by Angel Payne
Or, for that matter, anyone else.
I already had the lover that mattered most in my life. The amour that would never betray or break me.
The music.
The beats, true and perfect. The energy, fiery and full. The partner of my soul, calling especially loud to me now, as oppressing silence weighed over the club. It commanded my presence and my worship, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to deny it.
After easily locating the stairs to the control booth, I jogged across the dance floor and mounted them two at a time. The entire board, along with every other gleaming control in the space, was already powered up and waiting for me.
“Well, hello there.” I ran reverent fingers over the knobs, sliders, and turntables that were familiar friends. At the same time, I pulled my laptop out of my pink camo print duffel. A couple of quick plugs into the right ports and the club’s system came to life, reflecting its interface with my drives. “Why don’t we all get to know each other?”
I brought the sound up, filling the club with the strains of Lara Fabian singing of aching lust in Italian, before blending a hypnotic trans dance beat beneath it. The two songs climbed with each other, telling a tale of seduction that could only end the wrong way. Though the next stanza was unavoidable, climbing toward the explosion of heartbreak, I soared with it.
Welcomed it.
Mixed more bass into it.
And then surrendered to it.
It swelled into me, taking over my mind and thoughts. Swelled through me until I was as helpless as Fabian herself, dragged into the flow of the emotional music. I was a child of gods named melody and harmony. Their power guided my fingers over the controls, pumping through the muscles in my body, taking my heart where my head would never allow. I was lost. Moving with it. Obeying its unalterable command. Doing it with pride and happiness.
The music made everything safe.
The music would never fail me.
Would never lie to me.
Would never fall in love with a mistress then never come back. Would never seduce me into signing on risky loans, only to disappear with the money.
The music was my magic.
I didn’t expect anyone else to get it. Nor did I want to. Right here, right now, the music was all that mattered.
Until it didn’t.
Until I mixed out of the trans, into one of my favorite custom mixes. Along with a bumped-up version of Demi Lovato’s Skyscraper, I flowed in Kelly Clarkson’s Breakaway. I threw on the combo on just for Gigi, since her love for both songs had inspired the mix in the first place. As I’d hoped, she screamed in delight. As I expected, she joined Leese and Greer on the dance floor for it. And as I also expected, we now had an audience. Nico had been joined by Milo Proust, as well as his girlfriend, supermodel Vivienne Dunn—
And the part of this equation I’d never expected.
The surprise guest nobody had warned me about.
The power surge nobody had given me a protector for.
The man who appeared at Milo’s side like a demigod from another realm—or maybe a wraith from the afterlife, since that was exactly where my senses placed him. Hot. Cold. A furnace blast, then an ice floe. Up. Down. And who the hell cared?
And who the hell was he, with his dark as sin stare, his black as ink waves, and his ruler of the universe stance?
And why, suddenly, did nothing else matter but that answer?
28 Days and Counting
Two days, and I was still trying not to obsess about it.
About him.
The demigod.
The Parisian plot twist for which I was completely unprepared—winding up in me getting mowed down by a Mack truck of shock. I was still in emotional traction from the impact, and struggling to figure out what the hell had really happened.
Because one second, I’d been standing there gawking at him, wondering how I was going to hide every hot, awsome thing he was doing to my nervous system, my bloodstream, the very air in my lungs…
But after one fast turn to recompose myself, I was staring at thin air.
Yes, right in the space he’d just occupied.
I’d peered into the shadows for him, but was outgunned by the spotlights on the booth and the recesses formed by the second floor’s overhang. By the time my sights readjusted and could focus, there was nothing. Not a single movement, even in the corners of the club.
But only thirty seconds at most had gone by.
So…what the living hell?
Could he really have left the building that fast? Or had the man truly been a wraith or a ghost, checking out the invaders of his favorite haunt?
Sure. That’s it. Because old ghosts go around dressed in bespoke Prada, shined wingtips, and long, silky scarves few men could wear and make a woman think of stealing—for the purpose of modeling it for him. Naked.
Finally, I’d forced myself to blame the apparition on my jet lag—especially when my mystery man never appeared again. Nor did Milo even mention him in passing, quelling me from asking anything about him. Ghost or wraith or runaway god from Olympus, he clearly wasn’t meant to be anything but creative inspiration. I’d gotten the hint and put it to good use over the last two days. My specialty sets for Avanti’s grand opening bash were nothing short of genius jams. Now, the night was here—and I felt antsy, waiting for the right moment of the night to unveil these mixes to the world.
And to him.
No.
For the hundredth time since the doors had opened, I fought the sentiment by clenching every major muscle group in my body. I forced my brain to kick in and battle the feeling that this blend of songs, specifically inspired by him, would make the ghost “materialize” again. Besides, if it was a ghost, why the hell was I begging for another haunting? But the sensation was as woven into my psyche as that surreal sighting, unwilling to let go.
But somehow, I had to let it go.
Let him go.
Playing the music had to be my purge. My goodbye song to make him vanish, not my rain dance to bring him back.
Finally, it was time.
After midnight but before the exhaustion hour, I gazed over the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Collectively, they resembled one giant creature: a grand, graceful creation with a thousand independent muscles. Though each part was unique—a different sway of the hands, a wilder or tamer hair style, a body clad in leather or barely anything at all—they were all bound to the same melody, the same beat. My beat.
It was magic—and everyone was bound by its throbbing spell.
And I freaking loved being its mistress.
Well…usually.
Tonight, a higher power ruled me. I spun the music because I needed to banish that damn ghost. Had to scrub him out of my mind, my fantasies, my imagination…
My desire.
Insanity.
How was this possible? How could I still be lusting after someone I didn’t know? Someone who didn’t exist?
I had to release him. I needed to do it now.
Should I have been surprised that my fingers shook? Steeling my nerves, I forced them steady enough to punch the necessary buttons, amplifying the opening strains of the mix. Black Mambo by the Glass Animals, with its tinkling teardrop track and haunting vocals, was the ideal audio expression of that moment when his dark eyes and sculpted face had drawn me in. As the song talked about science and slowing down, because a lover was waiting to bring the listener down, my breath caught with sharp recognition.
Waiting.
Yes. That was what he’d been doing, standing so still…so focused on me. I wasn’t certain he even breathed. Ghosts didn’t need to breathe, did they? I simply knew that I hadn’t. Not by a single molecule of air.
I forced myself to do it now.
Yes, I actually told myself to breathe, as the song’s strains pulsed through the club, until the point where I’d mixed in my trademark aria: this time, Vissi d’Arte from Tosca. The yearning notes in the piece were a perfect contrast for t
he next song that melded into the mix: Toni Braxton’s You’re Makin’ me High. Purpose for this one? My ode to what the wraith hadn’t just done to my psyche. He needed to know, from wherever the hell in the cosmos from where he was listening, exactly what he’d done to me. That I couldn’t get my mind off of him. That I was damn near close to obsessed.
Obsessed…
My eyes slid shut as the word snaked inside me. Was that really what this was? It felt like more. So much more. The heat he’d swelled into parts of me, that lovely Toni had to get creative with in the song. Illicit parts. Parts that were even more needy as I let myself go, just for a minute…moving as the song compelled me. Letting my head roll as the aching melody shifted into its perfect partner: Madonna’s Justify My Love.
It spoke of wanting.
Of needing.
Of waiting.
And what the lyrics didn’t convey, the chanteuse herself did…in the aching desire of her strained, lusting voice…
The crowd ensured my reverie didn’t last any longer than those ten seconds. Their cheers and whistles, openly approving my mix choice, got louder as the song progressed into more wanton stanzas. Though torn about leaving my ghost lover behind, their little surprise made the chore more tolerable.
Perhaps even enjoyable.
I felt a smile spreading my lips. Back at home, this tempo switch might’ve been tolerated for a few minutes at least. But apparently, that stuff about the French and their libidos was true—at least in this crowd. They didn’t just appreciate the shift; they reveled in it. Again moving as one whole creature, they welcomed the sultry beat with rolling hips and sensual writhes, seizing the chance to get as into each other as the music itself. Some couples simply twined together, rocking and kissing. Others made me contemplate digging out the Dirty Dancing classics, blatantly grinding and thrusting. Then there were the ones who chose to turn the song into reality, note for erotic note. With tongues tangling and bodies smashed, they glided hands beneath clothes, above and below the waist. They were sweaty and slick, restless and raunchy…
And beautiful.
And yearning…
And searing…
And sweating…
So exquisitely, excruciatingly beautiful…
I reminded myself to breathe again. Like that was happening now, with those gleaming bodies like so hot fantasies come to life. Fantasies I’d fought so hard against calling my own…
Unavoidable now. Inescapable.
Especially as I gazed at all those lust-filled faces, and saw only two visages on them all. My ghost and me…
Kissing.
Stroking.
Exploring.
Claiming.
Damn. I either had one hell of a great imagination, or should consider skipping dinner more often.
Because my musical summoning spell had actually worked.
Holy. Shit.
It was him.
Him.
He was here again. Striding powerfully between hard bodies and soft fog, perhaps even between dream and reality. He was practically in the same place where I’d first seen him, with one major exception. This time, my ghost didn’t disappear. And he moved. Holy damn, how he moved.
Glided?
No. He had too much swagger for that. Like a blend of Bond and Baryshnikov, he was bold but beautiful, rugged yet refined. There were so many perfect things going on with him this time. Too many. He wasn’t even a proper apparition anymore.
He was a damn fantasy.
That had to be the explanation. He even knew how to dress the part, trading in his trendy business suit for an outfit right from my hottest imaginings. His cutaway tuxedo was like something Astaire or Gable would’ve worn, only he rocked the look better than either of them could have. His sizable shoulders pushed at the jacket’s confines, and his tapered torso led my stunned stare down to legs that seemed to go on forever. When I jerked my gawk back up, it was treated to the sight of his chiseled face, an unspeakably exquisite mix of rugged strength and high-end model beauty. His jaw was defined by a perfect dusting of stubble. And his eyes…
Dear God, his eyes.
Once more, they didn’t blink. Didn’t falter. Didn’t hesitate to let me know that for every wild, wicked desire my mind had just spun about him, his had generated three. Four? More?
Did I really want to know?
Yes.
I wanted to know every nasty thing lurking behind those coal-dark orbs. I wanted to touch him and then watch them glitter as I did. I wanted to witness them hardening with his lust.
And I wanted to know he was hard for me in other places too.
“Holy shit, moron,” I groused beneath my breath. “You need to calm the hell down, Juls. Right the hell now.”
I needed to remember that Milo Proust had hired me to make this club the hottest place in the city tonight.
I needed to remember that the reason I was even here, counting down the painful days in a city I really didn’t want to be in, was because of the last time I’d let a man use my sex drive as the detach cable for my brain.
I couldn’t have timed the pep talk better. The chastisement girded my resistance just as my ghost cleared the last two steps to the base of the DJ booth.
Except that he didn’t come up. Okay, there was a sizable gate in his way, a locked one, but if he was the kind of man who cared about gates, then I was Esmeralda the Gypsy. If he wanted up here, he’d be up here.
Why wasn’t he up here?
And why the hell did I care?
And why did I let him catch me in the act of that caring, with skittish glances at him as I cued up the next set? Why was I acting just like the clueless gypsy on the Notre Dame parapets?
Bullshit.
You don’t scare me, Quasimodo.
The edges of his mouth curled up…as if he’d just pawed into my mind and clawed out the words. He had a beautiful mouth too. Entrancing, actually. Fuller on the bottom than the top, though it was stopped from going full pouty-boy by the hard ridges defining its borders. It was a mouth made to fondle, suckle, give hours of pleasure…and dammit, the beast clearly knew it.
“Damn it,” I muttered, once more to myself. “Focus. Do the job you were hired for!”
Like that helped at all.
Like the man’s sizzling effect on my blood was going to stop now. Like my fingers were suddenly going to stop trembling against the controls, and my mind would simply clear out and think of a proper blend into the next set.
Attempting to read the crowd was not helping. The floor really had started resembling a scene from Dirty Dancing—if the “basement grinding” parts were expanded and taken to the next level. More bare thighs began to gleam in the lights. More heads started arching back, with mouths gasping in pleasure. More shoulders coiled and tensed, in time to hips that rolled and thrusted in time to the seductive throb of the music.
It was alluring. Awestriking. Worth a bitten lip or two. Or ten.
And it was the kind of scene that might wind me up in jail. Yeah, even here in the city that redefined carnality for the modern world.
But now that I’d started the orgy, did I really want to rein it back in? Imean, everyone here did look like a consenting adult…
Against every better instinct I possessed, I glanced to my apparition for guidance.
And locked my teeth against unleashing a new scream.
He’d was gone. Again.
“Of course.” My mutter was swallowed by the din of the music. Just as well, since who wanted thousands of witnesses to their own breakdown? And figuring it out would have to wait for later. When the opening night success of a Milo Proust nightclub was in one’s hands, Freudian musings were pushed far down on the priorities list.
Speak of the devil.
My standby laptop, also logged into my personal accounts, lit up with a direct message. Milo’s face appeared next to it: a slick corporate shot with him in suit, tie, and appropriate billionaire I’ve-got-the-world-by-the-balls stare. In
short, totally unlike the Milo I knew.
Need you in the office. Liev’s coming up to fill in for a while.
Sure enough, I looked up to see Liev key in the gate code and then bound up the steps. The buff Brit was the go-to for anything in the club related to entertainment. He kept the system clean, repaired the lights, auditioned live acts—and yes, could fill in on the mixing duties from time to time. He’d also become a fast and cool all-around friend, except for right now. In response to my quizzical stare, he only shrugged then studied my song queue list. His message was clear. Details about Milo’s summons were not coming from him.
At least he was still grinning about all of it.
I took that as a general good sign, though it didn’t halt my heart from thundering in my throat as I left the booth. Also didn’t prevent me from looking down, ensuring my legs were still made of bone and muscle instead of Jell-O and whipped cream, while skirting the dance floor to reach the service door.
Though the bass thumps and excited screams were dimmed once I entered the back hall, I did the whole leg-checking thing again. I was wearing stiletto boots, but it sounded like I was clomping down the polished wood on pseudo horse hooves. And yeah, I loved joking about beasty role play as the next girl who hung out with half of the Big Apple’s kink community because of work, but I drew the line at wearing tails, paws, and hooves as fashion accessories.
Thank God the club’s main business office wasn’t far. I got to the portal but took a deep breath before knocking. Despite the vibrations from the main room that shook the whole door frame, I detected laughter and lively conversation from inside. Another good sign, right? If people were laughing, that definitely had to be a good—
Before I could finish my steadying breath, the door was swung open for me.
“Juliette!”
Holy. Shit. Milo had actually yelled it. But at me or because of me?
“Come in, étoile belle de la nuit!”
“Huh?”
“It means you’re the beautiful star of the—”