♫ Creeping' around like no one knows
Think you're so criminal ♪
{Billie Eilish—Bad guy}

Filled with words of fearless encouragement from Bella and Delilah, Coralie stood by the steps to the stage. A thick, black cloth shaded the area where she stood, but still, she sensed motion behind it. And even with the gentle music playing in the background, she heard the motion—the voices, the clinking of glasses, the laughter. The dancing, the fidgeting, the rising anticipation of the event to come. It was them—the guests, anxiously awaiting Mellie's arrival. But would they welcome Coralie onto the stage, as well? Would they be warm, forgiving of the mistakes she'd likely make? Would they be sympathetic towards her novice status, and not too unkind when reviewing her performance after?

"All right, all right, everyone, the first part of the evening is about to commence!" A man in a maroon velvet suit had stepped onto the podium. So stuck in her woes, Coralie hadn't noticed him until he took the microphone and the background tunes had ceased. "Our opening act tonight says in her bio that she's from San Francisco, but we know the truth—she's from England, yeah!"

A few attendees cheered, and Coralie's heart warmed; were there British tourists in the crowd? Perhaps an expat, like her? She smiled, knowing at least one person might enjoy her performance, if anything out of support for a fellow Englishwoman.

"She's got a voice like a smooth whiskey, boys, and she's single—" a few whoops came from the guests, and Coralie shuddered, "—and she's here at Mellie's request! So... without further ado, please welcome, Coralie Amber Watson!"

To a round of muted but general applause, Coralie was ushered onto the stage. She'd been transfixed, one foot hovering over the first step, unable to move, unable to breathe. She's single, he'd said; was that true? Or was she technically in three relationships?

Lucky none of her prospects were in the audience to get angry over the somewhat false information.

Someone—she assumed a stage-hand—pushed her into tripping up the stairs, but she caught herself in time to put on a smile and wave as she slithered under the dulled spotlight. The podium seemed to go on for miles, expanding, elongating. In truth it was small, cozy; but her tension had messed with her vision, making it blurry, her eyes becoming itchy. Her jeans felt too tight, her shoes too loose, and perspiration gathered at the base of her neck. She wrung her hands, momentarily unsure what to do.

She wasn't alone on the stage. The band was there, and each member would see her anxiety and mock her, surely.

But instead they nodded at her when she spun to greet them, and gave her thumbs' up.

"Good to go?" asked the drummer; she remembered him from rehearsals, as he'd stopped by once or twice for some adjustments to her songs. His shaved scalp shone in the overhead light, and he watched her, eyebrows raising. "Coralie?"

"Yeah." She gulped, acquiesced, and twisted from him to face the microphone. "Ready," she said, not meaning to speak into the device, and drawing attention as she did so.

So many gazes peering up at her. So many individuals, there to listen to some good music, to dance, to drink. To be entertained. They smiled at her, some ogled her from head to toe, some licked their lips in approval at her appearance. They weren't angry at her being there, nor were they booing her off the stage—not yet. She believed she might have a chance at capturing their attention for a spell.

It was like at the karaoke bar, for her first performance after winning the gig night. Or like the contest where she'd won said gig. There were expectations, and she was sure these guests didn't expect her to uphold them. So far they were nice, they were fair; but would they stay that way once they heard her sing?

To make matters worse, unlike the karaoke bar, this space was larger, and packed. Every table was occupied, every VIP chair up front held an important guest. She spotted Bella and Delilah, grinning up at her, their presence reanimating the pep talk they'd given her earlier, in her dressing room. She was so pleased to have them there.

Folks were cramped all the way up to the rope delimiting the show zone, and some were forced to be on the other side of the rope, admiring at a distance. Waiting for the music to start, for Coralie to prove herself.

They weren't here for her. Aside from Bella and Delilah, they'd come for Mellie. And if Mellie chose Coralie as her front-runner, then Coralie had to deliver.

No pressure—no pressure at all.

The melody started—her first song of the night, which Nikita had chosen because it would strike fast, captivate, and keep the attendees fixated on her for the rest of her set. A docile-appearing harmony that took on a turn for the worst after the first verse, dipping into an alluring lullaby about sexual urges and not knowing how to cap them, stop them.

Coralie worried she'd forget the lyrics. That she wouldn't know when to switch gears, how to use the microphone, how to appear like she knew what she was doing. These words were hers, she'd written them, she'd rehearsed them day in and day out—and still, she stumbled a bit on the opening, too absorbed by the lights, the faces, the expectations.

Get a grip, Cora; you only get one shot at this.

She regained her bearings, found her footing, remembered her words. Immediately after her barely noticeable fumble, she belted out the lyrics straight from the heart, as planned. She gazed at the front row—Delilah and Bella squirming in delight—then glossed over the left side, the right side, then fixed the back rows. She swayed her hips to the rhythm, holding the microphone stand, letting it tip in tandem with her movements. As if she were dancing a sultry tango with it, seducing it into following her into bed.

"Make love to the mic; make love to the audience," Nikita had said on Friday, after the final rehearsal.

Nikita was there—Coralie spotted her at the bar, to the far right, sipping on a cocktail as she nodded her head to the tune. Her eyes were closed, and she was smiling, tapping her hand to the pulse—a good sign, Coralie thought.

With every new verse, she sighted a new face in the crowd. Different ages, different clothing styles, different genders, but all with the same hypnotic look about them; Coralie had wooed them, lulled them into her fantasy land.

Now, to keep them interested with my other songs.

The applause after the beat ended rang in her ears, thrumming and powerful. She'd hoped her brief mess-up in the beginning wouldn't lessen the positive reception, and to her relief, it hadn't.

They clapped until the next song commenced.

A sad ballad, this one, but a melody that allowed her to truly show her vocal skills, to set the guests soaring on a journey through her emotions. She was, after all, a story-teller; every melody she wrote held a piece of her soul, explained something that had happened to her, detailed the inner workings of her mind.

Halfway through this second piece, she noticed someone holding up a sign, saying "WE LUV U CORALIE". It was a young woman, barely within legal drinking age, with make-up so bold and bright it was visible from across the room. She was towards the back, brandishing her sign with pride, and she beamed when Coralie pointed at it and blew her a kiss.

Coralie smiled at how she'd remained calm despite wanting to scream. Someone knew who she was. So she wasn't performing to a group of people who'd never heard of her? Some of those gathered there had listened to her work, might have watched her YouTube videos, might have downloaded her songs to hum along to on their phones and streaming devices?

So consumed by her happiness at being recognized, Coralie nearly tripped over a wire, but covered up for it with a daring, ass-shaking move that paired perfectly with the crescendo of notes she'd been singing. In her mind, she thanked her lucky stars that Nikita had hired a professional dancer who taught her how to proceed after an error or a near-fall. And this cover-up riled up the crowd; they cheered at her move, hooted, asked for more.

Tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear, she continued perusing the crowd as she was taught—but froze on a figure in the rear, cozied up at one of the high tables. A figure she could have sworn she knew, but also could have sworn wasn't supposed to be there.

No... no way.

It had to be a figment of her imagination, a trick of the light. The mirrored ball hovered over the attendees, decking their faces in gentle rainbow sparkles; otherwise, the area was dark, and to identify someone sitting that far away was impossible. No, she was dreaming, hallucinating, too high on the applause, on the great welcome from Mellie's fans.

And in any case, it couldn't be him. The man giving her a thumbs' up, flashing a not quite sincere smile but captivating her, nonetheless? No, not who she thought. But why couldn't she persuade herself otherwise? He was there; with his eyes that twinkled in a grayish, hazel glow. He raised a hand to wave, brandishing a colorful tattoo on his arm, partially hiding under a sleeve rolled up to the elbow. And he wore a blue and black flannel; one she'd seen him wear before. One he'd worn in pictures they took together.

Was it him? Was it Michael?

No, it can't be.

She should have been sweeping her gaze across the area, according attention to everyone; but she couldn't pull away from him. She had to be sure—was it the man she'd recently dumped with a sloppy note on tacky hotel room stationary? Was it possible for him to attend this event, and if so, why would he want to?

A blink, a spin on her heel, a snap of her fingers—to proceed with the next song without interruption—and she concentrated on the spot where she'd seen him, hoping he'd disappeared. Or shifted back into a real person, not the ghost of someone she might have been in love with.

But to her dismay, there was no mistaking him, now. Spotlights had illuminated overhead—this tune was faster-paced, and the lights flickered about in rhythm with the drums—and doused him in a halo that showed his features, clear as day. No matter how many feet separated them, Coralie knew that face, that body, that posture.

She all but gasped into the microphone, but hurried to belt out the next sentence, recovering before anyone could have figured out her shock.

Michael. Michael? Why was he there? Why would he make the effort to attend the show of the woman who'd evidently broken his heart?

He'd come to boo her, for sure. To wait until she reached her peak of pleasure—enthralling her guests—and then to shatter her as she'd shattered him.

And yet, as he inclined his head in a nod of acknowledgment, his expression solemn but not unkind, she knew he'd never stoop to that level. He wasn't vindictive; if he was there, he had a solid reason for it.

And Coralie dreaded finding out what that was. Maybe he hadn't found her note? By some miracle, had it gotten swept under the bed, sucked up into a vacuum, never to be seen? Or had he read it, but not understood it, and came to see her tonight for clarification?

Fuck.

She needed to look away. Watching him made her nauseous, and nausea would mess with her voice, she knew. So she sashayed across the stage to the left side, and knelt down as the song slowed for a quick bridge.

She set her sights into the crowd and felt like a brick had been hurled into her chest, coming close to knocking her backwards. But it wasn't a real brick; only an imaginary whoosh of air sloshing into her rib-cage from the shock of a vision splayed out before her.

A vision, he was; and he was no specter, no fib of the mind, no summoning of her heart's desire.

Ryan.

He was near the rope, raising a green tinted drink in cheers to her. He stood out—he always did—with his jewel-like eyes reflecting the spotlights, and that tight, form-fitting navy suit he knew Coralie drooled over. A fedora was squeezed under his armpit, and he smacked a hand to his thigh, in tempo with the beat. He dripped sexual appeal; straight out of an obscure detective movie from the fifties, he went unnoticed by those around him, but Coralie couldn't quit staring—and she needed to.

Fuck. Fuck!

What were the odds that Michael and Ryan would be in the same room again, after San Francisco? The universe had it out for her, desperate for her worlds to collide and for her choices to crash into her face. It wanted her to fail, to stumble, to end up alone, didn't it?

On a hunch, and well aware of how sour her luck was, she scanned the crowd for the third of the bunch—

And there he was, a few rows from the front, comfortably seated on one of the VIP chairs. Chester, eyes closed, head bobbing to the beat, a smirk across his lips. He liked to listen to music without watching, to better engross himself in the lyrics, he'd told Coralie.

But how the fuck was he able to engross himself tonight? How was he there, too? He wasn't far from Bella and Delilah, which further surprised Coralie; how hadn't she spotted him? She kept winking at the girls, gaping at them for support, meaning she should have detected his presence, should have been aware of him—

Fuck. Fuck. Seriously, fuck!

Her night had gone from slightly traumatic, to incredibly smooth, to this—an utter disaster. Panic broke over her skin in goosebumps and rashes, and she was glad her next song was the last. She'd dash down the steps and hide in her dressing room for the rest of the evening; because what else was she supposed to do? Confront Michael? Embrace Ryan? Melt into Chester?

She'd blocked them. She'd done all she could to keep them out of her life, for now. And aside from her mishap with Ryan—that she hadn't provoked—and her slip with Michael, she'd been good, so good. She'd focused on her real goals, kept sight of what mattered most. Yet the universe saw it fit to bring all three of her contenders to her tonight? On a night with such importance, such meaning to the rest of her career?

She sent a scowl at the girls, wondering if they'd done it—if they'd summoned the guys to force her to confront her mistakes, and to make up her mind, at last. But why would they do such a thing? And after their hug in the backseat of the Lyft, and their help with coaxing Coralie onto the stage?

It made no sense. None of it did—not the rebellious men come to see her perform, not the two friends who might have organized it, and not the roaring applause announcing the end of her song, that she didn't even remember singing.

Had she blacked out during that entire final tune? Had she made a fool of herself?

Clearly not, from how the cheers grew in volume when she bowed and thanked them all. They clapped and clapped, and as she issued one more bow, her gaze connected with Chester's—and she winced.

He was there, they were there, and all three would seek her out now that her set was over.

Her knees buckled. Did she have time to rush out and hide before they ambushed her? Could she exit the building and leave them all wondering where she'd went?

Fuck, fuck, and more fuck.

♥♥♥