that, I’ll be opening myself up for a string of questions that I know inevitably will come—questions I don’t think I’m ready to answer.
Finally, as she ends with the last note of the song, she opens her eyes to find me studying her intently.
A fierce blush rushes to her cheeks and she shrugs, like she doesn’t know what to say under the scrutiny of my stare.
She bites her lip nervously. “Obviously, I still have a lot to work on . . . I’m self-taught, so my singing is still a work in progress.”
I shake my head and, going against everything I just said I wouldn’t do in my head, I step toward her, wanting to help. I want to tell her what I think she’s doing wrong so that she can have a shot at her dream, even if that means I could out myself. Helping her also seems like a good way to apologize for being a dick.
“Iris . . . that was amazing. You’ve got so much talent,” I praise.
Her green eyes light up with excitement like a child’s do on Christmas morning. “You really think so? You’re not just saying that?”
“No. I never bullshit about music. You’ve definitely got the chops for Broadway, it’s just . . .” I hesitate, not wanting to hurt her feelings, but I know that in order for her to get better, she has to be told what she’s doing wrong.
She lays her hand on my forearm. “Please, tell me. I can take it. Promise.”
I stand beside her, so close that my chest nearly touches her shoulder. I’m itching to touch her, but I won’t do it without permission. “May I touch you?”
She draws in a ragged breath and then nods. “Yes.”
I curl the fingers of my right hand around her right shoulder and pull back a little so that her posture is perpendicular to the floor. At this angle, I can’t help but notice her heaving chest and how her perky tits move in sync with each breath she takes.
I slide my left hand against her toned stomach and my pinkie grazes the warm patch of skin that’s exposed between her T-shirt and the waistband of her jeans.
Our contact is fucking electric, and my own breathing picks up speed as I attempt to fight back the arousal I feel for her boiling beneath my surface.
“Everything about you is magnetic,” I whisper in her ear, and she shivers at my words. “Don’t be afraid to open your eyes and watch your audience enjoy you. Be confident and project. Let go.”
I let go of her shoulder, and move to face her before pressing the repeat button on the machine. As the intro of the song plays, I say, “Do it again, but this time I want you to look at me.”
This time when she opens her mouth to sing, when she begins to tip her head down, I slide my index finger under her chin and angle her head so that she’s forced to peer into my eyes.
Her words are just barely above a whisper, so I slip my hand back on her abdomen and say, “Project—from here. Sing it like you mean it.”
It’s like lightning strikes this beautiful woman in my arms as she sings to me without fear. The words of the song come out effortlessly, and her voice could rival any of the greatest female vocalists of all time.
She’s that damn stunning.
I nod approvingly and smile. “Yes!”
With that little bit of encouragement, she shocks me even more when she pushes herself to hit notes that are above and beyond what she reached the first time.
Only on the last lyric does she close her eyes while she holds the note there until the music stops. She releases a contented sigh as soon as the music ends, and when her beautiful eyes meet mine again, they swirl with emotion.