The tight space suddenly felt tighter.
“Anyway,” she said, slightly off balance, “I need to head into work, but it was nice hearing your voice again.”
“The pleasure was all mine. You sound as pretty as I remember.”
She laughed effusively, loudly, giving her best flirty girl impression, then she shoved the phone at Wes. “Thanks for the lift, Weston. I can take it from here.”
He looked about to lace into her, but he pulled out his keys and wallet and tried to hand her a wad of cash. “Use this for a cab home. Please don’t take the subway at night. And if you need my help with rent, call.”
He must really think she was still fourteen. She took his copy of her key and grabbed the cash. “I’ll make enough tips to get home on my own, but there’s someone who could use this. Say goodbye to Duncan for me,” she called loudly, hoping Duncan would hear. Wes’s cheeks turned her favorite shade of furious.
She shimmied out of the car, twisting awkwardly to avoid flashing Wes or the homeless man on the street corner. She closed the door as Wes barked, “Annie is off-limits,” into the phone.
Pleased with her ability to ruffle the unrufflable Weston Aldrich, Annie walked over to the homeless man, crouched in front of him, and gave him Weston’s cash. “I hope you have a good night.”
She made eye contact with him until he gave her a lopsided grin. His expression was loose and sloppy, but it was a smile nonetheless. When living on the street, Annie hadn’t understood why people wouldn’t look at her. Fear. Guilt. Disgust. The only thing worse than disdain had been invisibility.
“Annie,” Wes called from the car, using his be careful tone. He often warned her away from homeless people. Told her not everyone was safe. Then he’d drop a fifty into someone’s outstretched hand, covering her meager one or five.
She stood and blew Wes a kiss, then pushed into Imogen’s. The dank bar felt cavernous and smelled slightly sour, the floor so scuffed it looked like a Jackson Pollock painting. The high-top tables had seen better days, and the two pool tables and small stage at the back were a little worse for wear. Imogen’s rep as a “new” hot spot seemed suspect.
A beautiful Korean woman with a pixie-cut, who looked too young to work at a bar, was scanning bottles of alcohol and writing on a clipboard. When she noticed Annie, she waved. “I’m Vivian. You must be the new girl.”
“That would be me—Annie. Just tell me what needs doing, and it’s done.”
Eight hours later Annie’s predictions had come true. She was sweaty, she smelled of booze, her feet ached, and one slurring man had told her she had nice eyes, while staring at her boobs. Surprisingly, the “hot spot” label had also proved accurate. Dim lighting, electro jazz tunes, and a boisterous mid-twenties crowd had transformed Imogen’s from shabby to chic. Aside from her sore feet and less-than appealing smell, she felt energized.
Annie slid a whiskey sour to a tattooed woman along the bar.
Vivian caught Annie’s eye. “Selma said we can punch out at midnight.” She raised her voice over the music, dancing as she spoke. “The later shift will close.”
“You won’t hear me complaining.” Annie collected cash from her customer, grooving along with Vivian, and pocketed her tip. “Is it always this busy?” Thursdays at her last job had been hit or miss.
Vivian scanned the animated room. “Pretty much. Weekends are even better. And they’ll be more bearable with you here. The guy you replaced was slow as a slug.”
“Never hire a man to do a woman’s job.”
“Truth.” Vivian shook her hips as she gathered dirty shot glasses. “You should come out tonight. There’s a killer DJ playing a late-night set at a new Brooklyn joint.”
At the word DJ, queasiness curdled Annie’s stomach. “I don’t have ID. It’s locked in my apartment.”
“Not an issue. I know the bouncer.”
So much for an easy out.
Besides playing piano, Annie hadn’t visited a club or watched a DJ in thirteen years. Not difficult during her late teens, but it had been a concerted effort since turning twenty-one. She interacted online in music forums, but visiting a club reminded her too much of Leo’s death.
She should politely decline Vivian’s offer, head home, take a long bath, rest her sore feet. Get some sleep so she could be fresh and bright for tomorrow’s piano delivery, after paying her landlord this month’s rent. But she was wired from her shift, and buying that piano had been about feeling more connected to her brother. Walking into a club would be hard. Listening to the music live could trigger memories she tried to forget.
It could also be like that moment her fingers had touched the busker’s piano, filling her up in unexpected ways.
“Count me in,” she told Vivian quickly.
“Oh, fun!” Vivian clapped. “I’m meeting a date. It’ll be nice not to go alone.”
“As long as you’re sure I won’t be a third wheel.”
“It’s a first date, so you’ll be doing me a favor. We’ll come up with a save-me-before-I-die signal.”
“You’re going to a club at one a.m. for a first date?” Annie’s dates had generally been mundane affairs at restaurants and quiet pubs. Except that one time she’d been dragged to an underground poker game and the cops had raided the place. Calling Wes to bail her out of jail had almost been amusing. The color of his cheeks had been more livid than furious that night.
Vivian ran her hands along her black bustier, her suctioned leather pants and stilettos making Annie’s skirt and high boots look matronly. “Clubs mean I can dress to impress, and if she can’t hack the scene, she’s not for me.”
Annie hadn’t expected the “she” but loved that Vivian owned who she was, down to her partier status and the type of woman she wanted to date. Annie had no clue who she wanted to date, or if she had a type. Of her two boyfriends, one had been nice and quiet, most of their evenings spent watching movies on the couch, often falling asleep there. The other had been loud and fun, snapping social media photos every chance he’d gotten, dragging her to parties and double dates, rarely spending time alone with her.
Both had gotten on her nerves around month three.
“Meet me out front in fifteen,” Vivian said.
Annie nodded and worked to clean her area, moving, wiping, trying not to think too hard about how it would feel walking into a club. Already, though, images of Leo were sneaking up on her. She may not have been there the night he’d been shot, but that didn’t keep her imagination from conjuring horrifying images: blood splatter, strangled screams, lifeless eyes.
She blinked hard.
Hopefully this outing wasn’t a horrible idea. Hopefully it wouldn’t end with a wallow session on her floral couch as she drowned her sadness in salt and vinegar chips while scrapbooking until her fingers hurt.
3
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 abou
t 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.
The Beat Match Page 3