Page 23 of The Beat Match

Annie was here. A quick glimpse of her lower body revealed sinful red boots, a micro-mini skirt, exquisite legs. Her sequined halter top caught the flashing lights, as bright and beautiful as the woman lost to his music.

But she wasn’t supposed to be here. She was supposed to be at home with Felix, the emotionally stunted rabbit-squirrel. A foolish plan he shouldn’t have implemented. Idiotic or not, she’d lied to him. Ignored his request. All of which was enough to bring his blood to a boil. Seeing Duncan with her made him seethe.

He’d told Duncan to forget Annie’s name. He’d told Annie the guy was trouble. He wasn’t sure who’d initiated this little outing, but the sight of Duncan’s hands on Annie’s hips, his body moving against hers—fuck no. Not okay.

Tonight was supposed to be about playing with the video feeds. Sussing out the effect on the crowd, testing if the gimmick could be used to say something more meaningful. Make a bigger difference like when he’d volunteered as a kid. People didn’t listen to lyrics if they didn’t like the beat. They didn’t pay attention to the world’s problems if they didn’t feel connected to them. The video stage was a first step toward a larger vision.

All he could do was watch Annie.

He played his set by rote, feeling disconnected from the crowd, furious at Duncan, at Annie, but mostly at himself. He couldn’t quit picturing himself dancing with her, letting his hands roam over her curves, stealing touches of her the way he’d gripped her tightly when she’d plowed into him from the elevator. A tantalizing feel he shouldn’t have stolen. He shouldn’t feel this roar of attraction now, but there was no denying the hard pump of his blood.

He swallowed roughly, forced himself to remember why this was wrong.

“Take care of Annie,” Leo had whispered the night he’d died. Weston had pressed his hands to the bullet wound, shaking, telling his best friend over and over he’d be okay. The blood had seeped everywhere, through his fingers, onto the floor. The sharp bite of copper had stung his nose.

“She has no one,” Leo had croaked. “You gotta keep her safe. And don’t…don’t you dare let her date an asshole like you.” Because only he’d crack a joke as he struggled to breathe. But it was his last choppy words that would forever keep Weston awake some nights.

I’m scared.

Don’t wanna die.

Please. Oh, God…please. It hurts.

Can’t leave her.

You gotta…

Then he was gone. All because Weston was a selfish bastard.

He was pretty sure “Don’t you dare let her date an asshole like you” was equivalent to “don’t date my sister.” Not that it mattered. Weston couldn’t date Annie when he’d lied to her about her brother’s death. She’d never forgive him for his deception, and Weston didn’t do relationships. The one time he’d tried had been a Titanic-sized disaster. And he needed Annie in his life. Someone to argue with, to ground him, let him eat Cup Noodles on her couch, no judgment. With her, he imagined his mother smiling down on him, pleased her son had a place he could relax, laugh, and bicker teasingly. Forget about work for a minute.

Aldrich Pharma gave him purpose. DJing eased his guilt over the past. Annie Ward gave him peace, when she wasn’t antagonizing him. Adding intimacy was a fast track to losing her.

He struggled through his set, one of his worst to date, even with the video feed. The crowd sensed when a DJ’s head wasn’t in the game. The energy was lower. People left the dance floor. He cursed when Duncan used the space to turn Annie around. They were face-to-face, and Duncan grabbed her ass. Weston’s adrenaline slammed into fifth gear.

He was half a second from jumping off the stage, but Annie wiggled out of his grip—good girl—and swiveled back to face the stage. Duncan didn’t take the hint. He pushed up behind her, grabbed her waist.

Weston snapped.

He pointed at Annie and crooked his finger, motioning for her to join him on stage. Because he’d apparently lost his mind. Avoiding fans was how he kept this secret, and Annie was no ordinary fan. But he was beyond rational thought, only needing her away from Duncan.

The crowd, reenergized by this new development, cheered and parted for her. Excitement lit her face, so genuine a crush of pleasure swamped him.

She’s looking at Falcon, he reminded himself. Not him. And he was doing this to get her away from Duncan, not to work out this unrelenting attraction.

People helped her on stage while his mind spun ahead to the end of the night. Duncan would invite her to his condo, show her his fancy new bed. A growl rumbled low in Weston’s throat.

He grabbed the paper and pen he kept by his equipment. The notepad was a place to jot down thoughts during a set. Quick points he’d use when analyzing and modifying his playlist later. He scribbled the only thing that would keep Annie away from Duncan tonight and tucked it in his pocket.

She ran to his side, breathless, her cheeks flushed. Goddamn beautiful. He didn’t speak. If she heard his voice, she might guess who was behind the mask. He was thankful he went as far as wearing different cologne, but he found himself at a loss. He suddenly wanted to confess he’d been thinking about her, wanting her, this woman who anchored his world. Then tell her all the reasons it couldn’t happen, drill that reality into his uncooperative brain, anything to squash this growing urge to slam his lips on hers.

Buying himself a minute, he lined up his last song, not trusting himself to work spontaneously.

She shifted nervously beside him. “I’ve been dying to talk to you.” Her eyes flitted between him and his equipment. “I’m a DJ, too. Not yet. Actually, not at all. But I will be. I’m a quick study. Which is why I’ve been trying to catch your attention.”

She was glowing with excitement, and affection caught him square in the chest. The DJ comment, however, was a surprise. It explained her relentless pursuit of him. It hadn’t been attraction. She hadn’t felt the connection between them, hadn’t been dancing for his pleasure. His relief should be palpable. All he felt was disappointment.

She waited on him to speak. Not happening. Duncan moved to the side of the dance floor and glared at them, arms crossed.