“I know it, brother. Walskie was the best pitcher the Rush has ever seen. We’re going to miss him something fierce.” Drake shook his frizzy head sadly.
“Now I understand why everyone here is all up in arms.” She said to no one in particular.
“It’s a big deal, sis. Kowalskin stepping down really shakes things up.”
“You think José is going to step up and become our new ace?” JP asked.
Mark shook his head. “I don’t know, man.”
Something occurred to her. “Okay. I get why y’all are upset. What I don’t get is why y’all are here?”
Just then the music went dead and a thump thump thump sounded from the stage. A murmur rose from the crowded nightclub as everyone turned their attention to the unexpected interruption.
“Excuse me, everyone,” came a tough, sexy male voice with a Philly accent.
She knew that voice.
“Some of you may know me, but for those of you who don’t I’ll introduce myself. My name is Peter Kowalskin.”
The crowd erupted into applause. The noise level was deafening. Someone let out an ear-piercing whistle that had her cringing, and Drake shouted something highly inappropriate.
Her heart squeezed painfully and her stomach went wild with nerves as she stepped out from behind the bar, looking for a clear line of sight to the stage. She found it next to her brother, and when she looked up and saw what was happening, her heart rolled right on over in her chest.
It was impossible to breathe.
There, up on stage under the glaring lights, was Peter in his signature white T-shirt, leather bracelet, and jeans. Looking sexy and tough and so, so wonderful.
And he was sitting on a stool. In front of a mic.
With his Gibson guitar.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
PETER SPOTTED LESLIE through the crowd and felt his palms go sweaty. What he was about to do was the hardest thing he’d ever done.
He needed Leslie to know how he felt.
She might slap him in the face and tell him off for the way he’d treated her, but he had to take that chance. For the first time in his life he was willing to risk it all for someone else.
For her.
It had taken Mark’s fist upside his head to get him to see the truth. To have the balls to admit it to himself. And it was hella scary. But it was there and it was real and he damn well had to get used to it. He had to face the fact.
He was in love with Leslie.
And he was going to show her in the best way he knew how, by doing the one thing he’d sworn he never would, the one thing he knew she really wanted. Peter was going to perform live. In front of a hell of a lot of random fucking people. He was going to sit there and pour out his feelings to her through song. Exposed and vulnerable and wide open to rejection. All because his worthless heart was hers, if she still wanted it.
The lights glared down on him and sweat trickled down his temple. He stared out over a large, cheering crowd and looked for the reason he was there. When he found her staring at him, hand in a fist at her mouth, eyes huge, his lungs locked up and he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sing. But he had to push through it for her.
Leslie deserved this.
Suddenly the lights above him changed. The stage went dark, except for the blinding spotlight now on him. He lifted a hand to block the glare, cradled his guitar on his raised knee. Who the hell had decided he needed a spotlight?
The answer came quickly. “For dramatic effect, brother!” It was Paulson. Figured.
Peter adjusted the mic in front of him and wiped his palms against the thighs of his jeans, smiling self-consciously. “Thanks for letting me crash the stage everyone. I’ve got a tune I wrote that I’d like to perform, if that’s all right.”
Cheers. Whistles. Catcalls.
Finding Leslie in the crowd, Peter waited until she was looking at him and said, “Somebody once told me that I had something worth sharing.” He laughed softly. “I sure hope she was right. Here goes.”
Peter took a deep breath and shut down. He shut out the lights and noise and nerves. Closing his eyes he went to that place inside him that had only ever been touched by one person. By Leslie. She believed in him.
It gave him strength.
For a moment he sat there and waited until the club went quiet. Then his fingers started to move on the strings, the sound of his guitar bringing him to his center. God, he hoped she understood what he was trying to do, what he was trying to say.
“For my princess,” he said. Then he plunged deep and forgot about the strangers staring at him. Peter lost himself in the music, in his message to Leslie.
And he sang.
LESLIE DIDN’T RECOGNIZE the song. After a few bars she realized the reason she couldn’t place it was because it was new. Peter had written a song for her. The truth choked her up.
The stripped-down acoustics made the lyrics sound so beautiful. They touched her and now that they were being sung by the man she was hopelessly in love with and she knew that it had been written for her, well, it was amazing.
The nightclub was silent as Peter strummed his guitar and sang about her being too beautiful to turn away from even though he was unworthy. He looked incredible up there, so rugged and tough and soulful. Just like she knew he would.
And he was there for her, singing for her. He’d called her his princess. Her lips trembled and she swallowed hard, her heart pounding frantically in her chest.
Pushing through the crowd blindly, Leslie didn’t stop until she was standing at the front of the crush, just steps away from the stage. She didn’t care who saw, she just stood there as the tears formed and fell, one by one, down her cheeks. Because she knew, knew what Peter being there meant, and it was everything.
“I don’t deserve it, but give me a chance,” he sang in his amazing voice.
And it felt like he was saying it directly to her. That they weren’t just lyrics to a song. They were words from his heart. And knowing him, knowing what music was to him, and how he kept everything locked up tight, Leslie knew he was saying what was inside him in the best way he knew how.
Peter continued playing, his nimble fingers working the guitars strings expertly. His voice built along with the song, and before long he was pouring his heart out, singing, “I’m not perfect, just imperfectly yours. I’ll love you like you’ve never known before.”
His voice broke and he looked directly at her. He let his guard down and let everything he felt show in his eyes as he finished the song. “Imperfectly yours for the rest of my life.”
Oh God.
Leslie started sobbing. And she couldn’t stop. Because she was so in love with him it was ridiculous. It made her a blubbering fool.
All for Peter.
He stopped strumming his guitar and the club slowly went quiet as the crowd held a collective breath. For a long moment he just sat there and looked at her, his pale blue eyes shining bright. Then he raised that brow of his and gave her a small half smile. “I love you,” he said, completely unaware or uncaring that the microphone had picked it up and broadcast it throughout the entire club.
Peter sat his Gibson down and jumped off the stage. As soon as his feet hit the ground he swooped her up and covered her mouth in a searing, heartfelt kiss. All she could do was cling to him as everything inside her rejoiced, and the crowd around them erupted, went wild.
He pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. “I love you,” he said again. Now that he’d said them once they were the only words he wanted to speak. “And I’m sorry. So, so sorry for being such a coward, Leslie.”
She placed a hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes. They were filled with love and fear and uncertainty. “Why are you a coward?”