Page 20 of Falling for Them (Cinderella’s Daddies #1)

Nineteen

Sebastian

I only have to wait a few minutes for Ella’s shift to end, and to be completely fucking honest, I don’t mind waiting at all, because I get to sit here and watch her work.

She’s quick on her feet, and thoughtful.

She has a smile for the people she waits on, and when one group gets her into conversation, she blushes and grows shy.

Finally, though, she finishes up and gives me a “one minute” gesture before disappearing down a side hallway.

A man across the room watches her go. He’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and looks like he belongs here, given everyone else’s casual wear, but something about the intensity in his eyes bothers me. Why’s he watching Ella?

But then, of course he’s watching Ella. She’s a beautiful woman. I can’t take my eyes off of her, either.

I stand up when she returns to the dining room. She’s wearing a threadbare coat and carrying a giant purse.

She eyes me as she approaches. “You’re dressed a lot nicer than I am.”

I’m wearing a brown button-up and a pair of jeans. “Not really,” I say.

“I smell like beer. Maybe we should do this some other time.”

“Nope,” I say. I’ve got her now, and I’m afraid to let her go. “You promised me karaoke. I’ve been looking forward to hearing you sing again.”

If she notices the double entendre in my words, she ignores it. “Fine. Karaoke it is.”

As we walk out of the pub, I stand close to her, hoping to signal to that other guy that she’s taken and his energies will be better spent elsewhere.

Is it domineering and low-key possessive of me to do this?

High-key possessive? I can’t fucking care.

Until Ella sends me out of her life completely, I belong to her, and I consider her mine.

The sidewalk is fairly crowded, because it’s only nine p.m. I use the excuse of the crowd to walk close to Ella.

Her shoulders are hunched and her breath is visible when she exhales.

This coat she’s wearing looks like it would be more suited to April or October, not the middle of winter… not even a mild California winter.

“Do friends put their arms around each other’s shoulders?” I ask.

She shoots me a glare. “Sometimes.”

“As your friend, then, I’m going to help keep you warm.” I wrap an arm around her and she huddles against me as we walk. I’m hit with vivid memories of holding her at Kingston’s penthouse, her body quaking with her release, sweet moans issuing from her throat.

Rick, standing in the doorway of the bar, nods when he sees me and holds out his palm for our cover charge. I hand over the fee for me and say, “She’s singing.”

Rick appraises her. “You, again, huh? What are we going to call you?”

“Cinderella,” she says. “And give Sebastian back his money—he’s singing, too.”

“Uh, no, I’m not,” I say.

“Uh, yes, you are.”

I start to shake my head, but I can see something in her eyes—if I deny her, is she going to bolt? I can’t chance it.

“Okay, whatever the lady wants,” I say.

Rick stumbles over his words as he passes back my cash. “I—if you’re sure, I mean, okay. Yeah.”

Ella and I walk inside. We’re immediately hit with a blast of sticky-sweet-scented heat, like everyone’s drinking lemon drops…or maybe showering in them. But the crowd inside is thankfully small. The chances of me being recognized are slim, as always.

“Sing first,” Rick says. “Sit and drink later. But you can have a shot for your nerves, if you like.”

I’m tempted. Not because I need something to help with performing, but because I haven’t performed in so long, this is going to be trippy.

But it’s a small request. Ella has no idea what she’s asking of me. I’m sure I could get her to stay by my side even if I don’t sing. Maybe I’m not trying hard enough to get out of this because I secretly want to do it?

I miss performing. I miss creating music, sharing it with the world. Maybe, in this hole-in-the-wall karaoke bar, I can get a taste of the life I lost.

“Nothing to drink for me,” I say. “Princess? How about you?”

“Just some water, before we sing.” Pausing, she puts a delicate hand on my arm. “Bash, if you don’t want to do this, I won’t make you. You can go give the guy your cover charge and call it good.”

“Nope, I’m in. Are we singing together?” I ask.

She nods. “I’d like that.”

“Okay. What are we singing?”

She thinks for a minute. “‘Poker Face.’”

I laugh. “Because you don’t have one?”

“Yep.”

“Fair enough. Okay,” I say, “let’s do it. You’ll be doing Lady Gaga’s part?”

“I’ll be trying,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I might pass it off to you if it gets to be a strain. You up for that?”

“I give good range,” I say.

Laughing, we hop up on stage. The few people in the club start clapping like wild. They must be surprised to see me, a no-singing regular, up here.

Unless some of them recognize me. Nah. I’ve been coming here for months and nobody’s said a word.

The opening beat and synthesizer begins. A mixture of groans and cheers rises up from the handful of folks in the audience. But as soon as we start singing, me mostly performing the male back-up vocals, we convert even the hesitant audience members. Several have their phones out, filming.

Filming isn’t that unusual here, although it seems like everyone is recording this.

Shit. Have they figured out who I am?

I push it aside. That’s a worry to deal with later.

Right now, Ella’s happy. Her voice is absolutely perfect for this—she’s a natural contralto, and she sounds damn good.

I weave the back-up lyrics, supporting her as she sings.

During the bridge, she grins over at me and gestures I should take over the speaking part, so I focus on the words flickering on the lyrics screen and just let the crowd have it.

A couple more turns through the chorus, and the song ends. Ella and I hold hands and bow together.

More people have come into the bar. Definitely more of a crowd, now, as people finish dinner and begin to bar-hop.

They’re calling for an encore. I fucking live for this, the high of a performance well done, the joy of an enthusiastic audience.

My heart feels lighter, jamming away in my chest. I want more of this, even though I shouldn’t, even though it takes me places I shouldn’t go. Places of addiction, of mistakes.

But fuck it, I don’t know how to hold back. I squeeze Ella’s hand. “You want to give the crowd what they want? One more song?”

Smiling widely, Ella nods.

“You got it, princess.”

“Sing again!” someone shouts from the crowd.

“Sure, one more song. Any requests?” Ella calls out.

“Yeah,” a woman in the front says. “How about something by Bastian Crown?”

Aw, fuck. Yeah, I’ve been made.

But Ella goes right on past it. “I’m not that familiar with his music.”

The woman laughs, like Ella’s told a joke, but someone else is suggesting another song. Hozier’s “Arsonist’s Lullaby.”

“Yeah, let’s do that one,” I say, grabbing any opportunity to dissuade talk about my name. “You know it?”

She nods. “Not great, but I can muddle through.”

As the opening chords ease through the speakers, I steal a glance at Ella. She doesn’t know who I am, at all. And I fucking love the freedom of that. She treats me like anyone else.

I’ll have to tell her at some point, but now is not the time.

Ella

The energy of the audience is different tonight than what it was the last time I sang here. They seem…hungrier. Like they have some kind of weird expectation.

Sebastian’s voice is incredible. Rich, textured.

A little bit gravelly, in a way that reminds me of our night together at Mr. Tyler’s.

And as we sing about demons and keeping them close, about fire and flame and being unable to resist the things that captivate us, that draw us in, I find myself identifying with the song more than I’d ever thought possible.

It’s not just about loving fire. It’s about embracing the things that make us wicked, the things that fascinate us even if maybe they aren’t good for us.

Sebastian and Mr. Tyler can’t be good for me. Oh, the sex was amazing, all right. But in the long run, it would never work. I saw what happened with Joel. I don’t belong in their world.

But can I stay away?

Our voices twine together, slow and sweet. I take his hand, needing to touch this amazing man. Why didn’t he tell me he could sing like this? Damn. If I were in the crowd growing in the bar right now, I would be flinging my panties at him. He’s so fucking sexy, it’s like he belongs on this stage.

He leans in close, sharing the microphone with me. Our breaths mingle, our mouths are close enough that I could almost kiss him.

And wow, do I want to kiss him.

His hazel eyes are intent on mine, and even though we’re on a stage in a dingy karaoke bar, it’s like nobody else is here. He’s singing directly to me, telling me about his demons and I can feel it, all the sorrow and bittersweet love in not just the lyrics and the melody, but in him .

When the song ends, everyone claps and whistles like we’re rock stars or something.

They’re asking for more, but Sebastian grabs my hand and leads me from the little stage.

“I have to run, princess,” he says. “I’ll drop you off at home.”

“Oh, okay.” I’m weirdly disappointed. I’d thought we would stay here for a couple hours or so, after all of his insistence that we hang out as friends. But now, suddenly he has to leave?

He waves at the people in the bar as we walk past. Something about that gesture seems odd, like he feels he owes them something, or that they want something from him, but he doesn’t want to give it.

As soon as we’re out on the sidewalk, he pulls his phone from his pocket and texts someone.

“My driver,” he says.

“Of course,” I say, “your driver.”

“Do I detect a little bit of attitude in your voice, princess?” he asks.

“Nope, not from me, nuh-uh.”

“I’m getting the impression that you have something against the fact I have a driver.”