Page 58 of Steady Stroke
Emmett turned on the loudspeaker. “How’s the brightness?”
“Not bad.” Lincoln’s voice was hard to hear from the booth. “Forgot how hot it could get up here.”
The AC was down for the day, so yeah, it was going to get warm in the club. He’d forgotten to ask Aunt Beatrice to override the default settings. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s okay.” Lincoln flashed a wicked smile. “If it gets too hot, I can always play naked.”
Heat curled in Emmett’s gut, and it was kind of ridiculous how one flirty comment got him half hard. “Okay, sobasic lights. You want to do a song like this before I add in colors?”
“Definitely. I want to baby-step this so I don’t shock my system into a migraine.”
“Understood.” Emmett left the hot booth for the slightly less warm stage. “What are you doing first?”
The heated look Lincoln cast his way suggested someone he wanted to be doing, and Emmett’s jeans weren’t hiding his wood well. “I was thinking something slow to start. ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water.’”
Lincoln was earning serious points by using Simon & Garfunkel songs. Especially songs Emmett knew by heart. “Need vocals?”
“Absolutely.”
“Give me a minute, then.”
Emmett closed his eyes and carefully hummed out a scale. Then another, warming up his voice so he’d have a better range than the other day. His mother had been a volunteer vocal coach for the local community theater, indulging in a love of singing and performing that she hadn’t been able to growing up in Syria. She’d helped teach Emmett his love of music, and she would be the first to scold him for not properly warming up.
Finished, he opened his eyes in time to catch Lincoln adjusting himself. And Lincoln’s lazy grin did absolutely nothing about Emmett’s tight jeans. “Ready?” Emmett asked.
“You have no idea.”
Lincoln began pulling music out of that bizarre synthesizer in a way that seemed magical to Emmett, given all of the dials and buttons and the flat pad that acted like guitar strings. The strains of “Bridge Over Troubled Water” poured over Emmett, as lovely as if the original duo were playing themselves. Emmett waited for his cue, and then sang.
The lyrics fell from his lips with love and ease, emotionsswelling in his chest as the words truly hit home for him. And for how he felt about Lincoln. He’d do anything to ease his troubles, to make him smile, to make everything okay. In that moment, it felt possible that he could be that bridge for Lincoln, strong, someone who would help him over the troubled waters of his life.
Choppy, dangerous waters that Emmett’s own choices had helped create.
Lincoln’s voice joined his near the end when both artists had sung together, supporting his words, backing him up as the music crested.
It was perfect.
“Holy shit, Em. That was amazing.”
Emmett rubbed tears from his eyes, his heart galloping along a mile a minute. “Itwaskind of amazing. You know, you have a decent voice. I could coach you, make it stronger.”
Lincoln shrugged. “I mean, I can do okay backup, but I’m not a front man.”
“I think you could be.”
“Even if I could, one step at a time.”
“Right. How’s your head?”
“Fine so far.”
Emmett slipped into the booth. He mixed in some red and blue lights, giving the stage color similar to a regular performance. “This okay?” he asked into the loudspeaker.
Lincoln gave him a thumbs-up. The colors reflected off his sunglasses, giving a more punk rock feel, which suited him. Being onstage suited him, period. He was born to perform, and Emmett had taken that away from him.
Stop it.
He shoved the dark thought away, stuffed it deep down, where he’d buried it the day before. The guilt would destroy his fragile relationship with Lincoln if he let it, so he wasn’t goingto let it. Nope. He was doing everything in his power to give Lincoln back his life. His dreams. His big night onstage in front of thousands.
