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ONE
DYLAN
Dylan Kirby pulled up to the Eternity Horn club just before the main acts were about to perform. He swerved his fire-red Ferrari into a spot reserved for him mere feet from the front entrance. He climbed out of the car, a mammoth of a man with dark red hair slicked back neatly, wearing sunglasses despite the darkness of the night.
Neon blazed and thrummed as he walked toward the velvet rope, pulled aside by a thick man, who gave him a nod and referred to him as Mr. Kirby.
Dylan had been at the Eternity Horn many times before this. It was an elegant and reputable place to scout talent, and that was what he was there for that night. His focus narrowed like a laser.
Despite his natural inclination to hide, Dylan stood out like a sore thumb wherever he went. He was very tall and muscular, and the tight golf shirts he wore that looked like they may split any second didn’t help. Flawlessly groomed facial hair ran along his sharp jawline, giving him a distinguished but modern look.
His natural good looks combined with radiant green eyes that stood out like jewels in a dark sea made sitting at the bar to blend into the crowd a futile plan. He ordered red wine and held the stem between two fingers as he looked onward toward the small stage.
Dylan noticed a few bombshells trying to catch his eye. There was no doubt they were gorgeous, with plunging necklines and luscious lips to boot, but that wasn’t why he was there. Sex was something to pass the time, afforded to much more deserving people than him.
He removed his sunglasses as the main acts came on. It was nearly midnight, and the crowd gave them hushed applause. He looked through the attractive women who were perpetually trying to lean their long, swan-like necks into his line of vision.
It didn’t matter what they did. They could have walked up to him and stripped naked, and he would remain as still and unaffected as stone.
Dylan tapped his foot to the beat of the locally popular band. He swirled the wine around with two fingers on the bar, making detailed notes in his mind. He stayed for a few songs and then proceeded to place some cash on the bar as he stood from the stool.
“Keep the change,” Dylan said.
The barkeep was also an attractive woman with tattoos running down her finely crafted form. She peered down at the bill, then at the glass of wine that he barely touched.
Dylan did not linger, though. He floated through the crowd like a phantom, not wanting to be seen or heard.
He returned home to his penthouse at the hub of the downtown core. He traveled up the elevator, notes from the jazz melodies streaming in his head. Inside his home, he used a voice command to turn on the lights, sending a wash of light through his million-dollar bachelor pad.
He went to his personalized wine cellar just off the kitchen below a few sets of stairs. He was spoiled for choice, of course, but Dylan always made an effort to match what he was sipping with the music that flowed through him. He tapped his fingers against his thigh as he hummed the mournful tune.
Merlot, aged, vintage, something smokey to go with the vibe of the club.
He pulled the bottle from its cubby and returned to his wall-to-wall haven for any audiophile. It was decorated with glass shelvings of every record he had ever purchased, along with a few neatly hung posters of his favorite musical acts. At the center of the room were double doors that opened onto a stunning terrace.
The night was cooler than usual, so Dylan left the doors of the terrace closed. He flicked on the record player. Before he departed for the club, he had chosen his selected vinyl. He placed the needle on the record, that sweet scratching sound emanating into his soul.
It promised him forever and made him forget all of his bursting nightmares.
Dylan closed his eyes as the soft melody streamed through the massive speakers. It felt like gentle rain on his skin, guiding him to the big lazy chair where he had spent thousands of nights languishing.
He poured himself some wine, swirling the perfumed delight into his nostrils. He leaned back into the chair, losing himself in the sound, sometimes willing and even hoping to drown within the serenity of the notes.
His slumber was disrupted a minute later as he sat leaning against the chair with his eyes closed. He heard a scratching at the glass of his terrace, and as he opened his eyes, a massive blotch of orange stunned his vision.
Dylan knew immediately what was going on. He sighed, then rose from the chair, opening the doors to a gust of wind. The tiger sauntered inside casually, then shifted into his good friend Gibson. Apparently, he made use of the fire escape again.
“Fancy seeing you here!” his friend exclaimed.
Dylan walked wordlessly to a bag that sat next to the fireplace. He threw it at his friend, then returned to his chair and wine.
“You need to learn to bring your own clothes,” Dylan murmured.
Gibson pulled on the sweatpants and loose T-shirt from the bag while Dylan closed his eyes, starting the song over again.
“Jesus,” Gibson metered. “No wonder you couldn’t fucking hear me.”
“Hmm?” Dylan groaned.
