Page 58 of Chasing Stardust

“Oh, you’ve definitely heard of the song I have in mind.” He leaps from his chair and bounds to the DJ booth. “Just remember this was your idea.”

For someone who hated the idea when I suggested it, Dash can barely contain his excitement when the DJ calls our names.

The song title flashes across the monitor, and I suck in a breath. “Dash, no!”

“You said I could pick.” His grin turns sinful as he drags me to the stage and thrusts a mic in my hand.

“I know I did, but . . .” My stomach bottoms out. “Pick something else. Anything else.”

I groan as the opening guitar riff of “China Girl” plays and the lyrics roll onto the screen.

Too late now.

Heat flares low in my belly as Dash rakes his smoldering gaze over me and sings the first line. His soft lips wrap around every syllable, his rumbling voice caressing me to the depths of my soul. Every off-key note slips through my crumbling defenses. What the hell is he doing to me? By the time he reaches the end of the first verse, I’m ready to kiss the hell out of him. And I’m certain one kiss won’t be nearly enough.

“Come on, Zoey,” he purrs. “Sing with me.”

My stomach swoops, and the hungry gleam in his eyes turns my bones to jelly. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I join him on the second verse, giving it all I have. For one frozen moment in time, the whole room falls away, and it’s just the two of us on that stage, singing our hearts out to one another.

And then I blink, and the moment is over, leaving me a trembling, blissed-out, needy mess as we return our mics to the DJ.

Dash throws a sweaty arm over my shoulders, leading me back to our table.

I open my mouth to tell him how much fun I had, but he presses a finger to my lips.

“Shhh.” His pulse thrums against my skin for the longest moment before his gaze darts to my eyes. “Don’t spoil the moment.”

We stand there, in the middle of the crowded pub, for what seems like hours, and then he pulls his hand away with a lazy grin. “Told you it’s a great song.”

“It is.” I catch my breath and glance around the room one last time. Singing a Bowie song—possibly even the same song Mom and G-Lo sang all those years ago—gives me the closure I need. “We can go now.”

Dash dips his head, meeting my gaze. “You sure?”

“Why spoil the moment, right?”

Chuckling, he whips out a wad of bills and leaves it on the table. “Why, indeed.”

As we reach the exit, the gritty guitar intro to “Rebel Rebel” blares through the speakers, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

“Dash, wait.” I grab his arm like a life preserver. “Before we go, I need to check one more time.”

He slips his fingers through mine and squeezes. “I’ll help you look.”

We weave our way through the thinning crowd toward the back wall, where I start my search from the opposite side, working backward from where I searched before. One at a time, I run my gaze over every picture. Then, as if Ziggy Stardust himself has guided me to this very spot, the image of someone who resembles a young version of G-Lo catches my attention. Beside her is a young woman who looks almost exactly like . . . me.

Dash was right. I do look like Mom.

“There!” He points, finding the picture at the same moment I do. “Is that her? You could almost be twins.”

Tears blur my vision as I gape up at my mom.

She looks so young, grinning at the camera with one arm around G-Lo’s waist and a mic in her hand . . . so happy.

I dig out my phone and snap a few photos of the wall, zooming in on the picture of Mom and G-Lo for Jeanie. The angles are off, preventing me from getting a clear shot. If Jeanie were here, she’d climb onto a table, snatch that picture from the wall, and take it home. But Jeanie isn’t here. I am.

Dash brushes a lock of hair from my face. “What’s wrong?”

A spike of adrenaline kick-starts my heart, and I dart my gaze between Mom’s picture and Dash’s face. “Give me a boost?”