Page 17 of The Beat Match

“You have to.”

“Ask Marjory to rabbit-squirrel sit tonight. I can’t do it.”

“She’s busy.”

“Find someone else.” She stepped off the sidewalk without looking. A car horn blasted, and her breath caught as the car zipped past. She’d almost been creamed by a Porsche, thanks to Weston’s irrational demands. “I wasn’t put on this planet to serve you.”

A rough grunt sounded. “I didn’t question you when you asked to borrow money. I helped, because that’s what we do for each other. We help when it’s needed. You don’t waitress on Thursdays, so whatever plans you have, they can be rearranged. Marjory’s at the office until six p.m. I expect you to pick Felix up from her before then.”

The bastard hung up.

Annie couldn’t remember walking the last ten blocks to her lesson. She couldn’t recall stomping up the stairs to Julio’s apartment or jabbing his entry buzzer. Her head felt like a comic book filled with thought bubbles and expletives, all written in shouty-caps, with not-so-creative insults like you’re such an asshole, even the assholes are jealous.

She was going to have a blast on Weston’s next scrapbook page. She could turn him into a baby with a pacifier and diapers. Add a bonnet on his too-big head. Yeah, that would take the edge off her fury while she babysat Felix the rabbit-squirrel.

“Did someone piss in your coffee?” Julio Suárez had his apartment door open, one pierced eyebrow raised. Three piercings decorated his face; eleven dangled off his ears. He had blue hair, a tattooed neck, and a natural curl to his lip that should be intimidating, but he was the one stepping back warily.

She probably looked as lethal as she felt. “In a manner of speaking.” She inhaled deeply, then released her breath in a rush. Wes may have ruined her night, but he couldn’t ruin her DJ lesson. The one he’d unknowingly paid for.

“Bring on the beats,” she said, channeling her irritation into concentration.

Today’s lesson was about phrasing. Choosing the optimal place to seamlessly mix one song into another by recognizing the beginning and end of a phrase: a drum fill, a new instrument introduced, breakdowns, buildups. Technology had simplified DJing. An entire mix could be displayed on a laptop, lining up songs to cut in perfectly. Paint-by-numbers style of mixing. Julio believed in teaching old school methods first, technology second.

Annie was all over it.

“How does that sound to you?” Julio asked as he played back a recording of her mix.

“It’s crap.” Clunky and embarrassing.

“Not crap, but it’s messy. Tell me why.”

It had been crap. If Leo were here, he’d wail and pretend he’d blown an eardrum. But Leo wasn’t here. He hadn’t been here for a long time. Twelve years, three hundred, and sixty days, to be exact. She had five days left to think about that approaching anniversary: Wes walking into the shelter she’d called home, his face bone white, tears leaking out of his eyes. Her excruciating wail. Five days left, then another year gone, another one beginning, and she couldn’t dance those memories away tonight, thanks to Weston Aldrich.

She swallowed roughly and replayed the recording, listened for the beats. “The phrasing in the second track is slightly ahead of the first. I started the second song too early.”

“Bingo.” Julio punctuated the word by beatboxing, his mouth an instrument of its own. “Your new track’s gotta hit on the first beat of the eight-bar phrase. Do it again.”

She did. Three times before she nailed it, her sadness ebbing with the efforts. Julio didn’t have Falcon’s creative brilliance, but the man was a great teacher, and she wanted to understand the fundamentals, do more than push random buttons. She wanted to be the mistress of her music.

Julio high-fived her and played a sick new tune. Elevator One. She bopped to the syncopated beats, closed her eyes as the vocals distorted slightly. The song had tons of layers, the power of it building in her chest, so much density to the sound. Fast. Full. Fresh. She smiled, letting herself be happy in this space Leo would have loved.

By the end of the session, she felt rejuvenated. Until she saw a text on her phone.

Wes: Felix will be waiting for you with Marjory. Don’t be late.

Her blood returned to a deface-Weston-scrapbook boil.

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Julio said.

This from a dude with a tattooed neck. “I don’t have a bad side.” She was pleasant and fun. She got along with all her coworkers.

“Tell that to the phone you’re glaring at. Your boyfriend forget your birthday or something?”

“He is not my boyfriend. His name is Weston and he’s a royal pain in my ass.”

“Casual hookup, then?”

She tipped her head back and laughed with an exaggerated girly lilt, then pressed her hand to her chest as though she were an amused debutante. “If nuclear testing wipes out humankind and vampires take over the earth after battling an army of mangy werewolves, and we’re the only hope for repopulation, the answer would still be a resounding no.”