Incapable (Love Triumphs Book 3) (17 page)

“Who is Angus chatting up?” said Taylor.

The table shifted as Jamie pushed against it to look. “I dunno. She’s on her own. Damon, does your date have mousey brown hair, pale skin and look like she’d rather be home tidying her sock drawer?”

Sam thumped him on the back. “You have a date, Dame? Go you old dog.”

“Quit it with the old stuff. What do you mean she looks like she’d rather be darning socks?”

“Move.” Taylor replaced Sam on his right. “She’s got lot of curly hair, hides behind it, decent figure, but she’s hunched over as if she’s hoping no one notices her.”

He frowned into his water glass. Maybe that wasn’t Georgia, though Taylor’s description more or less matched Lauren’s but was even less kind.

“You never went for sex appeal but, if that’s your girl she’s, um, well, hey, it’s none of my business.”

He grabbed for Taylor’s thigh and dug his thumb and fingers in to hold her still, making her squirm. “Come on, wingman, tell me what you see. You’ve never held back before.”

“Yeah, but you like this one.”

He did like her. But he didn’t like to think of her as withdrawn and reticent.

“Sam.” Taylor could be brutal, Sam had no tact. You went to Sam when Taylor went soft. “Woman at the bar with Angus. Verdict.”

“He curled his lip,” Taylor said.

“Give me a sec. I’m considering,” said Sam. “She’s.” He breathed heavy. “Total wallflower. She looks like the kind of girl who should wear those thick glasses. Like she’d rather melt into the furniture. Nothing wrong with her a smile wouldn’t fix.”

“Ahh.” Georgia had smiled for him, he was sure he heard it in her voice. He didn’t think she hunched either, but maybe she did if she was nervous.

Taylor forced her face close to his. “You like confident women. Women who know who they are. She’s so not confident she keeps looking at the door as if she’s going to bolt. Do you want me to bring her over?”

He shook his head, downed the water in a gulp. “If she bolts at least I’ll know it was too much for her.”

“Fair call. Want a refill on that?” He did. He took it on stage with him. They opened with Rod Stewart and ran through some Johnny Cash and Roy Orbison. He looked out at the blur of movement and wondered if Georgia was there, listening. Taylor took a song break and he sang John Mellencamp’s
Life Goes On
before they finished the first set with
Mustang Sally
.

As he was coming off stage, a hand on his. Light and small. Not Taylor. “I didn’t think you were coming?” He almost said staying, but then she’d know he’d been spying.

“Thought about it.”

“Thought you were all right about us.”

“I’m trying.”

That sounded like truth, but he was rocked by the physical description of her from people he trusted innately. A voice could only tell you so much. “But.”

“Can we talk?”

Not easily, not yet, too many people around. “After the next set.” He’d get her out of here. If she was going to dump him, he didn’t need an audience.

“Sure. I could listen to you sing all night.”

Maybe he wasn’t about to get dumped. “Come meet everyone.” He expected hesitation. He got his hand squeezed and she pressed in and kissed his cheek. “Remember I’m not good with people.”

“These aren’t people. They’re family.”

She sat with them, enough of a novelty that Angus abandoned the bar to the new girl. They chargrilled her like a T-bone. A bunch of questions about her accent, living in London, her job. Jamie wanted to know what her first impression of The Voice was. She made them laugh when she said cocky, and again when asked if that’d changed and she said no.

Damon could hear nervousness in her quick breaths, the slight warble in her voice, but she held her own and it made him smile. If she dumped him now, he’d be out more than the cost of a dress and shoes, he’d be out of luck. Her mystery, her shy complexity did something to him; he wasn’t sure what it was, but he wanted more of it.

On stage before beginning the second set, Angus took his arm. “I like her.”

“I like her too.”

“Can see that.” Angus pinched the back of his neck with a damp hand. “Were we too rough on her?”

They were proprietary, but then he’d given them that power a long time ago. “I guess we’ll see.”

He opened with Stevie Wonder’s
Superstitious
. He was pleasantly buzzed to have one person in the audience he wanted to connect with the best way he knew how—with his voice over words designed to dig into a person’s secret feelings, set to music that spoke to instinctive rhythms.

When Angus announced they’d play the last four songs by request, he was about fifteen minutes from planting his voice in Georgia’s ear and blowing away any objections she had.

The first request for Wu Tang Clan got shouted down by the house. Which meant Elvis’
Blue Suede Shoes
got up, followed by
Mack the Knife
, then Fleetwood Mac’s
Go Your Own Way
, which he had to make up half the lyrics for, and then the fun started. Some dude wanted Iggy Azalea and Jennifer Hudson’s
Trouble
. It had a lyrical chorus but quick rap verses. It was about a tattooed man.

“Buy the guy a drink, Angus. I don’t rap,” he said.

That got a roar, catcalls, jeers.

“‘Cause you can’t.” Jamie, the bugger.

“You do it.” Jamie could, so Angus would still be saved the round.

“You’re The Voice, man. I thought you could do anything.” Jamie must’ve been egging the room on because they started chanting, slow clapping.

“This is a set-up.”

“Sorry folks, he can sing, he can jive, he can’t rap. Poor, old Damon, can’t do the tongue twister lyrics.”

He turned his head towards Jamie. “Hey.” He could do them, he just didn’t like to rap. It felt too much like one of those thirty-second radio commercials where the legal terms and conditions had to be spoken at breakneck speed without a breath. He’d done too many of those early in his career to think it was fun.

“Money where your mouth is, mate.”

No way he was going to let Jamie win. Sam was already rolling a drumbeat, he knew it was on. Damon looked back at the audience and did Tom Cruise from
Top Gun
, “I feel the need,” Jamie chimed in, Goose to his Maverick, “the need for speed.”

There was a whoop that was Angus, and Taylor rattled the tambourine. Jamie took the chorus, and they shared the verse, swapping the song’s gender, standing at the centre of the stage, playing more to each other than the audience. He had one of those strange moments where he was so in the groove, so aware, he could see himself outside the song.

He was happy. He had great friends, money, an amazing life.

He rapped about test drives and red flags, attitude to burn and bad moves, his voice and Jamie’s a perfect tangle of fast clipped words and power ballad that could’ve been a song about Taylor.

He could manage this change to his sight, it wasn’t going to be as devastating as Lina thought; she was just being super cautious, because that was her job. He sang about kissing teeth and being baptised, and there was nothing he was sorry about, and so much to look forward to, starting with skin so smooth it might as well be silk wrapped around the complication of a woman reticent enough to like the shadows, but brazen enough to give him an insight into her fantasies.

When the song ended, Jamie hugged the stuffing out of him and Angus called for one last request. He got Michael Jackson’s
Thriller
. This hyped up on their own invincibility, they were going to blow the roof off the bar, starting with his best Vincent Price, ending with Jamie’s moonwalk.

He was a hot mess and the crowd was still cheering when he stepped off the stage, his shirt sticking. A couple of regulars stopped him to have a chat. Angus put a glass in his hand, mineral water and lime. What he wanted was Georgia. He got Taylor.

“You’re not lonely. I’ll move in when my lease runs out. But I’m paying rent.”

He threw an arm around her shoulders. She was a sweaty streak as well. He kissed her forehead, got a lip lock on strands of hair plastered there.

“We have to talk about how it’ll work,” she said.

It would work because he wasn’t accepting rent and Taylor would have fewer financial commitments and could focus on her music. “Whatever you reckon, Trill.”

“She’s not Candace.”

Tay should’ve sound relieved, happy about that. But he heard caution. She wasn’t sold and that was okay, smashing two people together and hoping they’d stick was a mad piece of business. Like being the voice of a cartoon, it was whimsy and weird science and sometimes it tested badly with audiences and got cancelled. Taylor might be right. He had no idea if he and Georgia would rate well enough to survive, but he was keen to find out.

“You got in her face, didn’t you?” She wouldn’t be the best wingman a guy could have if she hadn’t. She’d probably sent people his way to stall him arriving at their table. He’d have warned Georgia, but then he’d have pretty much ensured she didn’t show up.

“I don’t get what you see in her, but if you’re looking for someone who won’t challenge you, you’re found her.”

He released Taylor’s arm, confused. He hadn’t actively thought about Candace for a long time before tonight. Is that what he was doing with Georgia, looking for someone who wasn’t going to dazzle him, or try to make him something he couldn’t be? Taylor was right, his type was confident, and for the most part that’s not how Georgia projected.

She was an awkward mix of competent and restrained, passionate but inhibited. She had him guessing, and maybe that was all it was, an adult’s only game of hide and seek that had him intrigued for now. When he’d found her out, would he still be as turned on by the thought of being in her life, in her bed?

And yet, the way she let go of all her shyness in the dark, how she responded to his hands and his lips in the change room, those shining moments grabbed his attention around the scruff of its neck and shook hard.

Taylor led him to the table. The only way he was going to work it out was over time, and time was another luxury he had. He didn’t sit, family hour was over. He was ready to split.

Georgia touched the back of his hand and said his name softly. He turned towards her and her hand came up to his cheek, thumb brushing over the dip of his dimple. That wasn’t so shy.

“You rapped.”

He laughed. “Jamie is all talk.” He said that loud enough so if Jamie was close he’d get a rise out of it.

“You’ve got some moves.” Georgia’s voice was hushed, reverent almost, and he regretted playing for laughs. He brought a hand to her back to help shut the rest of the room out. “You did Elvis like Elvis,” she said.

He dropped his voice to match hers. “Not much I can’t do with the voice box. Got well and truly blessed there.”

She butted her head to his shoulder, and eased out a frayed, shaky, “Oh my God, yes,” that lined his ears with lust. It’d felt different performing tonight, knowing she was listening. Knowing he’d affected her made it feel like he could see the frost haze in a rainbow.

“Let’s get out of here.” He wanted somewhere quiet; somewhere he could test their odd theory of attraction, and find out why she’d thought about not coming tonight. But it wasn’t safe to take her home. If he did that, if they fooled around again before she was entirely comfortable with him in her new dress or her old pjs, then he was pushing too hard still. She would definitely cut and run if he did that. “I’ll buy you an ice-cream.”

A hand ruffling his hair. “Know how to show a girl a good time.” Angus. He spun to face his voice. Yeah, that was lame. They weren’t teenagers. Angus spoke softly, gripping his shoulder. “Stay, place is emptying. The guys have gone. I’ll bring you coffee and dessert.”

Rescued. “That’d be great.”

Georgia was already leading him to wherever Angus suggested, one of the corner booths. He slid in first and she came behind him, not close, not touching. It was dark tucked in here, she was a voice, a presence. He reached his hand across the table but she didn’t take it.

“You’re too much for me.”

Ah. Here it was. And that was a polite way of saying she didn’t want to get too close.

“I need to tell you why.”

“Am I going to like it?” He should shut up and let her get it over with. The sooner the disappointment gut punched him, the sooner he’d straighten up.

“It’s not a question of like.”

There wasn’t much else to say. He put a hand to his head, combed his fingers through sweat and gel that’d lost its hold. “If it’s about the dress, we can return it.”

“It’s not about the dress.”

Her little finger against his, the lightest pressure. What did it mean if she kept the dress? It wasn’t supposed to mean anything. He’d spent the morning convincing her of that, so he couldn’t pretend it meant anything now. Except it did. If she didn’t confess to being a mass murderer fresh out on parole, or say she couldn’t date him unless he tried some crackpot miracle cure, part seaweed, part meteor, he might get to take that sheath of gossamer off her warm body.

She moved her hand away. He was left with just her voice. “I told you my husband, Hamish, was injured and our marriage wasn’t good. You know we’re getting a divorce.”

He tucked his chin down, not sure he could keep his expression neutral, wanting to hide it from her. She was going to tell him having one disabled guy in her life was her quota and she wanted to be friends. He couldn’t fault the logic, though it scraped him raw.

“I used to be different.”

Five words, not what he expected. All he heard was regret. She was going to tell him something that mattered deeply.

“I was hurt in the same accident that put gave Hamish a brain injury.”

Fuck
. He jerked his head up and around to face her.

“You can’t see my scars, but they’re there all the same. I don’t. I can’t. This is hard.”

Her distress fluttered, wings of pain beating her breath. She didn’t need to do this. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I’m supposed to talk about it. Talking about it helps to normalise it. And I have to tell you because it might change how you feel about me.”