Page 10 of The Beat Match

With his last note reverberating in the air, the crowd went nuts, and he pumped his fist for his screaming fans, stealing one last glance at her. She seemed to be trying to catch his attention, mouthing something he couldn’t make out. For one freaked out second, he wondered if she recognized him, but it was impossible.

He strutted off the stage. A couple of guys congratulated him, but most knew to stay away. His disappearing acts didn’t seem to hurt his bookings. If anything, being eccentric and mysterious upped his appeal.

He pushed out the back exit and almost smacked into a small group.

“That show was sick.” A guy waved, moving to block Weston’s path. He was thin as a beanstalk but taller than Weston. One of the others wore a Freed by the Falcon T-shirt. They all started badgering him for autographs.

This had never happened before. He’d leisurely grab a cab after a show, remove his mask and get dropped off a few blocks from his condo. Not so easy tonight.

He pressed his fingers to his lips, then to his heart. Hopefully a sign these fans would understand as thank you. Then he busted into a run.

Footfalls trailed him, but not for long. “Love you, man!” one of them called.

At least they didn’t sound angry.

He hailed a cab and hopped in.

“Costume party?” the cabbie asked once they were on their way.

Weston adjusted his mask, but didn’t take it off. “Something like that.”

“The wife and I went to a masquerade party once. Crazy thing one Halloween. Not my scene, but the wife loved it. Said she liked pretending to be someone else. Kind of talked different that night, too. More outgoing and stuff.” The cabbie glanced at him in his rearview mirror. “You find that? That you’re, I don’t know—more open with that thing on?”

“It definitely gives you freedom to do things you wouldn’t normally do.” Like live a secret double life.

“Guess it’s a rush for some folks.”

Not exactly how Weston would describe his live sets. Sure, DJing pumped him with adrenaline, but the outlet served a purpose. Clubs paid him through online transfers to a numbered account. The money he made got funneled into campaigns that pushed for stronger gun control, in memory of Leo. All of it for Leo. Weston owed that guy everything. Including his life. But, lately, DJing the way Leo had imagined and tossing money at charities hadn’t felt like enough. Hands-off philanthropic work wasn’t the same as working in a soup kitchen, touching people directly.

For now he’d have to rethink his transportation. Maybe hire a personal driver. Avoid future fan ambushes. Get picked up and dropped off discreetly. Discreet being the operative word. One whiff of his evening activities and he’d be ousted from his family business. No one would trust a Chief Operating Officer who DJed at night, a scene well known for drugs and bad decisions. Even though he was there for the music, not the partying, his credibility would nose-dive. His father would be the first to cut him loose.

Weston closed his eyes for the rest of the ride.

When he finally made it home, he tossed his bag on his sectional and pounded back a glass of water. He plunked his cup down on the concrete counter. The resounding silence in his loft apartment made his ears ring. The modernized industrial space felt sparser than usual, the salvaged brick walls barer, even though he’d recently acquired an exquisite Trudy Benson painting. The space was pristine and timeless; an architectural masterpiece, the ceiling soaring three stories high.

Over the ringing quiet, all he heard was Annie her first time in the place, saying, “It’s stunning and funky. It just feels more like a museum than a home.”

He rubbed his sternum and headed to his Falcon Cave, a name Leo would have loved. The guy had been obsessed with Batman: the comics, the movies, the gadgets, how a regular guy could be a superhero without powers. Weston had razzed him about it. Now he moonlighted as Falcon and spent hours in his Falcon Cave, aka his sound room.

He unlocked his studio, grabbed his laptop, and sank into the leather couch. He surfed through music sites, read an article about this year’s Ultra Music Festival, left a comment suggesting they put Grid Girl on the main stage—that woman dropped a serious beat. He browsed his latest research projections afterward, his mind flipping from music to pharmaceuticals and back on a dime.

Switching between two lives was exhausting at times, but multitasking was his superpower. What he didn’t want was for his mind to keep drifting to Annie, her relaxed body as she’d danced to his beats, her hips and chest rolling, sexy as sin.

He was glad she’d enjoyed herself, but sin was the real takeaway there. There were umpteen reasons he had to box, chain, and burn his unwelcome thoughts. None of which he wanted to unpack. He needed to focus on the Biotrell merger, not his late best friend’s little sister. He would ask Rosanna Farzad on a date. The move was good for business and maybe for his personal life, too. A way to squash these unwanted images of Annie.

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4

Annie was high. Not literally, of course. With her family history, drugs were a hard no. That music, though? It had been a hit of euphoria injected straight into her veins. She closed her apartment door, still vibrating. She was restless, wired. Even at 3:30 a.m., sleep couldn’t be further from her mind. She eyed the dirty dishes in the sink, the laundry she hadn’t put away, the craft supplies littering her coffee table and purple carpet.

If Wes were here, he’d take one glance at the controlled chaos and say her apartment looked like a garage sale. “How do you even find the couch?” he often asked, familiar judgment lacing his words. The same tone he’d used when criticizing tonight’s wardrobe.

She could use her excess energy to tidy up. Get her place ready for tomorrow’s piano delivery. Or she could pull out her secret Weston Aldrich scrapbook and add a new page.

Scrapbooking won out, obviously. She grabbed her laptop and clicked on the most serious, stuck-up, holier-than-thou photo of Wes she could find. Once the grim picture printed, she maneuvered her secret book from below her floral couch.

She’d started this treasure on her sixteenth birthday. That fateful day, she’d been invited to a Lil Wayne concert and had shared the awesome news with Wes while out to lunch, too excited to keep it bottled up. The self-righteous dictator had said, “No.”