Page 9 of The Beat Match

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 about 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.

Freed by the Falcon.

Leo would have loved it.

Weston gave them what they craved, his music exploding from the speakers. His blood pumped in time to the bass. Humidity hung in the dense air. He let his gaze skim the floor, his attention locking on various dancers. Connection was key, making them feel part of his show. Weston nodded at a purple-haired dude, adjusted the frequency and volume, added a kick of reverb, and lifted the background drums. The kid punched the air to the beat.

Weston’s gaze slid to the left…and air jammed in his lungs.

Someone who looked a hell of a lot like Annie was dancing. Not just dancing. She was glowing, her arms up, head tilted back, hips and upper body swaying suggestively.

His blood pumped harder. Yeah, it was definitely her, still in that skimpy outfit. He glared at the group around her. Was she on a date? At this hour? Was some dude hoping he’d score big? But she was dancing on her own mainly, occasionally interacting with others on the floor. She didn’t seem to be with anyone specific.

Was she alone? At a late-night club, hoping for a hookup?

Agitation edged his movements. Frustration fogged his focus. If he hadn’t launched into a new track, he’d have fumbled the transition.

He kept one eye on her and one on his equipment, berating himself for the possessiveness firing in his gut. Annie was twenty-seven. She wasn’t the kid he’d promised to watch over. She was an adult free to party and date. Seeing her out and happy shouldn’t unbalance him like this. But clubs were unpredictable. All it took was one grudge, one weapon, and all hell could break loose. Or a man could think he was entitled to something that wasn’t his.

A new urge Weston couldn’t name drove him. He tested out a new song, a swell of pleasure building when she picked up the rhythm, a secret smile on her face like she knew he’d chosen the song for her. She couldn’t know. No one ever could or would.

He used a burner phone for all DJ business. He’d hired a roadie anonymously. Hank set up and stored his equipment for a generous fee. Weston showed up minutes before gigs, wearing his mask, a black outfit, casual shoes, and a different cologne, disguised down to his smell. He gave strict instructions limiting interaction and bailed the second his set finished. In and out. No talking to the audience. No talking to fans. He wasn’t doing it for personal glory.

He was doing it for Leo.

Annie didn’t know Weston was the man controlling her body now, but he knew he was the one making her move like that, and a strange warmth filled his chest. Her neck glistened with sweat. Her curves moved with his mix.

He played the rest of his set for her, and for Leo. Always for Leo. He’d love seeing his sister like this, truly happy, even with him gone. One song, then another. Weston was on fire. Annie was glorious. It was his best gig, hands down.