Complete Submission: (The Submission Series, Books 1-8) by CD Reiss Read Free Book Online Page A

“I’ve got you, under my skin.” Then I groaned the rest of the lyrics like I was in heat. No. But yes. It was a good song. It was missing how I really felt: frustrated and angry. So I belted out the last line of the chorus without Sinatra’s little snappy croon, but a longing, accusatory howl.
    “Hang on,” Gabby said. She took a second to find the melody, and I sang the chorus the way I wanted it played.
    “Wow, that’s not how Sinatra did it,” she said.
    “Play it loungey, like we’re seducing someone.” I tapped her a slower rhythm, and she caught onto it. “Right, Gabs. That’s it.”
    I stood up and took the rest of the song, owning it, singing as if the intrusion was unacceptable, as if insects crawled inside me, because I didn’t want anyone under my skin. I wanted to be left alone to do my work.
    Having the guys here to record it so I could hear it would have been nice, but I could tell I was onto something. The back room at Frontage was small, so I needed less rage and more discomfort. More sadness. More disappointment in myself for letting it happen, and begging the pain away. If I could nail that, I might actually enjoy singing a few standards at a restaurant. Or I might get fired for changing them. No way to know.
    I did it again, from the top. The first time I sang the word, “skin,” I felt Jonathan’s hands on me and didn’t resist the pleasure and warmth. I sang right through it, and when Gabby accompanied, she put her own sadness into it. I felt it. It was my song now.
    My phone rang: Darren.
    “Where the hell are you?”
    “Harry just called me. His mother is sick in Arizona. He’s out. For good.”
    I would have said something like, so no bassist, no band , but Gabby would have heard, and she wasn’t ready for any kind of upset.
    “And you’re not here because?”
    He sighed. “I got held up at work. I’ll be there in twenty. Tomorrow night, I have a favor to ask.”
    “Yeah?”
    “I have a date. Can you get her home after your gig and make sure she takes her meds?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Thanks, Mon.”
    “Go get laid.”
    I clicked the phone off and used the rest of the time to work on our performance.

fifteen
    T hursday afternoon shift at the Stock was slow by Saturday night standards. I earned less money, but the atmosphere was more relaxed. There was always a minute to chill with Debbie at the service bar. I liked her more and more all the time. I tried to keep it light and hold my energy up. Just because this gig tonight wasn’t my own songwriting, I still wanted to do a good job. But after Darren’s call and the sputtering dissolution of the band, I lost the mojo, and I just sounded like Sinatra on barbiturates. I had no idea how to get that heat back.
    Debbie got off her phone as I slid table ten’s ticket across the bar. Robert snapped it up and poured my rounds.
    “I think he likes you,” Debbie said, indicating Robert. He was hot in his black T-shirt and Celtic tattoos.
    “Not my type.”
    “What is your type?”
    I shrugged. “Nonexistent.”
    “Okay, well, finish with this table and go on your break. Could you go down to Sam’s office and make a copy of next week’s schedule?” She handed me a slip of paper with the calendar. The waitstaff hung around waiting for it every week as our station placement and hours determined not only how much money we’d make over the next seven days, but our social and family plans as well. And here she was giving it to me two hours early. She smiled and patted my arm before walking off to greet three men in suits.
    I went to the bathroom and freshened up, then headed for Sam’s office.
    It wasn’t a warm, fabulously decorated place like Jonathan’s at K. It was totally utilitarian, with a linoleum floor and metal filing cabinets. The copy machine was in there, and I put the schedule on the glass without turning the lights on. The windows gave enough afternoon light.
    The energy saver was on, meaning the copier was ice