Page 39 of Thorns That Bloom (Venusverse #3)

“It’s much better, actually,” he says, sheepishly meeting my gaze. “Thank you. I appreciate this.” My heart leaps at the genuine tenderness he lets through in his voice. “And I know. I do feel safe…with you.”

Hearing those words out loud makes me think I’m in some daydream.

Smiling widely, I nod, and before I can get a hold on my dumb feelings, I blurt the first thing that comes to my mind.

The thing I’ve been thinking about a lot.

The thing I’ve wanted to ask him about before I messed up and upset him and then thought I ruined it completely by having that phone call in the worst of my rut.

“Would you like to come and watch me perform?”

Sam’s brows shoot up in surprise.

I feel stupid for blurting it out like that, so I start clarifying.

“There’s this little club downtown I perform at sometimes.

It’s called The Butterfly Den. I sing and play guitar there.

A lot of indie and up-and-coming artists do.

Well, it’s been a while since I’ve gone, and I thought I’d have to wait even longer, because my finger still doesn’t let me play properly,” I pause, showing the injured digit, “but this guy I know offered to fill in as the guitarist so I can perform. It’s not ideal, I really don’t like singing without playing, but I haven’t been in so long, it felt like I had to take the chance. ”

Oh, I’ve said too much. I can’t stop rambling when I’m around him!

His left brow goes down, while the other stays up. Sam moves his pursed lips to the side, maybe considering it. “When is this?”

“When? Oh. Right! This Wednesday, 7:40 PM. I know, I know, a random time. It’s how it is. You get what you get.”

“Is it supposed to be a date?” Sam asks, studying me cautiously.

I pause with a heavy gulp. “I— No. I was just wondering if you’d like to listen to me perform in a proper setting, singing a proper song. I mean…it’s whatever you want it…to be,” I say quickly.

As I lick my lips and brave another glance, I notice an unusual, borderline playful smile on Sam’s face.

His eyes soften. “I admit, you have a lovely singing voice. But the karaoke probably wasn’t the best circumstance to show it, so…

I’ll come, sure. To watch you perform,” he notes with a hint of friskiness to his words, almost like he’s toying with the ambiguity of the invitation.

My heart fills with the same kind of joy as when I saw his name on my phone screen the few days prior.

Sam stands up slowly, handing me the now empty plastic container with a thankful nod, feet pointed to the door.

He rolls his shoulders back again, letting out a pleased sigh.

Then, as I’m relishing his lingering scent and admiring his beauty again, he pauses with his hand on the door handle, looking at me over his shoulder.

“It better be worth dragging my pregnant ass across town and staying in regular clothes past my lazing-on-the-couch time,” he says, voice low and smooth, lips twitching with a fleeting smirk, before he turns.

I sit there, mouth agape, staring at the spot where he was, and if I knew better—if my mind wasn’t delusional and twisted in favor of wanting to believe that already—I would’ve sworn Sam just flirted with me…

?

It takes absolutely everything out of me to survive working my shift, or doing pretty much anything that isn’t practicing for my performance in the following two days.

It feels like I’m training for the act of a lifetime.

Like I’m going to be singing in front of Peggy Porter, the ‘alpha with the voice of an angel’ herself.

“You’re going to strain your vocal cords, Theo,” Dad says, letting out an amused chuckle as he glances at Pop next to him.

“But it’s good, right? It sounds good? Not too much?

” I blurt out, fiddling with the guitar in my hand.

They both sit in the kitchen with me after I’ve demanded to have their audience and for them to give their honest opinion on the song I will be singing in front of Sam.

“Minus the guitar, obviously. I only hope that Max is as good this time as he usually is. He says he knows the song well, so…”

“Wouldn’t want him to ruin your serenading,” Pop teases.

I fight the urge to puff my cheeks like a child, settling only on stomping my foot. “Stop! Stop making fun and tell me. Honestly.”

“Of course it’s good. It’s perfect. Your voice is perfect, like it always is, my little dork, and your eyes shine with the most captivating adoration when you sing.

I think he’s going to be as smitten as you want him to be,” Dad says.

He stands up to come to me, putting his hands on my cheeks with a crooked smile, while Pop watches from the kitchen island, amused.

I purse my lips, doubt swirling inside my mind and my heart.

“I don’t want him to be overwhelmed. Or weirded out. It’s not too much, is it? It’s a love song, but it’s not a love song that would scare someone away, right?” I ask, darting my eyes to Dad specifically, hoping he understands what I mean.

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Have you ever seen him this flustered over someone before?” he asks, twisting at his waist to Pop.

“Nope. Never.”

Dad turns back to me, petting my cheek. “You sweet thing. No, it’s not too much. The song isn’t sexual or pushy in any way. It’s no Gushing Holes.”

Pop makes a disgusted grimace behind him. “How I hate that damn song. Revolting.”

“That would probably get you a restraining order. Not the Prickles of Your Love Blooming Under My Skin. It’s one of the greatest, most touching love songs ever made, if you ask me.”

I let out a controlled breath. Besides all the endless worries, I’m giddy. I’m so damn excited to perform for him properly, but the critical voice in my head won’t shut up.

“Now, how about you stop torturing yourself with it and give your vocal cords a chance to function later, hm? You’re going to make yourself, and Martin, hate the song. With how fussy he is, he must be bitching at you about it already.”

I smirk at Pop. “He threatened to tape my mouth shut last night.”

They both laugh.

Seeing them together, supporting me, finally eases the worst of my anxiety.

They’re right. There’s nothing more I can do.

I sing the same way I always do, and that’s all I can give Sam.

I just hope it’s enough to see that smile of his again.

To make him happy. And maybe, just maybe, get a taste of that delightful, flirty side of him.

If only he’d let me.

If only that were what he wanted…

Later that evening, after a text from Sam confirming he’s still coming, I finally step foot in The Butterfly Den.

Everything feels strangely unfamiliar. I haven’t been in so long, considering my injury and…well, Sam walking into my life. I’ve been so focused on him and everything around him that I’ve sort of neglected this part of myself.

Not that I didn’t have a reason to go less frequently before.

With my relationship with Emily slowly breaking down for months, I’d definitely been finding more and more excuses not to go even pre-Sam.

After all, Emily would never miss a single performance.

She would never let me have one or two just for myself.

In her mind, I was trying to push her away or to hide something.

So I stopped altogether, stopped grabbing the available spots, stopped listening to the pull inside me to share myself…

I’m glad Max called me about this one, though. With him recovering from a throat infection and me recovering from nearly slicing my finger in half, we turned out to be a perfect match.

“What’s up, dude?” He greets me with a funky handshake and a quick hug. His bleached blond dreadlocks are shorter than the last time I saw him.

“Damn, you do sound awful,” I say with a grin that hopefully portrays how sorry I am for him.

His usually smooth and deep, booming voice is now all weak and crackly.

In a very weird way, it suits his thin frame much more.

Max has always been one of those people who open their mouths and make everyone gasp in shock at the sound that comes out.

He chuckles painfully. “Thanks. You gonna be able to play again soon, right?” He points at my hand.

“Oh, yeah. Already played when I prepared for today, it just doesn’t sound as good as I’d like and makes my finger ache after a bit. You’ll get better soon too, won’t you?”

“Yeah, but it’s the worst. Taking too long.”

“I get it. It sucks.”

“Anyway. Prickles of Your Love Blooming Under My Skin… I knew you were a romantic, obviously, but damn. Is there gonna be someone in the audience you wanna impress?” he asks, flashing his brows curiously.

I try to hide the stupid smile that comes out right away. “Maybe.”

“Ha!” Max exclaims, and gets momentarily stuck in a short, painful-sounding fit of coughing. He waves his hand at me, indicating he’s fine. “I better not mess up or forget my notes, huh?”

“You better not.” I give him a threatening glare, still smiling.

“Okay, Mr. Heartthrob. Let’s get set up. We’ve got this.”

By the time we’re done setting up and testing, more people fill the cozy room. Some faces I recognize; regulars who come here often to enjoy music of all kinds. I used to be one of them, which is how I first got the opportunity.

Dee, the always-cheerful omega bartender, waves at me from the bar as I run my eyes across the room. Unfortunately, there’s only one person I hope to see, and she isn’t him.

I mutter the words of the song under my breath as if I’m going to forget it otherwise.

When I look at Max, who keeps tuning his guitar, I’m paralyzed by the irrational worry over the possibility that he’ll suddenly lose control of his limbs or get a coughing fit and ruin the performance.

Then I quickly shake my head, telling myself how hysterical I’m being for no reason.