“I’m not singing,” Thad responded. “You do it.”
“Hell, no.”
“Don’t look at me,” Ritchie said. “I’m worse than he is.”
Clint had disappeared, the crowd was getting uglier, and all three men looked at her. “Vocal rest,” she repeated.
The three of them rose in unison. Thad took one arm, Ritchie the other, and they lifted her from her chair. While Junior ran interference, they propelled her to the microphone just as the crowd’s jeers grew louder and “Friends in Low Places” began to play.
Thad gently extracted the mike from Bigs. “Liv changed her mind. This is her favorite song, and she wants to sing.”
“Olivia,” she hissed.
To her dismay, Bigs handed over the microphone.
And there she was, La Belle Tornade, the toast of the Metropolitan, the jewel of La Scala, the pride of the Royal Opera House standing before a roomful of drunks with a sticky microphone in her hand and a Garth Brooks tune ringing in her ears. She gave it her worst. Perfectly pitched, but quiet. No open, rounded vowels. No soaring high notes or resonant lows. Not even a hint of vibrato. As ordinary as she could make it.
“Take it off!” a bully shouted from the end of the bar as she reached the final chorus.
“Let’s see what you got on underneath!” another shouted.
Before she knew it, the entire bar, with the exception of the football players, was shouting, “Take it off! Take it off!”
The temper that had made her give the finger to the odious loggionisti at La Scala got the best of her. She whipped off one of the Crocs, threw it at the nearest culprit, and then hurled the other at the initial offender.
Thad appeared from nowhere, grabbed her by the shoulders, and twisted her toward the door. “And now we get out of here.”
Apparently, she didn’t move fast enough because he swept all five feet ten inches and one hundred and forty pounds of her into his arms and wedged her outside without banging her head on the door.
“Let me go!”
He set her down, pulled her across the one-way street, picked her up again, and carried her into an alley.
“What . . . ?”
“Rats.”
She clutched his neck. “No!”
“We’ll hang here for a while until things settle down.”
She grabbed him tighter. “I hate rodents!” The alley was narrow, with metal fire escapes running up the sides of the brick buildings, and a sentinel of Dumpsters standing guard. “I’m good with bugs, and I had a pet snake when I was a kid, but no rats.”
She felt him shudder. “I’m not a big fan of snakes.”
“Fine. You handle the rodents and I’ll take care of the reptiles.”
“Deal.”
She held herself stiffly, one hand at his chest, wanting and not wanting to rest her head against his dark blue blazer as she searched the area for vermin. “I’m too heavy.”
“I can bench-press three-twenty. You’re at least a hundred and fifty pounds under that.”
By the time she’d done the math, he was already grinning. She withered him with her frostiest voice. “May we go now?”
“A few more minutes.”
He leaned against the brick wall, easily balancing her weight in his arms. She turned her head. Her cheek brushed the soft cotton of his T-shirt. He smelled good. A clean aftershave along with the faintest hint of beer. She gazed at her filthy feet. Something odious was stuck to the top of her instep.
“I have to admit I was a little disappointed in your singing,” he said. “You sounded good—don’t get me wrong—but you didn’t sound much like a first-rate opera singer.”
“I told you. I’m resting my voice.”
“I guess. But it was kind of a downer after hearing those impressive exercises you do.”
She gave him her most noncommittal “hmm” and made another quick scan for rodents.
“Reach in my back pocket,” he said, “and pull out my phone so I can call an Uber.”
She turned, pressing her breasts against his chest, and reached between their bodies, down across the blade of his hip bone and—very carefully—eased her hand along the slope of what was, not surprisingly, a very firm rear end.
She was now twisted flat against him, cupping his butt while her own butt was hoisted in the air. “I can’t—” She felt the bulge of the phone in his pocket. Felt another bulge. Quickly withdrew her hand. “This isn’t going to work. ”
“It’s working for me.”
He was provoking her again. She twisted into a semi-upright position without the phone. “We need a new plan.” She thought of the rats. “But don’t you dare put me down.”
He eased her onto the lid of the nearest Dumpster, something he could have done, she realized, from the beginning. “Don’t run away.”
As if she would.
A few minutes later, he was carrying her from the alley into a waiting Uber.
Neither of them seemed to have much to say as they drove back to the hotel. He stared straight ahead, a half smile on his face. She turned her head out the window and felt a half smile taking over her own face. Despite the dirt, the drunks, the threat of rats. Despite Thad Owens himself. Tonight was the first fun she’d had in weeks.
Her smile faded as she thought of Adam, whose days of having fun were over forever.
*
The Diva endured the walk across the glittering lobby with her chin raised and her haughtiest expression, daring anyone to mention her filthy bare feet. As they reached the elevator, a desk clerk hurried up to her. “Flowers arrived while you were out, Ms. Shore. We put them in your suite. And you have a message.”
She took the envelope he handed her with a gracious nod, but as the elevator rose, she crushed it in her fist.
Thad held the door of their suite open and entered behind her, stepping into the overwhelming smell of too many flowers. Vases stuffed full of a dozen varieties covered the top of the piano.
The Diva sighed. “Rupert again.”
“Again? He does this frequently?”
“Flowers, boxes of expensive chocolates, champagne. I’ve tried to discourage him, but as you can see, it hasn’t worked.” She extracted a florist card from one of the arrangements, glanced at it, and set it back down.
“Rupert is one of your lovers?”
“One of legions.”
“Seriously?”
“No, not seriously! He’s at least seventy.”
Thad took in the flowers. “Am I the only one who thinks this is creepy?”
“You have to understand opera fans. They feel like a dying breed, and that can make them overzealous when it comes to their favorite singers.”
“Are there others like Rupert?”
“He’s my most ardent. As for the rest . . . It depends on the production. I’ve gotten Spanish shawls, cases of good rioja, even a few Iberian hams from the Carmen aficionados. And, of course, cigars.”
“Why cigars?”
“Carmen works in a cigar factory.”
“I know that.” He didn’t. “So what other weird gifts have your twisted superfans sent?”
“They’re passionate, not twisted, and I love every one of them. Silver scissors for Samson et Dalila.”