Page 74 of Dedicated
I bumped his shoulder with mine and gave him a smile that made him stop fiddling and grin back.
Les held true to his promise to put honest effort into staying sober. The first three months after he got out of rehab, he went to a meeting every day without fail. Now he went weekly. He’d worked the steps and made his amends, and I’d grown used to the random times he’d disappear to make a call to his sponsor, an old guy named Milt, who ended up becoming a friend to us both and frequently turned up at our house on the weekends. Yeah,ourhouse. We’d moved in together two months ago after buying a spread outside of Belle Meade that needed a little TLC but had an amazing layout and an old barn we were in the process of converting into a home studio. Royalties off the fourth album helped a shit ton with that. Three songs off that album went to number one, including “Break Me,” the song Les had busted out with at Grim’s Gatlinburg, and we were currently working on a side project with Amanda Faulks that I thought was going to light up the charts. She and Les tangling their words together? It was a special kind of voodoo.
So with all of that going for us, there was nothing for me to be nervous about. Except the fact that I planned for this show to be the one where I asked Les to spend the rest of his life with me. Les liked being center stage; he liked a dog-and-pony show. I didn’t and naturally would have planned something quieter and more private, but the idea of him being in one of his favorite places in the world when I proposed was too much to pass up. I loved the fucker, and there was no one else on earth who could get me so out of my element and make me enjoy it at the same time.
It had taken me forever to come up with the idea, and it was so fucking cheeseball that I knew he’d love it as much as he’d tease me eternally about it if I could manage to pull it off. Pulling it off was the tricky part, but I’d enlisted Mars’s help.
Les dragged in a deep breath and slung the strap of his guitar around his neck as the lights dimmed. “I can’t wait to sleep in our bed again,” he muttered, and then his smile lit up as Mars gave us the go-ahead. Mars threw a wink my way in passing, which I knew meant he’d done his part. Now Les just had to cooperate with my attempt at psychological manipulation.
We walked out to an ovation of thundering applause, and I made our usual introductions while Les prowled around the edge of the stage as he was prone to. When we finally set up on the pair of stools in front of our mics and I played the opening notes of “Twist Me Up,” our latest hit, Les ducked his head and caught my eye, speaking quietly to avoid being picked up by the mic. “Check out that chick’s shirt on the front row. I should’ve worn mine.”
I rolled my eyes but was ecstatic inside. One thing checked off the list. I glanced at the blonde wearing the “I will end you” T-shirt in the front row and gave her a wink. She beamed back. I didn’t even know her name, but I imagined I would later, since Mars had given her and her boyfriend backstage passes for her role in my scheme.
We played through our first set with no difficulty, took a quick break, then returned for our second. The crowd was full of energy, standing up, singing along, and it went a long way toward easing my anxiety. Until we got to the portion where Les did his ask-the-audience bit.
He hopped off his stool, pacing back and forth, and the tempo of my pulse sped up as he searched the audience. Then he pointed at the blonde, grinning. “I kinda can’t not pick you, because I have that same T-shirt.”
The girl bounced and clapped her hands.
Les started his usual spiel. “So what do you want to hear? Anything in the world. Doesn’t have to be ours. We may fuck it up royally, but we’ll give it our best shot. And, by the way, speaking of fuckups, there’s now a YouTube channel dedicated to all of our worst attempts at covers—thank you wayne17333. So you all can check those out if you want to hear Evan and me shattering our vocal chords with some Mariah Carey or me beatboxing a Barry White song. To whoever had the foresight to take a video of that night before Evan found me and tried to teach me right, thanks a lot. Really. I appreciate it.”
The laughter died down, and Les stopped at the edge of the stage again, inclining his chin to the girl. “So what’s it gonna be?”
I kept my eyes on the audience, afraid that if I looked down I’d see a puddle of sweat under me.
She licked her lips, shot me a quick glance, then cupped her hands around her mouth and called out, “Marry You?”
Les cackled. “Is that your boyfriend next to you?”
She nodded.
“Then I’m afraid I’ll have to decline. He looks like he might be able to beat up my boyfriend, and I kinda need him, soooo… sorry.”
She spoke again, and he leaned closer to hear. “Oh, right, of course! I knew that. Did I mention I have an ego?” He chuckled. “She meant the song. My bad. Okay. We can do that.”
He wandered back in my direction, setting his mic back into the stand and glancing over at me. “Bruno Mars, yeah?”
I nodded, hoping I wasn’t white as a sheet, then willed my hands not to tremble on my strings so I could start the damn song I’d been practicing for days.
“I’ve got this,” I said into the mic, and started playing, afraid I was going to lose my nerve. Fortunately, Les jumped in a second later, adding in percussion by slapping the pick guard of his guitar as he played. We alternated verses back and forth, then the audience joined in and it ended up going over much better than I expected. I was still panicking inside, but when Les turned his back to me and sidled toward the end of the stage during the bridge, I hopped from my stool, loosened the strap of my guitar and let it hang at my side, then got down on one knee. I dug the ring box out of my back pocket, drenching it with my sweaty palms as I opened it, exposing the simple titanium band.
When I set it on top of my thigh, the roar of the audience climbed to fever pitch. Les waved a hand encouragingly and glanced back at me over his shoulder, like he wanted to check and make sure I was hearing what was happening.
Then he froze, amusement melting from his expression as he abruptly stopped playing.
The din from the audience died down, and everything went quiet. I swear I felt every single eyeball in the auditorium glued to me, but none so penetrating as the mind-blown stare Les fixed on me. I’d never felt so vulnerable in my life.
He took a single step in my direction before stopping short. “What are you doing right now, Porter?” he whispered.
“Hoping like hell you’ll say yes?” It came out as a question. Fucking nerves.
“Holy shit, are you sure?” He ducked his head under the strap of his guitar and carried it at his side as he came slowly toward me, his features twisted with disbelief.
I nodded. “Sure enough to risk looking like a colossal idiot in front of a standing-room-only crowd, yeah.”
Les set his guitar absently on his stool and reached down, picking up the box and taking my hand to pull me upright. Anticipation knotted every muscle in my body, and I was sure he could feel it as he laid his hands on my shoulders, his gaze fastening to mine. “Yes. Fuck yes. A hundred million times over and then some.”
His mouth crushed mine, and I didn’t care about the audience exploding in crashing applause and whoops, or the stage lights beating down on us, or the sweat running down my temples. I sank against him, kissing him back, dizzy with relief and joy.