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5
Maddox
Six. I approached six girls since the sandwich deli, and I’ve gotten a number from all of them. These aren’t fans either. Well, no, they probably are, but they’re in the business themselves. Models, singers, actresses, producers, whatever. I’m sure a few of them won’t show up, so I always stack the deck.
“Forget about it already,” Adam says, laughing. He pushes my shoulder while we’re hanging out backstage in between the set I just played.
I’m usually at the club between ten and two. I’ll play for a couple of hours, take a break, and then finish out the night. When the party’s over at Luxe, we’ll either take it back to our penthouse, or we’ll find something else to do. Needless to say, weekends are exhausting. In a good way. But that doesn’t explain why I’m still thinking about Designer Sunglasses.
It’s not like I haven’t been shot down before. Any guy who puts themselves out there has, even rock stars. But the way she did it. Her attitude. Not to mention, her words. That I didn’t know who she was. It’s been making my brain spin in circles for the last three days.
“But who is she?” I ask, yet again, to Adam. He responds with another chuckle. “I know I’ve done a lot of interviews and TV shows, but how in the hell don’t I remember her? Damn it, if I just would’ve seen her eyes, maybe then I would’ve known.”
Shaking his head, Adam reaches into his pocket, inspecting his phone. “Hey, I’m gonna dip out early tonight. You cool?”
“Aw, what?” I get up, heading over toward the door. “We aren’t doing anything at the house tonight?”
He lifts his shoulders with a paltry expression. “I think tonight I’m just gonna chill out for a bit. Hit up Jules.”
“Dude, you can invite her over to the pad if you want. We don’t have to have a huge party every weekend.”
“Yeah, I know. Maybe next time.” He opens the door, but before he leaves, he looks back at me. “Use the force, padawan. Remember, do or do not. There is no try.”
I scowl with a smirk. “Very funny, jackass.”
Chuckling to myself while he leaves, I turn around and make my way back to the stage. The crowd erupts into cheers, and I slide my headphones back on, adjusting the levels on my table. Then, I’m off.
I love playing music with my band. Sitting behind my drum kit, slamming away on the snares, and executing a nice transition, or hitting my solos we have during our concerts. Being on stage with my family is the best. But deejaying is another level for me. I won’t say it’s better, but it’s different.
I’m not hurting for lack of music to play in clubs. Occasionally, I’ll record some tracks in the studio, but most of the time, I try to find obscure artists out there. Stuff people might not know. I like being able to not only shine a spotlight on lesser-known artists but also create something wholly unique.
Standing on stage, working the controllers, mixers, and every other device I use to create this music makes me feel like I’m sitting behind my drum kit. Like I’m free. Even with hundreds of people in the building, I’m in my own world, filled with an art form I’m creating and sharing. I’m a rock star, the King of Bad, and hell, I can’t deny some of the gossipier magazines out there that call me a manwhore. But when I’m behind my DJ stand, I’m an artist, and I forget the rest.
* * *
The crowd cheers as my second set of the night comes to a close. Walking backstage, I drop down to the couch in my room, tearing off my sweat-drenched shirt. After downing the water bottle in front of me, I grab a second and start guzzling. My phone chirps, and I pull it out to see a text message from Jenny.
Jen: I’ll be in town tomorrow night. U free?
Chuckling, I reply back that I am and that I’ll see her soon. Jenny’s a good girl. We have our fun, and for a moment I thought she could’ve been my Jules. But the last couple of times we’ve hung out, I’ve been getting the feeling that while she’s fine with having fun, I think she wants to try and establish something more serious between us. I’m not opposed to a genuine, monogamous relationship. What I am opposed to is having one of those right now. I’m living the life: fast cars, long nights, and good times twenty-four-seven. I see no need to try and switch things up at the height of everything right now.
I throw on a clean tank top, slide my hat and sunglasses on, and exit the backstage area. Checking my phone, I send a group message out to let everyone know there’s a party about to be going down at my place. I call them friends, but I don’t consider any of them real friends. Sure, we’re friendly with one another, but it’s not like I trust them or would depend on them for something like I would with Derrik or Adam. I know which circles are the fake ones who show up for parties, and the real ones who care about me as a person.
Getting in the private elevator, I hit the button to head down to the parking garage. Mavin International is, for lack of a better phrase, one hell of a hotel. I’ve stayed at places all over the world, but the design and ambiance of everything in this building is head and shoulders above anything I’ve seen.
Take this elevator, for example. First of all, it’s a private elevator. Some hotels have private elevators for catering and other needs, along with employee-only stairwells and hallways. Mavin International has that, too. However, this elevator is specifically for the higher-up personnel and talent who perform at Luxe. The floor is a dark mahogany woodgrain, the walls are lined with gray marble, and there’s a two-way screen above the floor buttons, just in case. Just in case of what, I have no idea, but it’s crazy.
Before Luxe opened, I’d seen some artist rendition of what they wanted the place to look like. Last weekend before my first set, I finally got to see the extravagance of it all. The lights from the ceiling emit a soft glow of yellows, reds, purples, and greens. Like any dance club, there’s the large dancing area, lined with more wood flooring. Encompassing the dance floor are spots for people to sit, but they aren’t individual tables. No, they almost remind me of little cabanas with enough room for four people. There’s a soft, sheer curtain that gives people some privacy.
The second floor serves more of the same, with the private sitting areas and a secondary bar as well. The second story looks down at the dance floor, but there’s a section where you can walk out into a wide-open deck that overlooks part of the city and the beach the hotel sits on. Whoever designed this place knew exactly what they wanted, both in terms of styles, fashion, and making it a destination people not only want to come to but need to.
I’d like to think my name alone is why there’s a waiting list a mile long of Hollywood’s who’s who to get inside. While I do have an ego, I’m not stupid. Maddox Barkley may be playing great music, but the “it” crowd wants to take in Luxe and see what all the fuss is about. And once they’re in, I’ve seen the faces as they dance away, gazing up at light shows that play over them. The hype is real.
The elevator dings, and I look up from my phone. My eyes widen behind my glasses, as Designer Sunglasses walks in. She’s not wearing her sunglasses on her, and I can see her eyes are a light caramel brown. She’s dressed in a midnight blue skirt that goes down to her knees. Her hair is still done up with slight curls. The lipstick is more of a dark burgundy than the cherry red I remember, but I still don’t recognize her.
Her eyes lift for a moment, meeting mine, but she looks away and hits a button on the panel. There’s no reaction from her. Nothing that says she even remembers me from the deli. She knows who I am, but she’s practically ignoring me.
I will not be shot down twice by the same girl.
