The club’s atmosphere was like plugging Annie’s fingers into a light socket. Energy blasted from the speakers. Tons of it. A massive heartbeat wrapping her in its intensity as club goers bopped and grinned. A wave of sorrow didn’t drag her under as she’d expected. Instead the deep bass pounded in her chest, awakening memories of Leo’s smile and roaring laugh and killer dance moves.
The potency built as she followed Vivian through the standing-room-only space. Lights flashed. They got jostled a few times before they found the bar.
“This place is nuts,” she yelled to Vivian.
“Wait until you hear the last DJ. He goes by Falcon and will blow your mind. If it gets wild and we get separated, let’s meet at the exit at two thirty.” Vivian shook her shoulders to the beat while trying to flag a bartender. Fat chance with this crush of people. “So, boyfriend? Girlfriend? Single?” Vivian asked.
“Would be a boyfriend, but very single. If I don’t break my dry spell, my body might petrify.”
“That’s an appetizing visual.” Vivian wrinkled her nose.
“If we lived in Egyptian times, they’d mummify my deprived body and pull out my brains through my nose with a hook.”
Vivian looked mildly horrified, then she smiled. “If my date sucks, that’ll be our signal.”
“You want me to have my brains yanked out with a hook?”
“Although that would be fascinating, no. But you could pretend your hand’s a hook and jab at your nose.” She mimed the hook-nose move.
“Are you trying to make me look like an idiot?”
“Busted.” She grinned. “But we need to do something about this catastrophic dry spell. Wouldn’t want you shriveling up and rotting in the middle of a shift. And stay on the lookout for a half-Korean blond-haired woman in a red shirt. I told Sarah to meet me by the bar.”
Annie was tall enough in her high boots to scan the club for Vivian’s date. No luck, but talk of her dry spell made her think of the hand-boob incident in Wes’s car, and the strange tingle she’d felt afterward. Her lack of male company was clearly an issue. She was so deprived, even Wes, a man who treated her like a child, could spark her libido with nothing but an accidental brush.
Vivian wrangled them a couple of bright blue drinks, and they clinked glasses.
“Did you grow up in New York?” Vivian asked.
Annie sipped her drink, which was stronger than expected, delaying her reply. Aside from casual work colleagues, most of Annie’s friends were online: her scrapbooking group, the members of her BOOMpop music app, her Vintage Anonymous forum. In the online world, no one knew her mother had died with a needle in her arm, or that her alcoholic father had tucked tail and run before she’d been born. They didn’t know Leo had bribed homeless people to pretend to be their parents while moving from shelter to shelter, determined to stay together and keep them out of the foster system. In that world, Leo hadn’t been killed in a random club shooting.
“Yeah,” she shouted to Vivian, “I grew up here.” She pointed to her drink. “This is awesome. What do they call it?”
They talked about their favorite cocktails until Vivian’s date arrived, and Annie gave herself a mental high-five for redirecting their conversation away from personal topics. If she could turn that skill into a job, money would be a non-issue.
Sarah and Vivian leaned close to talk over the noise, clearly comfortable with their proximity. Where Vivian was slim and petite, Sarah was curvier and tall with long blond hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. She was also a private detective.
“Does that mean you did a background check on Vivian before tonight?” Annie asked.
Sarah gave Vivian the once-over. “That happens after a couple dates. No point wasting my time if things fall flat.”
Vivian struck a sexy pose and fluttered her eyelashes. “Is that a challenge?”
The duo moved closer together, talking too low for Annie to hear over the electronic tunes pumping from the stage. Annie caught Vivian’s eye from behind Sarah and mimed picking her nose with a hooked finger. Vivian laughed and shook her head. Looked like the date was off to a good start.
Preferring not to intrude, she people watched. The eclectic crowd was dressed in everything from skimpy dresses to T-shirts and jeans. All music lovers, closing their eyes and moving to the infectious beat. The music drifted from techno to cosmic to disco funk. Some dancers looked high as a kite, or drunk, or both, but the atmosphere was positive and upbeat. She ordered and finished a second drink while dancing quietly in her own little spot.
Vivian caught her eye, tapped her watch and mouthed two thirty, then disappeared with Sarah to an upstairs section. They would meet at the exit as planned, and Annie kind of liked being in the club alone, free to dance and drink, no personal questions asked.
After a while, the neon lights dimmed. A hush spread through the crowd, followed by a few whistles. When a figure moved onto the stage, cheers exploded.
It was too dark to see much detail, but the guy looked tall, wearing some kind of feathered mask. Maybe he was the last DJ, Falcon, starting his set—the one Vivian had wanted to hear. More random whistles. Shouts echoed through the club. He didn’t engage with the audience, just stood there, statue still. His mysterious aura electrified the crowd even more, and Annie leaned forward, maneuvering slightly to get a better view, anticipation building in her chest.
Then a violin crooned.
Slow and lush, the quivering melody flowed through the speakers, swelling. A contrast to the heavy bass from before, the notes full of sorrow and hope, peace and agitation. A flash of light and burst of symphony followed, there then gone.
More violin hummed, its rhythm and speed building. Another flash, brighter with a blast of sound, fragments feeding off one another, invigorating the packed room. Annie couldn’t quite catch the beat, but its elusive quality was mesmerizing, the need to chase it impossible to ignore. Her hips moved and her chest popped, finding the beat, losing it, getting closer. Everyone in the club was feeling it, too, the growing crescendo about to erupt.
Then bam.
A solid beat blended with the classical music. The lights turned high, and the bodies around her jumped. People waved glow sticks. Many held water bottles, high on more than the music. The song had a dark-wave vibe with electro pop mixed in. She started jumping, too, so much joy spilling through her wide smile.
She had avoided clubs so long for fear of missing Leo too much or being forced to envision his death, but all she could think about was how much he’d have loved this. She loved this, the blend of old and new, the raw energy—enough wattage to send her to the moon.
She moved closer to the stage, danced next to two women, who seemed happy to have her join them. Anonymous. Just people out for a good time. The lights were dim, occasionally flashing, but bright enough to better make out the DJ. His mysterious status was still high. He wore dark jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. An elaborate mask covered his face—the features of a wild bird in glittery turquoise, yellows, and greens. Only his mouth and lower jaw were visible. He danced as he hovered over the controller, using hand signals to slow the crowd down and speed them up.
A new hypnotic beat chased the first, blending, teasing, then taking over.
The beat match.
She remembered Leo explaining that term. Manipulating the beats, stretching or shifting one song until it perfectly synchronized with another. She moved closer to the stage, danced harder, absorbed the heat wrapping her in happiness. A trickle of sweat slid down her back. The crowd fed off every note shaking the floors.
This DJ was the real deal, and she was captivated.
Weston laid down the next track, built the electricity in the room, just him and his beats feeding the frenzy. The club was perfection tonight, exactly what Weston needed. Upbeat. No bullshit or drama.
And it was a packed house.
His DJ gigs the past few months had gotten busier, momentum growing along with his fan base. Aldrich Pharma was a functioning beast of its own, fifty thousand employees who lived on his family’s dime, many supporting others through their business. That corporation was in his blood. His mind needed the intellectual chess match it provided. DJing provided something different.
“If you tune out the rest of the world,” his mother had said when he’d work too hard at school, barely going out, “you’ll end up alone. Detached from the real world. If you don’t let yourself care about others, you’ll only live half a life.”
Like your father, she hadn’t said, but he’d later understood the implication. She hadn’t wanted Weston to turn out cold and calculating, driven solely by financial success.
No mistake about it, Weston was driven by ambition, but he’d volunteered at soup kitchens and shelters, initially at his mother’s insistence, later because it felt good. Making a difference had made him feel like the best version of himself, and meeting Leo was no small twist of fate. From that first day, doing dishes together, laughing as Weston’s fancy clothes had gotten drenched in sudsy water, their friendship had been easy. Authentic and real. Nothing like the preening between his private school buddies, who cared more about showing off than looking out for one another.
Leo had introduced Weston to the underground music scene, the two of them, fake IDs in hand, walking into clubs, hitting on girls too old for them, and dreaming of being on stage.
All of it shattered one fateful night.
Weston still had music, even if he was distracted tonight. He was the music, he reminded himself. The center of this writhing organ, pumping life into the room, giving people an escape for the length of a song, an hour, a night to feel nothing but the beat. It wasn’t as altruistic as working the soup-kitchen line, his philanthropic efforts these days doled out through dollars spent. But he loved working the room and, more important, he owed a debt: if Leo couldn’t live his dream, Weston would live it for them both.
He moved as he mixed, tried not to think about the mess with Karim’s daughter, or Annie’s latest antics: blowing off paying her rent, her barely-there outfit, that stunt with Duncan. He particularly didn’t want to think about how close they’d gotten while fumbling for his phone. The tiniest brush against her breast. Weston’s sudden urge to feel more.
So wrong. Too wrong to even contemplate.
He shook his head, the slight itch of his mask a reminder he wasn’t at some club for his own enjoyment. He had a job to do, and a crowd to please.
He got into the rhythm, felt a punch of adrenaline as he scoped the floor. The scene was riled. Already shaking the walls. Instead of threading in mellower songs, longer sections that would gradually build, he combined four or five tracks into one, taking dancers on a journey, signaling them to get lower or jump higher with the beats and his hands, tipping the scales into a natural euphoria. Not so natural for many club kids, but for him, always.
He conducted the crush of people. Pushed. Pulled. Elevated. A handful wore T-shirts printed with “Freed by the Falcon” on the front. He wasn’t sure who’d initiated the pseudo merchandise. He’d noticed it two months ago, one girl dancing near his stage. Then a couple here, a few there, an organic growth of a brand he hadn’t initiated.
Freed by the Falcon.
Leo would have loved it.
Weston gave them what they craved, his music exploding from the speakers. His blood pumped in time to the bass. Humidity hung in the dense air. He let his gaze skim the floor, his attention locking on various dancers. Connection was key, making them feel part of his show. Weston nodded at a purple-haired dude, adjusted the frequency and volume, added a kick of reverb, and lifted the background drums. The kid punched the air to the beat.
Weston’s gaze slid to the left…and air jammed in his lungs.
Someone who looked a hell of a lot like Annie was dancing. Not just dancing. She was glowing, her arms up, head tilted back, hips and upper body swaying suggestively.
His blood pumped harder. Yeah, it was definitely her, still in that skimpy outfit. He glared at the group around her. Was she on a date? At this hour? Was some dude hoping he’d score big? But she was dancing on her own mainly, occasionally interacting with others on the floor. She didn’t seem to be with anyone specific.
Was she alone? At a late-night club, hoping for a hookup?
Agitation edged his movements. Frustration fogged his focus. If he hadn’t launched into a new track, he’d have fumbled the transition.
He kept one eye on her and one on his equipment, berating himself for the possessiveness firing in his gut. Annie was twenty-seven. She wasn’t the kid he’d promised to watch over. She was an adult free to party and date. Seeing her out and happy shouldn’t unbalance him like this. But clubs were unpredictable. All it took was one grudge, one weapon, and all hell could break loose. Or a man could think he was entitled to something that wasn’t his.
A new urge Weston couldn’t name drove him. He tested out a new song, a swell of pleasure building when she picked up the rhythm, a secret smile on her face like she knew he’d chosen the song for her. She couldn’t know. No one ever could or would.
He used a burner phone for all DJ business. He’d hired a roadie anonymously. Hank set up and stored his equipment for a generous fee. Weston showed up minutes before gigs, wearing his mask, a black outfit, casual shoes, and a different cologne, disguised down to his smell. He gave strict instructions limiting interaction and bailed the second his set finished. In and out. No talking to the audience. No talking to fans. He wasn’t doing it for personal glory.
He was doing it for Leo.
Annie didn’t know Weston was the man controlling her body now, but he knew he was the one making her move like that, and a strange warmth filled his chest. Her neck glistened with sweat. Her curves moved with his mix.
He played the rest of his set for her, and for Leo. Always for Leo. He’d love seeing his sister like this, truly happy, even with him gone. One song, then another. Weston was on fire. Annie was glorious. It was his best gig, hands down.
With his last note reverberating in the air, the crowd went nuts, and he pumped his fist for his screaming fans, stealing one last glance at her. She seemed to be trying to catch his attention, mouthing something he couldn’t make out. For one freaked out second, he wondered if she recognized him, but it was impossible.
He strutted off the stage. A couple of guys congratulated him, but most knew to stay away. His disappearing acts didn’t seem to hurt his bookings. If anything, being eccentric and mysterious upped his appeal.
He pushed out the back exit and almost smacked into a small group.
“That show was sick.” A guy waved, moving to block Weston’s path. He was thin as a beanstalk but taller than Weston. One of the others wore a Freed by the Falcon T-shirt. They all started badgering him for autographs.
This had never happened before. He’d leisurely grab a cab after a show, remove his mask and get dropped off a few blocks from his condo. Not so easy tonight.
He pressed his fingers to his lips, then to his heart. Hopefully a sign these fans would understand as thank you. Then he busted into a run.
Footfalls trailed him, but not for long. “Love you, man!” one of them called.
At least they didn’t sound angry.
He hailed a cab and hopped in.
“Costume party?” the cabbie asked once they were on their way.
Weston adjusted his mask, but didn’t take it off. “Something like that.”
“The wife and I went to a masquerade party once. Crazy thing one Halloween. Not my scene, but the wife loved it. Said she liked pretending to be someone else. Kind of talked different that night, too. More outgoing and stuff.” The cabbie glanced at him in his rearview mirror. “You find that? That you’re, I don’t know—more open with that thing on?”
“It definitely gives you freedom to do things you wouldn’t normally do.” Like live a secret double life.
“Guess it’s a rush for some folks.”
Not exactly how Weston would describe his live sets. Sure, DJing pumped him with adrenaline, but the outlet served a purpose. Clubs paid him through online transfers to a numbered account. The money he made got funneled into campaigns that pushed for stronger gun control, in memory of Leo. All of it for Leo. Weston owed that guy everything. Including his life. But, lately, DJing the way Leo had imagined and tossing money at charities hadn’t felt like enough. Hands-off philanthropic work wasn’t the same as working in a soup kitchen, touching people directly.
For now he’d have to rethink his transportation. Maybe hire a personal driver. Avoid future fan ambushes. Get picked up and dropped off discreetly. Discreet being the operative word. One whiff of his evening activities and he’d be ousted from his family business. No one would trust a Chief Operating Officer who DJed at night, a scene well known for drugs and bad decisions. Even though he was there for the music, not the partying, his credibility would nose-dive. His father would be the first to cut him loose.
Weston closed his eyes for the rest of the ride.
When he finally made it home, he tossed his bag on his sectional and pounded back a glass of water. He plunked his cup down on the concrete counter. The resounding silence in his loft apartment made his ears ring. The modernized industrial space felt sparser than usual, the salvaged brick walls barer, even though he’d recently acquired an exquisite Trudy Benson painting. The space was pristine and timeless; an architectural masterpiece, the ceiling soaring three stories high.
Over the ringing quiet, all he heard was Annie her first time in the place, saying, “It’s stunning and funky. It just feels more like a museum than a home.”
He rubbed his sternum and headed to his Falcon Cave, a name Leo would have loved. The guy had been obsessed with Batman: the comics, the movies, the gadgets, how a regular guy could be a superhero without powers. Weston had razzed him about it. Now he moonlighted as Falcon and spent hours in his Falcon Cave, aka his sound room.
He unlocked his studio, grabbed his laptop, and sank into the leather couch. He surfed through music sites, read an article about this year’s Ultra Music Festival, left a comment suggesting they put Grid Girl on the main stage—that woman dropped a serious beat. He browsed his latest research projections afterward, his mind flipping from music to pharmaceuticals and back on a dime.
Switching between two lives was exhausting at times, but multitasking was his superpower. What he didn’t want was for his mind to keep drifting to Annie, her relaxed body as she’d danced to his beats, her hips and chest rolling, sexy as sin.
He was glad she’d enjoyed herself, but sin was the real takeaway there. There were umpteen reasons he had to box, chain, and burn his unwelcome thoughts. None of which he wanted to unpack. He needed to focus on the Biotrell merger, not his late best friend’s little sister. He would ask Rosanna Farzad on a date. The move was good for business and maybe for his personal life, too. A way to squash these unwanted images of Annie.