He grabbed her ankle and laced up the boot that had come untied. “I need you in fighting shape. There will be dance moves in our performance of awesomeness. I don’t want you falling into the audience.”
“I—”
His palm slid under her knee and squeezed, sending a shiver up her leg. The simple move had her wanting to blow this joint now. But too soon, Ren stood again. “Let’s go.”
Reluctantly, she followed. Grace, Carlos, and Josh were huddled around the binder that listed all the songs by the time they reached the front. Hayes stepped to the side, his gaze on Ren and Cora, his expression amused. Traitor, indeed. Ren tapped Grace on the shoulder. “Mind if we jump you in line? Cora’s dangerously close to losing her buzz.”
Grace lifted her head and turned to Cora, a giddy look on her face. “No shit? You’re actually going to sing? Yay!”
“I have not agreed to such—”
But Ren tugged her hand and dragged her toward the deejay. “Oh, you so have.”
Cora sent her friends a helpless look, but they seemed to be enjoying her downfall. Cora glanced at the crowd, which had now turned to face the stage, ready to roast the next horrible act to go up. Her stomach flipped over. “Ren, I—”
But Ren was already whispering something to the deejay and then guiding her to the stage. The club wasn’t huge but it was packed on a Saturday night, and every one of Cora’s shy-girl genes had a simultaneous panic attack.
A few people hooted and hollered when they got on stage—including Josh and Grace. And a few whistles went up, no doubt for Ren, who looked like he belonged on a goddamned stage. Cora, on the other hand, wanted to run. The last time she’d been on a stage she’d been trying out for the school play in ninth grade. She’d had some surge of bravery, letting her love of theater override her nerves. But that had lasted about two-point-three seconds because she’d frozen and had forgotten every line.
Her throat went tight. “I can’t do this. And what if you picked a song I don’t know?”
“If you don’t know this song, we’re getting a divorce. The girl who rigged the high school
computers for Broadway better show me what’s she’s got.” Ren handed her a microphone and leaned over to peck her on the lips. “You’ve got this, Benning. Have fun. No one gives a shit about how good we sing. They’re probably hoping we’re awful. They just want to be entertained.”
“People are gonna throw drinks at us.”
“Not a chance.” He turned to the crowd, flashing them a winning smile, and then spoke into his microphone. “We’re going to give this to you good, ladies and gentlemen, but I need a leather jacket and a boa if available.”
Cora blinked. What the hell?
The request seemed random and ridiculous, but before a few seconds passed, someone had passed a leather jacket up to the stage from the crowd and a gorgeous drag queen in the front row had kindly donated a pink feather boa.
“Excellent,” Ren said. He turned his back to the crowd and slid on the jacket in a reverse striptease, garnering catcalls.
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. The guy was so freaking shameless. He waggled his eyebrows at her and then strode over to drape the boa around her neck, leaving her standing there in a shimmery shirt and pink feathers.
He lifted her hand and kissed the top. “Showtime.”
The lights went down and Ren made a production of pretending to slick back the sides of his hair. The music started up and the first few notes were instantly recognizable. She closed her eyes and shook her head, unable to stop the goofy grin on her face.
Grease. Of course.
Ren popped the collar of his jacket, gave her a look dripping with sex appeal, and did his best John Travolta as he sang about chills multiplying and losing control.
Cora didn’t even have to look at the screen scrolling the words. She’d sung this song an embarrassing amount of times in the safety of her own room. Not that she could’ve taken her eyes off Ren anyway. He was all in, committing to the role and clearly not afraid to go over the top with his performance. When her part cued up, the smile he sent her was one of pure, boyish delight.
And it was damn contagious. She grinned back, knowing it was about to be the do-or-die moment. She could muddle her way through the lyrics, let everyone see just how uncomfortable she was. Or she could channel that tequila buzz, focus on the sexy, ridiculous spectacle in front of her, and forget about the crowd.
She was going to murder Olivia Newton-John’s part with a dull, rusty butcher knife, but she might as well do it to the fullest. People would assume she was drunk. She kind of was.
So with a confidence she channeled from some place outside herself, she put a hand to her hip, strutted across the stage, and sang to Ren that he better shape up. Because, dammit, she needed a man.
Or men, as the case may be.
Ren beamed and went nose to nose with her to sing his part and to back her up across the stage. When she got to the edge, he turned her in his arms and pressed her back against his chest. He was deliciously warm, his heart beating as fast as hers.
She knew the next line said the word affection, but she was starting to feel this now, feel the energy of their audience. She playfully ground her backside against his front and changed the line. “If you feel an erection, you’re too shy to display . . .”