This wouldn’t be a repeat of her Sudoku books, though. She wouldn’t walk away because things were getting harder. She’d double down her efforts. Stake out his next gig. Be ready to tail him so she could unveil her masked man.
10
Apparently when Annie put effort into a goal, she lost sight of boundaries. She’d somehow become a stalker. Or a private eye. Or just plain creepy. She was in a dingy alley, parked in a taxi, waiting for Falcon’s show to end. This had been the first of his gigs she’d missed since Vivian had introduced her to the DJ. Annie hated being outside while clubbers could let loose and dance inside, but doubling down her efforts meant not letting the man escape.
Falcon had had a driver pick him up at his last handful of shows, so she planned to tail his car and corner him once he was out. Yell at him for the rude ditching, then beg him to teach her everything he knew.
There was no “or” about it. This was definitely stalker territory.
The cabbie texted on his phone. Her window was rolled down slightly, so she could hear the heavy bass pulsing through the club’s walls. It was nearly two a.m.
She held her breath, waited for a change in music to signal the end of Falcon’s set. He always downshifted when he finished, played a mellower dance tune and slipped out the back while his team went to work. It was quite the setup, really. Roadies to assemble and take down his equipment, a driver to pick him up. Always elusive.
He had kissed her, though. And she wanted to know why.
A siren wailed in the distance. A few “whoops” carried from the alley. She strained her ears as the tempo thumping from the club changed, then five people careened around the building and ran to the back exit.
“Get ready,” she told the cab driver. “He’ll be out soon.”
“Whatever you say, lady.”
Spending money on this taxi-car-chaser wasn’t in her budget, but pinning Falcon down took precedence. When she was a serious DJ, she’d save for her future.
The fans chatted animatedly, and more people tore to the rear exit, wanting a glimpse of their mysterious idol. When the back door cracked open, everyone shouted for Falcon, but a massive man pushed outside. Thick neck. Boulders for shoulders. Bouncers were a different breed of human. He towered over the groupies and tried to usher them away. A black sedan with tinted windows pulled up on schedule, the whole scene something from a reality show, paparazzi lying in wait for an A-list celebrity.
It was tough to see through the gathering crowd, but people suddenly jumped and waved, their shouts carrying to her car.
I love you, Falcon.
Amazing set, man.
Sign my boobs!
Annie gave the crowd a death stare as the last shout registered. She’d like to sign something special on that woman’s boobs. Hands off. He’s mine. Two ridiculous thoughts, since the guy had stood her up and her sexual energy had been focused on a different male as of late. Still, there was no forgetting that kiss, how his raw passion had lit her up.
She glimpsed Falcon’s masked face and wide shoulders before he slipped into the car.
She pointed to the sedan like a movie extra. “Follow that car, sir.”
The cabbie shook his head, but he pulled out and followed Falcon. She gripped her seat belt and leaned forward. Another car wove between them.
“Can’t you drive faster?”
“This ain’t The Fast and the Furious.”
“It isn’t The Longest Day, either,” she mumbled.
When a red light forced her to watch Falcon’s car disappear ahead, she cursed. The light turned green. She bounced her heel and scanned the road, a shaky laugh releasing when she spotted the sedan at a distance. Falcon’s driver wasn’t taking weird side streets, worried about being followed. They hadn’t counted on one super fan, who’d been kissed and dismissed, to become a secret spy.
The cabbie, doing a pretty darned good Fast and Furious impression after all, dodged cars to catch up and flicked his signal to follow Falcon down a side street, but when they turned the corner, the sedan was gone.
He braked and shrugged. “Looks like we lost ’em.”
She squeezed her fists and groaned. They were in a residential area with old red brick homes. Most porches had warped steel awnings. Long staircases led up to front doors, and there wasn’t a soul in sight. So much for doubling down her efforts and demanding answers from Falcon.
The cabbie looked in his rearview mirror at her. “Where to now?”
She closed her eyes, tried to slow her breaths. This wasn’t the end. She wouldn’t let her frustrations derail her efforts. This drive to succeed made her want to sink her teeth into her life more fully, hunker down and see what she could accomplish. Sighing, she opened her eyes, and her spine snapped straight.
A man was walking on the opposite side of the street, toward the main intersection. She couldn’t see his face, but he was dressed in black with a backpack hanging off one shoulder. When he passed under a streetlight, sparkles and colorful feathers caught the light—Falcon’s mask sticking out of the bag.
She did a happy dance in her seat. “I’ll get out here, sir. Thank you for the top-notch driving.”
Money shoved at him, she hurried out and followed Falcon at a distance. She should have worn a black unitard, not the flowery dress she’d scored at a secondhand shop, but the mid-thigh cut looked cute with her ankle boots, and she wanted Falcon to like what he saw. Another kiss might help get Wes off her mind.
She stuck to the shadows as much as possible, keeping back, biding her time. The man hiked up his bag, and the mask poked farther out. There was no mistaking his build or those beautiful feathers. She still couldn’t see his face, but her skin tingled, curiosity and excitement buzzing. When she gathered her courage, she’d call his name. Confront him about his disappearing act. She’d see the man below the mask and demand he teach her his ways.
The best part? Dude had no clue his cover was about to be blown.
Weston inhaled until his lungs ached, then exhaled through his nose as his shoes echoed off the sidewalk, a backbeat to the rhythmic whooshing in his ears. He should have let his driver take him home tonight. It would have left him time to reorganize his intro for his next show. Play with the video footage, since tonight’s venue hadn’t had space for his new setup.
He should have done a lot of things, but he’d needed air. To just walk. Breathe. Try to get his head right.
Tonight’s set had gone well. His mixes had been seamless, the new songs he’d chosen hitting perfectly. The crowd had been amped up, moving as one, a writhing beast feeding off his music. He was sometimes twitchy after shows, too wired to sleep, adrenaline pumping. This restlessness was more frustrated than euphoric, though. And he knew why.
Annie hadn’t been there.
He’d been nervous before his set, wondering if she’d show, dreading it. He was tired of fighting his feelings for her, wished everything could go back to how it had been before. But there was no undoing that kiss, or untangling his growing attraction to her from their years of friendship. He’d been sure her absence at his shows would free his mind from this relentless confusion. It had only increased his distraction.
His phone rang. He swung his backpack around and fished out his cell. At the sight of Rosanna’s name, he answered. “If you sank another yacht, I don’t want to know about it.”
She laughed. “I’ve been good, Daddy. Promise. But I need to cancel tomorrow’s date.”
He shook his head at the night sky. “That’s twice in a row. I thought we had a deal.”
Last time she’d called to ditch him, Annie had seen Rosanna’s name flash on his phone. Annie had shut down instantly, leaving him in that nasty dive bar staring after her, unsure why everything in him ached. Tonight’s disappointment at her absence made it all worse.
Mumbling registered in his ear, as though Rosanna was talking to someone with her hand over the phone, and footfalls sounded behind him. He turned and squinted down the street,
but nothing was there.
“Sorry,” Rosanna said clearly. “Yeah, we still have a deal, but remember that guy I told you about?”
He resumed walking, dropped his voice lower in case someone was nearby. “The indie musician with the pierced face?”
“No, the motorcycle guy. He’s leaving for a cross-country ride. It’s my last chance to see him before he goes.”
The concept of monogamy was so foreign to her she couldn’t even fake date properly. “That’s all well and good, but we need to be seen together. If your father realizes you’re still playing the field, or that we’re lying to him, my deal could fall apart, and your children’s children will be paying for that yacht stunt.”
“You worry too much, Weston. I’ve told dear old Dad we’re taking things slow. He seems pleased about that. Thinks it’s sweet we’re being old-fashioned. You should take Annie out on the down-low. You certainly talk about her enough.”
He thought about her even more. “She’s just a friend. You and I will go out this week. Dinner somewhere romantic but visible. And you will not cancel.”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy?”
Annie, about a million and one times. “Be safe with Motorcycle Guy.”
“You’re sweet, Weston,” Rosanna said quietly. “Too bad you’re not my type.”
It was too bad. If he found Rosanna attractive beyond her visual appearance, he might not spend his waking minutes wishing Annie was in his kitchen, or his living room, his private Falcon Cave, his bedroom, nestled into him, under him, around him, anywhere near him. He couldn’t quit thinking about Leo, either, lately: Weston’s idiotic choices the night he died, never confessing the truth to Annie. The closer he felt to her, the worse the lie seemed. If he liked Rosanna, he wouldn’t be worried about hurting the best person he knew.
He put his phone away, rubbed his eyes. Rosanna would always be a wild card. He needed a backup plan, another way to secure this merger if their fake dating failed.
“Falcon!”
Weston froze. He didn’t turn. Had someone followed his car? Had his driver taken a bribe, told a fan where he was? Hard to believe he’d take the risk when Weston paid him a grand a night for the drive. He contemplated reaching for his mask, putting the stupid thing on. If it got out that Weston Aldrich moonlighted as Falcon, Rosanna derailing the merger would be the least of his problems. Running from this fan was smarter.
But a hand latched onto his arm before he could bolt. He tensed, yanking free of the woman’s grip.
“No, no way. You don’t get to ditch me again.”
Every bone in Weston’s body seized. He knew that voice, but that voice shouldn’t know Falcon. It shouldn’t be anywhere near him. A stranger learning who he was would be trouble. Annie figuring it out? He may as well purchase a headstone now.
The woman—please, God, don’t be Annie—took advantage of his stupor, grabbed his arm again, and spun him around. His stomach dropped.
Annie reared back. “Holy shit.”
He tried to open his mouth, explain about the lies, the DJing, the late-night gigs, but like all Annie-related issues lately, he couldn’t find the words. He was sick about the deception. Angry at being found out. This was worse than any of those grenades, though. In about ten seconds, once she’d recovered from the shock, she’d realize they’d kissed. That he’d kissed her, knowing exactly who she was.
Annie had become a statue. “Holy fucking shit.”
He stayed mute, his heart punching his ribs so hard his hands throbbed.
Seven seconds and counting.
“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”
He should say something, anything. Get ahead of the shit-storm about to unleash. Specifically, her inner pit bull. But Annie poked his face, pinched his cheek, and mumbled, “Not dreaming.”
He laughed.
She curled her lip, shaking her head so hard she looked possessed. “No.”
“No, what?”
“No, you don’t get to laugh.”
He had no clue why he was laughing. Annie always made him laugh, but nothing about this was funny. He focused on the pavement, her cute ankle boots facing his black sneakers. Another laugh squeaked out.
Three seconds.
“Seriously? I’m about to give you the verbal lashing of your life, and you’re laughing? How could you not tell me you’re—”
He looked up. Her eyes were wide, her fingers drifting up to touch her lips as a rosy blush pinked her cheeks. Bingo. She was probably picturing his lips on hers, his fingers tugging on her hair, their hips lined up, bodies primed. Or maybe that was just his depraved mind.
“You kissed me,” she whispered.
“I’m…” He cleared the gravel from his throat. “I’m sorry, Anthea. I should have told you.”
Her eyes darted around, her fingers still on her lips. “You knew it was me. You knew, and you kissed me.”
She wasn’t gesturing and yelling, berating him for the Falcon lies, the secret life he hadn’t shared, his lack of respect with that kiss. Her lips were parted, her chest swelling deeper. Everything was changing between them. Because of the kiss? Before the kiss? He wasn’t sure, but there was something in her vulnerable gaze, the speeding of her breaths.
Was she fighting her feelings for him, too?
His body tensed in reply, as though he wanted just that. Which would make him a dick. Except for his one disaster, Weston had never had a girlfriend. He had arrangements with a few likeminded women, who preferred no-string hookups. Random nights between the sheets, no drama, no sleepovers. His one attempt to date with an eye on the future, he’d freaked out.
Three months into that relationship, Lila had told him she loved him, and his lungs had backfired. His chest had felt like it was rupturing. He’d pictured getting closer with her, opening up to her, allowing himself to love her. Only to lose her, being left so alone—his early losses returned tenfold—that he’d torn out of there, barely an excuse given as he’d busted onto the street, never to speak with her again.
Now he had friends with benefits. They were sweet and lovely, and demanded nothing he couldn’t give. He hadn’t called any of them in a while. The thought had sickened him slightly these days. Not as much as the hurt emanating from the one person he was trying to protect.
“I had to get you away from Duncan,” he said, grasping at straws. His best excuse for that kiss.
She flinched.
“He’s not the man for you,” he went on. “He uses women, sleeps with them and moves on. You should never have gone out with that guy.” And he needed to learn when to shut up.
The lie had come out easily, as lies did when mixed with truth. He had called her up on stage to get her away from Duncan, but he’d kissed her because he’d wanted to, and now she looked like someone had torched her scrapbook collection.
How would she look at him if she learned why Leo had really been shot?
“I’m sorry, Squirrel,” he said, at a loss.
I’m sorry, Squirrel. Sorry! After lying to her for months. Years, maybe. Sorry, after dragging her on the stage and kissing the daylights out of her. Sorry, after standing her up, then admitting the only reason the Kiss of the Century had happened was to control her and keep her away from Duncan.
And the “contrite” man was sorry?
Annie’s right eye twitched, her whole body one spasm away from karate chopping Wes in the neck. “Don’t ever call me Squirrel again, and maybe I was the one doing the using. Maybe I wanted to walk on the wild side and have fun with a guy as hot as Duncan.”
Wes’s nostrils flared. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t bait me, Anthea. You’re just trying to get under my skin.”
He was kind of right, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “You don’t know a thing about me. Not anymore. And I obviously don’t know a thing about you.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
&
nbsp; “Do I?” She glanced around at the passing cars. Traffic lights flipped from red to green. The air was still. She felt wired and exhausted. “The Weston Aldrich I knew was the heir of Aldrich Pharma, not a late-night DJ who kissed women while wearing a mask. Do you do that often? I missed your early shows. Did you use your mysterious charm to lure women onstage and…” She gasped. She thought back to that night, the timing of it. “You kissed me when you had a girlfriend.”
“I did not.” His reply was sharp, vehement, but he looked a tad green around the gills. “We weren’t exclusive.”
She reviewed the timeline. She’d found pictures of him and that Rosanna beauty together before the performance in question. Before the kiss. They’d been holding hands in the online photo, on their way to a bar or dinner. Definitely a date. The image didn’t mean they’d been exclusive, but everything about that kiss felt wrong: how into it she’d been, whimpering into his mouth, rocking against him. He’d had her panting for more, and it had been a setup. A ruse to get her away from Duncan. She hadn’t even known who she was kissing, and she’d been willing to go home with him. Although the familiarity of his eyes sure made sense now.
Her throat closed. Saliva pooled in her mouth. However upset she’d been when Wes had basically admitted she was his charity case, this was miles worse. And here she was, reliving that kiss again. The heat. The wanting. The…
Whoa.
She looked Wes hard in the face, searched the ribbons of blue in his eyes.
More than their mouths had been involved in that kiss. If Wes had wanted her away from Duncan, he could have just given her the note. A chaste kiss would have sufficed. But he’d dug in and had kissed her with passion, his whole body worked up, evidence of his arousal hot and hard against her belly. A distraction kiss, my ass.
The Beat Match Page 10