Sing For Me by Rachel Schurig

Eva

When I left the gala with a promise from Will that he’d be in touch to set up the date soon, I couldn’t help but feel a little skeptical. I had been sure that he was into me once before, and that had only led to me waiting by the phone for days, feeling more and more despondent. What if he did the same thing again? What if, once I was out of his sight, he started remembering whatever his reasons had been for not wanting to get involved with a professional musician?

But all the doubts flew out the window when I got a text from him literal seconds after climbing into the limo.

I’m glad we ran into each other tonight, it said. I probably didn’t deserve a second chance not to blow it, but I’m not going to make that mistake twice.

It wasn’t the last text I got from him, either. We messaged back and forth that night while I got ready for bed. We messaged the next day while he was stuck in the shop office doing paperwork. When he suggested a day and time for the date, I agreed immediately.

For the first time in a really long time, I’m actually excited about something. And, even crazier, my excitement isn’t tinged with the usual bitterness of anxiety. I’m not afraid that I’m going to freak out with Will. I’m not afraid that I’m going to blow it before it can even get started.

Of course, once I’m in the back of the town car and on my way, the nerves kick in. But they’re not my usual panicky thoughts about men who are bigger than me and crowds and strangers. No, this is your run of the mill first date nerves.

And somehow that makes me feel better. This is the way that most people feel when they’re going to meet someone they really like. It’s normal.

I hold tight to normal as often as I can these days.

Will is waiting in the lobby of the shop. From outside, I can see him through the plate-glass windows. His arms are crossed over his chest as he leans into the reception desk, his expression flat and closed off.

But the moment I open the door and he sees me, his features soften, lips tugging up at the corners into an almost smile. “You came.”

I look around for a clock. “Am I late?”

“No, you’re right on time. I just kept thinking that this whole thing can’t really be happening.” He rubs his hand over the back of his neck, embarrassed. “I mean, a girl like you hanging out with a guy like me? Pretty unbelievable.”

I roll my eyes. “If you’re fishing for compliments, it won’t work.”

He barks out a laugh. “I wasn’t, but I appreciate you calling me on it all the same.”

Our gazes hold across the small space. He’s a little more dressed up than he had been the first time I was here, his jeans dark and free of holes, faded t-shirt replaced with a long sleeved grey Henley that clings perfectly to every inch of his sculpted chest and arms. The material looks soft and my fingers itch to touch him. His beard is slightly scruffier than it was at the gala, and instead of being slicked neatly back, his longish hair is a little unruly.

He’s the picture-perfect specimen of man, and I actually feel a little weak in the knees.

Something in his eyes flashes and he strides across the shop to me, placing his hands on my shoulders and pulling me closer so he can lean down and press his lips to my cheek.

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” I murmur. “So do you.”

He raises an eyebrow, mouth twitching. “Beautiful, huh? I don’t think anyone has ever called me that.”

“They should,” I blurt. Because it’s true. I think he might be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

He looks amused as he holds out his hand. “You ready to go?”

We had agreed on something casual for this first date—lunch at a burger joint near Will’s shop. As he pulls me out into the typical southern Californian day—warm and sunny—he doesn’t drop my hand. The sensation of his fingers wrapped around mine makes me feel way more giddy than holding hands should. Apparently, I’ve reverted back to pre-teen status.

But I don’t have very long to enjoy the feeling. We only pass two store fronts before he points ahead at a red neon sign for Ollie’s. “Here we are.”

“You weren’t kidding when you said this place was close by.”

He grins. “Probably the top perk of our location. Most of the guys at the shop practically live on Ollie’s fries.”

The restaurant is packed and I feel a vague thrum of unease. There’s a line at the counter and the thought of cramming myself in with all of those people has my palms sweating. I try to tug my hand from Will’s but he tightens his grip, leading me away from the line and towards a corner in the back of the restaurant, where it’s much less crowded. We’re a few feet from the red leather booth when I notice the small sign sitting on the table. Reserved.

I raise an eyebrow at Will. “Interesting. I don’t know if I’ve ever been to a counter service restaurant that takes reservations.”

His smile is sheepish. “I know a guy.”

And no sooner have we sat down does the guy arrive at our table. The man is short and stocky, dressed in a white t-shirt and grease covered apron over jeans. His battered ball cap sports the restaurant’s logo—a logo that’s repeated prominently in one of the many tattoos covering his arms.

“Will, my man.” My date pops up out of his seat and the two do a complicated looking handshake/back slap hug thing. “How’s it going?”

“All good, man.” Will looks over at me. “Eva, this is Ollie, he owns this joint. Ollie, this is Eva.”

“Nice to meet you, Eva.” We shake hands and Ollie tilts his head towards Will. “How’d this guy get a pretty girl like you to have lunch with him?”

“Complete unprofessionalism while giving a tattoo,” I say, throwing back the words Will had used that day when he programmed his number in my phone. Across the table, his eyes spark with amusement.

Ollie laughs. “Whatever works, I guess.”

Will looks around. “Business looks as busy as ever.”

Ollie wipes his hands on his apron. “Yeah. Things haven’t really slowed down since your dad and uncles started coming in here.”

“Nah, man. That might have gotten you some attention, but the food is what keeps people coming back.”

Ollie grins. “Whatever it is, I’ll take it.” He pulls a small pad of paper from his pocket. “I’ve got fries and onion rings coming out for you in a minute. What do you want on your burgers?”

Will looks over at me and I shrug. “You want the heavy,” he says. “Trust me.”

“Sure. I like pretty much everything.”

“You like root beer? Ollie’s brother brews it right here.”

“Sounds great.”

Ollie jots down our order. “I’ll have someone bring it out ASAP.” He slaps Will on the back and nods at me. “Nice to meet you, Eva. Enjoy your meal.”

“He seems nice,” I say to Will, and he laughs.

“Ollie is an asshole. He rules that kitchen with an iron fist, and every other word out of his mouth is usually an f-bomb. He was just putting it on for the pretty girl. I swear I’ve never seen him smile so much.”

“How’d you meet him?”

Will tells me about Ollie coming into the shop for a tattoo a year ago. It was a pretty expansive piece, meaning several long sessions, and they got to talking about Ollie’s plans for opening a burger joint in the neighborhood. “I know the owner of this building,” he explains, “so I set up a meeting and the rest is history. I get great burgers in walking distance and he’s come back for two more tattoos. In return, I try to convert everyone I know into Ollie devotees.”

I wonder if Will had purposefully asked his dad and uncles to come in, knowing it would cause a publicity stir. It seems like the kind of thing he would do for a friend. Before I can ask about it, a server stops by with overflowing baskets of fries and onion rings plus our sodas. The smell of fried food hits my senses hard and I have to hold back an inappropriate moan.

But there’s no hiding my whimper of pleasure when the first onion ring hits my tongue. “These are so good.”

“Right? Wait until you try the burgers.”

We munch in quiet for a few minutes. “How’s your day been?” I ask when I’ve finally taken the edge off my hunger for fried food. “Have you done lots of amazing tattoos?”

He takes a long sip of his root beer—which is also delicious. Just the right amount of sweet to balance out the bite.

“No tattoos yet,” Will says, wiping root beer foam from his top lip. I try very hard not to stare at that lip. “We don’t get a ton of customers in the morning, so I usually take that time for paperwork and all that boring office shit.”

“Not your favorite part of the job?”

He snorts. “Not so much. I hate sitting in an office.” He grabs another onion ring. “I need to hire an office manager, but I keep putting it off.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugs, chewing his onion ring, and I get the impression he’s not going to elaborate. But eventually he does. “I got the startup money for the shop from my uncle. I’m pretty close to being able to pay him back and the more streamlined I can keep the payroll, the faster that will happen.”

I stare at him, surprised. From what I’ve heard, the Ransome brothers are some of the wealthiest men in the industry. They were rich as hell from the band before they started their record label, but now that they’ve moved into the production side of things, they’re on a completely different level. I would imagine the startup capital for a tattoo shop would be a drop in the bucket compared to what they bring in on a weekly basis.

As if reading my mind, Will scowls. “He hasn’t put any pressure on me, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says. “I just want to do this myself.”

I hold up my hands, surprised by the bite in his voice. “I didn’t say anything.”

He sighs, expression softening. “Sorry. I’m used to people assuming I have a trust fund and shit like that. I get defensive.”

“So you don’t have a trust fund?” I arrange my features into a disappointed pout, reaching for my purse. “You know, I think I’m actually busy this afternoon.” I move to slide from the booth and he captures my wrist in his tight grasp, grinning.

“Very funny, smart ass.”

I grab another onion ring. “You probably have to deal with that shit a lot, huh?” I ask seriously. “People using you.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. More so when I was younger. It really stung back then, because I wasn’t expecting it, you know? I guess that’s part of why I stick with my family. Rose and River and all of them, they have my back no matter what.”

I think of my own friends. I had intentionally only told Marissa about this date, wanting to keep it low-key, but of course that didn’t mean shit when it comes to our group. There are very few secrets between us. I’d gotten an encouraging text or call from every single one of them this morning. “I get that.”

“You probably had the same thing. People coming out of the woodwork to be your best friend after you got signed.”

“A little. I was lucky because I started in theater out in New York. That can be just as cut throat as the music industry, believe me, but there were a few people that I worked with a lot when we were all starving artists. We’ve pretty much stuck together.”

He nods his head. “That’s good. You need that or you’ll go nuts with all of the nonsense. I know my dad and uncles wouldn’t have been half so well adjusted if they didn’t have each other the whole time.”

I want to ask him more about his uncles, what it would have been like to grow up in the shadow of such a world-famous group of people, but a server appears at our table, tray filled with our plates, more root beers, and a fresh order of fries.

I laugh when he sets the burger in front of me. “What?” Will asks.

I shake my head. “Just thinking about what my manager would say if he saw me eating this.” Double cheeseburgers with bacon and a fried egg on top are definitely not on the Dennis Armstrong meal plan for celebrity singers. “He likes to count my calories. This would make his head explode.”

A scowl so severe I actually wince covers Will’s face. “I hope you don’t listen to that shit.”

The truth is, I do listen to it. Or, at least, I did, when I was still performing. It was hard to tune out the loud chorus of people judging my body in the spotlight. But if there’s a silver lining to all the shit of the past year, it’s that I haven’t had to get fitted for a costume or photo shoot wardrobe in months. So I grab my burger, keeping eye contact with Will the whole time, and take a massive bite. His scowl softens.

I’m starting to see a pattern with that—Will seems to go from a charming, warm guy to closed off or straight up pissed pretty quickly. I wonder if he’s always this mercurial, or if there’s something specific about me that has his moods unsettled.

But then I don’t really care about the flash of grumpiness because the tastes exploding against my tongue are too amazing to think about anything else. “Oh my God,” I mumble around my mouthful.

“I know,” Will says, tone much lighter. “Top five burger, easy. Maybe even top three.”

“Well now I’m going to need to know your other top five burgers. Because if they’re anywhere near this good, I’ll have to track them all down.”

We spend the next several minutes happily chatting about the best burgers we’ve ever had while we demolish the ones on our plates. It’s obvious that Will has been pretty much everywhere. My own travels consist of the times I’d been on tour, and that hardly counts. It’s not like I ever had time to go out and see much of the places I visited in between shows and promotion. Will, though, has stories to go along with all the burgers on his top five list, most of them including at least one of the cousins I met the other night.

“Number one is tough,” he says. “But I’m gonna have to go with the Sin Bin in—”

“Chicago!” I squeal delightedly. “I’ve been there!”

“Yeah? They’re awesome.”

I nod. “Did you try the Portobello poppers?” At the shake of his head, I close my eyes dreamily. “So good, Will. They stuff Portobello mushrooms with cheese, wrap them in bacon, and then deep fry the whole thing.” I open my eyes to grin at him. “I swear, stopping in at Sin Bin was like, the highlight of my entire first tour.”

Something flickers in his eyes, but his expression remains neutral. “I stopped there on tour too,” he says, tone subdued. “With my Uncle Reed.”

He always seems hesitant to talk about his dad and uncles, but since he brought it up, I figure I’m safe to ask more.

“Did you get out on the road with them a lot?”

“Oh, yeah. Half my childhood was spent on a tour bus.”

“Really? Just you or—”

“No, all of us. Our parents just packed us up and took us with them. We had tutors for homeschooling and we got to see most of the country. It was pretty cool.”

“I wonder if it was as fun for your parents with all those kids on a bus.”

He laughs. “We had several busses, but, yeah. I’m sure it was a lot. Rose and River and I were pretty awful. We were always sneaking around, trying to get back stage at the shows.” He gazes over my shoulder, smiling vaguely, like he’s lost in a memory. “I always had such a hard time sleeping when the tour would end and we’d go back home. I would get so used to being crammed on those bunks with my cousins. It was like I couldn’t sleep without Fox snoring a few feet away from me.”

He’s quiet for a moment before shaking his head, as if to clear it. “Anyhow, once they started the label, they toured a lot less, so we stayed home most of the time. But when I was sixteen, they did this short summer festival tour, and they took me with them.” He laughs. “I thought I was so fucking cool, like I was hot shit because I was the only kid they brought along.” That same something flickers in his eyes, his mouth tightening. “Anyhow, that was the trip we stopped at Sin Bin.” He smirks but it looks forced to me. “Changed my whole life, that burger.”

I hold up the meager remains of my meal. “Well, this one comes in pretty close second for me.”

Now his grin looks a lot more sincere. “I’m glad to hear it. Maybe that means you’ll come back with me sometime.”

I’m sure my own smile is as shy as I feel. “I’d like that.”

Will looks at his watch and winces. “I should probably head out. I have a two o’clock.”

“Do you know what tattoos you’re doing before the clients come in?” I ask as he pulls out his wallet to pay the bill. Instead of waiting for the check, he lays a crisp fifty—way more than what we owe—on the table and stands, holding out a hand to help me up.

“Most of the time,” he explains, leading me through the restaurant. He calls out a goodbye to Ollie as we pass the counter and we get a “See ya later, asshole,” shouted back from somewhere in the kitchen.

Once outside, he keeps my hand in his. “For simple stuff, I can do a consult over the phone or through email. But with more complicated pieces, the client usually comes in to talk it over before we schedule them. We get some walk-ins, too, but I’m usually too booked up to take them.”

“Mr. High Demand,” I tease.

“Well, I am the best,” he says in a duh sort of voice. “I can’t just be working on any slob who comes in off the street.”

“I was the exception, huh?”

He laughs, squeezing my hand. “Thank Christ we were shorthanded that day.” He looks down at me. “You know, you never did tell me what the bet was. Why you guys came in for tattoos together.”

I blink up at him, unsure of how much to say. I want to trust Will, want to let him in, but it’s still scary.

“My friends do this thing,” I say, talking fast. “To, uh, try to get me out more often. We have these challenges—like a Mario Kart tournament or something—or we’ll bet on things. Silly stuff. Oscar picks, baseball scores. Whoever wins gets to choose an activity, and we all have to do it.” My cheeks feel warm and I’m sure he can see my blush. “It’s stupid.”

He’s watching me carefully, eyebrows drawn. “Why do they try to get you out of the house more often?”

“Oh.” That brings me up short. I sometimes forget that it’s not as obvious to strangers that I’m a complete mess most of the time. I take a deep breath. “That’s something I have trouble with. Since the, uh, fire. They’re scared I’m going to turn into a total hermit. I don’t really like crowded places. Or having people look at me.” I let out a short, bitter laugh. “Makes the whole being a professional performer thing a little tricky these days.”

For once, his face doesn’t tighten at the mention of me being a performer. Instead, he stops walking, pulling me up to the brick wall of the tattoo shop. “What was the bet this time?” he asks, voice a soft rumble across my ears.

“Oh, that was Geoff,” I say, a little breathless because he’s standing so close to me. “He’s obsessed with this cooking competition and he picked the right contestant to be eliminated. He hadn’t won in a while, so he wanted to do something big—hence, the tattoos.”

Will shakes his head, gaze fixed on my face. “No, not the day of the tattoos. I mean, what was the bet to get you to leave your house today?”

“Oh.” My cheeks get warm. “There was no bet. I just wanted to come see you.”

His gaze heats even as his usually sharp features soften. Then he’s lowering his head, getting closer, his eyes flicking down to my mouth.

He’s going to kiss me,I think, waiting for the flare of panic. Will is bigger than me, much bigger, and he’s in my space. He could easily push me aside, knock me to the ground, trap me and—

Then his lips touch mine and all those familiar fears fly straight out of my head. There’s just not room for them, not with every nerve ending in my body standing up to cheer. Instead of telling me to run, the little voice in my brain urges me to wrap my arms around his neck, to pull him even closer.

Before I can act on the impulse, he’s pulling back. “I’m really glad you did,” he murmurs.

“Me too,” I whisper, breathless. Just from one closed mouth, fifteen second kiss. I have to fight a shudder when I think about how much damage he could do with a little more time and a lot more tongue.

His hand comes up to my shoulder, fingers playing with the end of my braid. “Can I call you? Tonight?”

Dear God, yes. Please, please call me. Pretty please with a cherry on top. “Sure,” I say, somehow managing to keep my voice mostly even.

He’s staring at my lips again and he lets out the sexiest growling noise I’ve ever heard in my life. “I want to kiss you again but I’m pretty sure if I start I won’t make it inside for my appointment.”

The fire that’s been simmering in my belly comes to a full roar. Maybe he wants this as much as I do. Still, I take a step back, not wanting to be the cause of a screwed-up day for him. “We’ll talk later.”

He looks frustrated, but he nods. “Definitely.” Then he pulls out his phone. “Let me call you a ride share.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that.” I grimace then tilt my head towards the black town car that’s been waiting on this street for the past hour and a half. “I kind of have my own driver.”

His eyebrows go up. “Wow.”

I push his chest. “Don’t tease.”

“I’m just saying, my Uncle Daltrey is a diva and even he doesn’t have a personal driver.”

“It’s for security,” I argue. “Ass.” But I’m laughing, not feeling the mortification that usually comes from any mention of all the ways fear drives my current lifestyle. Will hasn’t seemed to judge me so far.

“Well go get in your fancy car,” he says, still smirking. “Before I lose all self-control and take you back into my office.”

“You probably shouldn’t threaten me with things that I totally want to do,” I point out, and his eyes flare.

“Go,” he growls.

Feeling lighter than I have in ages, I lift up on my tiptoes and press a kiss to the edge of his mouth. “Thanks for lunch.”

Before he can respond, I turn and practically skip all the way to the car. The driver/security guy sees me coming and he’s at my door before I am, opening it for me. “Thanks, Tom.”

I slip into the quiet stillness of the back of the car, and a peel of laughter erupts from my chest. I did it. I actually went on a date with a guy. I even flirted a little! And I let him get physically close to me—for all of twenty seconds, mind you—and hadn’t even freaked out.

I know better than anyone how easy it is for my mood to turn on a dime. How quickly the fear and the flashbacks can barge their way into my life. But for right now, in this moment, I’m going to bask in feeling like a happy, normal girl who just had a really nice first date.