Page 6 of The Fake Divination Offense
The bar manager comes out from backstage and leans into the mic. “Alexo the Magnificent, everybody!”
The crowd goes crazy again, and it kickstarts what’s left of my brain so I clap along.
“Up next,” the manager announces, “the Big O!”
See? I take my karaoke stage name seriously.
It catches the crowd’s attention, and their cheering turns to equal groans and laughter.
The shift lets Alexo slip off the stage, on the opposite side from me. He’s so damn small that I instantly lose sight of him, and I bound up onto the stage to spot him again, and—there he is. Talking with someone near the hall that leads to the bathrooms and back exit.
“Give it up for the Big O!” the manager tells the crowd. “The Hellhounds’ own newest defensive tank!”
Before I have time to connect that I’m on the stage and I don’t know whether the crowd might hate me, they cheer. A few chant, “O Monroe!” and “Hellhounds!”
A grin blooms across my face and some of the anxiety fighting to burst free settles.
Fans have always loved that I do shit like this, make a fool of myself in public displays of nonsensical joy. That hasn’t gone away. Well, with the Silver Hound’s crowd at least, but I’ll take whatever support I can get.
My song starts.
And I’m suddenly aware that Alexo gave a Grammy-level performance and here I am, planning to butcher Sabrina Carpenter’s “Taste.”
With a self-deprecating shrug that makes the crowd laugh anew, I pull the mic stand closer, eyes flicking to the lyric screen—
But I find myself shifting back to stare at Alexo. And that guy he’s talking with.
My mouth opens for the first verse when the guy leans way too close.
I can only see the back of Alexo’s head, so I have no idea how he’s responding to the guy’s advances, if he’s interested, and that’s why I linger. Why the song plays on and I miss the first line.
The guy’s face devolves into fury, eyes narrow, lips peeled back as he talks down at Alexo.
The crowd’s gone silent, staring at me, a few errant chuckles as they assume I’m choking on stage.
But I watch Alexo shake his head at that guy—who then seizes Alexo’s arm.
Alexo tries to yank away.
Nope.
Heat swells up from my stomach, soothing calm focus over me as I leap off the stage. The crowd parts in a confused shuffle when I beeline through them to reach Alexo and the guy, still in an argument. And that guy’s still digging his fingers into Alexo’s arm.
Nope, I think again, and I should probably think more than that, but I’m all narrow-minded goal, the meditative intensity I fall into during a rawball game. Only instead ofdefend my teammates, that narrow-minded goal isget Alexo away from this guy.
Again, without thinking—really cannot overstress how little I’m thinking—I do what I’ve done to Seb a hundred times when I want to move him somewhere:
I wrap my arm around Alexo’s waist and pick him up.
He smells like fruit. Apples, maybe? Because of course he has to smell edible.
Alexo makes a disconcerted noise halfway between a chirp and a gasp.
The guy releases Alexo’s arm in shock, which lets me depositAlexo behind me and to the side, so I can use my body as a shield between them.
By the time I’m facing the guy, one arm out to block Alexo, I realize that I made a bad move.
I know better than to justgrabpeople, and shame damn near makes my knees buckle—why thefuckdid I do that?
