Page 35 of The Witch's Pet

She snorts. “Don’t insult me. Fine, if you think you can create a sufficient distraction…”

Nerves flutter inside me, but I nod. “I can handle it.” I pull out my wallet and show it to her. “This is the sort of thing you’re looking for, okay? It’s full of little rectangular cards.”

She studies it from all angles, pulling out a card to examine it. “Fascinating. What do they do?”

“That one…gives me points at the frozen yogurt shop…” I snatch it back. “Just give me a minute to start the distraction before following.”

I pull my hood over my head, scanning her old-fashioned clothes. Yeah, it’s better to send me in first. She stands out like…um, an ancient witch in a bar.

Julia reaches out to stop me, her fingers brushing my wrist. Her touch sends a pleasant ripple up my arm and a distracting rush of heat through my middle. “How will I know when you’re ready?”

I flash a nervous smile. “You’ll know.”

I walk inside, and the stuffy air hits my face, thick with the scent of beer and sugary cocktails. People are still grinding on the dance floor, and clusters of people chat over their drinks, some already loud and tipsy. I duck behind the nearest group of people before Maya and the burly bartender can look up and notice me. My ribs constrict painfully as I get further from Julia, and I do my best to breathe through it. The separation will only be for a minute.

Heart pounding, I scan the room for options—drinks to spill, tables to flip, people to pick a fight with, dance floor…

There.A karaoke machine sits behind the dance floor, its screen cycling through advertisements for drink specials.

A nervous jitter rolls through me, but now is not the time for stage fright. Now is the time to make an absolute spectacle of myself in order to save my own life.

The karaoke machine’s interface is blissfully simple. I scroll down the top hits of the year: “Single Ladies” by Beyoncé (too painful given my circumstances), “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas (tonight is absolutely not gonna be a good night), “Poker Face,” “Womanizer”…

I stop at “Gives You Hell” by the All-American Rejects. Perfect. Angry, loud, and it was only two months ago that Dean and I scream-sang this at his twentieth birthday while Riley laughed and filmed us. Back when I still believed we’d all be together forever.

I grab the mic before the memory can paralyze me.

You can do this. Pretend Dean is on backup vocals.

“Low” by Flo Rida stops abruptly, and my song’s opening notes fill the bar. Dancing screeches to a halt and conversations die as people turn toward me.

No backing out now.

The lyrics appear on the screen, and I crank up the volume, throwing myself into the song with everything I have.

People stare at me in equal parts horror and fascination. The bartender and Maya gawk at me, and recognition dawns on their faces.

I smile and wave as I sing, climbing up on a chair to get higher.

Come on. Take the bait.

Their expressions cloud over. They lean in, exchanging words.

The man nods, and they both start toward me, going wide to come at me from two angles.

Yes.

My heart beats faster as I sing louder, belting out the lyrics like a drunk girl at a bachelorette party. My voice cracks on the high notes, but whatever. The worse this is, the better the distraction.

The uncomfortable tightness in my chest suddenly eases, which tells me Julia must be inside. Past Maya and the bartender, she darts toward the door behind the bar like a shadow.

I raise my fist and lean into the chorus, my voice growing hoarse.

“All right, sweetheart,” the bartender says, barely audible beneath the music. “I think that’s enough for tonight.”

Shit, he and Maya are close enough to grab me.

I step onto the table, bumping the cluttered dishes. People scoot back as empty glasses crash to the floor.