Page 27 of Sing Your Secrets
“Nuh-uh. I want to hear. Put it on screen mirror,” she says as she pauses the Sex and the City rerun that’s playing on Money Bags’s—I mean Joel’s—giant-ass one-hundred-inch flat screen.
My stomach swoops with nerves. I was blown away when he sang a few lines the other week, but it was brief. There’s a possibility I simply heard what I wanted to. I really need this guy to be a good singer to keep the fantasy alive. I’m not quite sure if I want to find out the truth with all my friends watching.
“Fine,” I say caving. Finding Joel’s TV on my phone setting, my Instagram feed instantly pops up on the big screen and we see Miles’s handsome, beardless face. Here we go.
The melodic intro to “Differences” plays and I shut my eyes, far more anxious than I should be, but it only takes about fifteen seconds for the beat to drop and Miles’s voice to fill the room.
My jaw drops and garbled voices fill the room.
“What the hell?”
“Whoa.”
“Hot damn.”
I don’t know who is saying what…I can’t focus. I’m mesmerized. I was wrong—Miles isn’t just good, he’s fucking phenomenal. The melody gradually changes as the unmistakable tune of “In Those Jeans” takes over. It’s somewhere during that interlude that I realize Miles has a killer falsetto too.
“Ah! I love this song,” Addie squeals as the tempo morphs and Miles stands in the video, kicking back the stool he was sitting on. With a teasing smile on his face, he sways his hips and sings the chorus to “Pony.” It’s right around the time when he starts singing about getting nasty that I realize…
I’m. So. Screwed.
The music fades and Miles talks to the camera with a sheepish smile; his confident performance demeanor completely dissolves.
“All right guys, that’s just me screwing around with our new sound system. If you want to see some real performers, come check out Vibe in downtown L.A. We’ve got the best shows and the best drinks. I’m Miles—you can find me behind the bar.”
He salutes the camera before the video fades to black and then starts over.
I’m starting to understand why Miles isn’t finding success in L.A. He’s way too damn humble. There are people with half his talent, who are twice as loud about it. He needs a little more in the department of showmanship, that’s for sure.
“So… uh…if I sent him a message what would happen?”
Quinn cackles. “By send him a message, do you mean send him a nude?”
“Shaddup—wait. Do you think that’d work?”
Mani scrunches her face, looking puzzled. “Work? Since when do you have trouble getting a guy’s attention?”
I shrug. “He shared a sandwich with me, gave me his shirt, and did not make a move. He didn’t even ask for my number.”
“Maybe he’s married?” Noa asks.
“Doubt it.” I’ve become the queen of spotting a man who takes off his ring. I’ve met too many pathetic losers who are unfaithful to their wives. I watch for the band, but I watch for that tan line too.
“Girlfriend?” Addie asks.
“Possibly. But I don’t know. He was sweet. He gave me his shirt. No man who wants to keep his girlfriend gives the shirt off his back to another woman.”
Quinn says in a quick mumble, “Maybe he doesn’t want to keep his girlfriend.” She rises from the couch and swivels her finger in the air. “Who wants another round?” Enough of us speak up that she returns with the entire bottle of sangria and the other takeout container of samosas that have gone cold. Still good.
“Mani,” I say as I hand her a pastry puff filled with our favorite curry filling and keep one for myself. “Since my Instagram is private, what would happen if I DM’d him?”
“He probably won’t see it. It doesn’t look like he’s posted for a while. If you actually do send him a nude, you’ll most definitely get buried in his hidden messages.”
“Hidden messages? You mean message requests?”
“No,” she says taking a little bite of the curry puff. “Hidden messages. There’s a secret folder for creeps who try to send you pictures and bait messages. I’ll show you.” She grabs my phone and navigates through my messages, my screen still mirrored on the TV.
“So, we’re implying I’m a creep?”