Page 37 of The Beat Match

One of the many things he adored about her. “You’ve always hated talking about Leo. Every anniversary of his death we’d hang out, but you’d never bring him up. So I didn’t, either. His birthday, same thing. Music defined Leo, DJing in particular. I was worried mentioning it would upset you.” Or that talking about Leo would lead to talking about the night he died. “And when I came up with my Falcon persona and decided to pursue live shows, I had to be careful.”

“Because of work?”

“They can’t know about this, Annie. If investors learn I’m part of the club scene, they’ll get spooked, consider me a liability. You’re the only person I’ve told.” Not by choice, but he was glad she knew now. One more secret he didn’t have to keep.

“People have hobbies,” she said defensively. “Even stick-in-the-muds like you. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

Karim Farzad had set his daughter up with Weston to tame her wild ways, not to hook her up with a man who put the wild into parties. “I’m not overreacting.”

She didn’t question him again or thank him for his trust. She gave him a long look, then walked into his music room.

He stood near the door, letting her explore his equipment, each piece painstakingly chosen. He’d thought about Leo when designing every inch of this space. He’d imagined his friend’s excitement over the wall’s acoustic panels, the sound diffusers in the ceiling grid. Leo would have asked if he’d used the right number of bass traps to control low frequencies. He’d have checked if the acoustic panels were the best material to reduce reverb and echoes.

The leather couch, the wall of shelved records, and the Njideka Akunyili Crosby mixed-media painting were all Weston, but every time he walked in here, he felt Leo’s presence.

With Annie in his inner sanctum, he felt things he’d rather not analyze.

Her sandals clicked over the hardwood floor, the fabric of her turquoise skirt swishing as she moved. The off-the-shoulder dress was lively. Completely Annie, and achingly alluring. The visible curves of her shoulders made his thighs flex. She ran her fingers over his collection of MIDI controllers, the turntables and mixers, the TV monitors stacked on the back wall, ending at his computer.

“It’s as expensive and extravagant as I would have imagined.” The softest smile graced her lips. “It’s also beautiful.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “You think so?”

“I know so.” Her gaze swept over his equipment. “My teacher has good stuff, but basic. Even Felix could make music in here.”

“I doubt it.”

“Guys with money always underestimate animal intelligence, then genetically-engineered dinosaurs take over the world.”

He laughed again, the simple act so easy around Annie. She was witty. Funny. One-of-a-kind. “Having better equipment makes the sound cleaner, helps with better fades and transitions, but art is still art.”

“It is.” She walked her fingertips over the electric keyboard on her right. “What’s your favorite piece in here?”

Easiest question he’d had in days. “The Roland-Jupiter 4 synth. It belonged to The Cure. Passed through other bands, but I found it at an auction. There’s a memory modification in the system. Not sure when it was tweaked, but it has thirty-two memory banks instead of eight. Stability can be a bit sketchy, but the filter is killer and the sound is pristine.”

He hadn’t meant to bore Annie with those details, but he never talked tech with anyone in person, never had the chance to boast about his personal equipment. He glanced at her, expecting a glazed look in her eyes, like when he talked to her about savings accounts and retirement plans, but she was nodding slightly, a slight fidget to her stance.

“Do you have to pee?” he asked.

“This is my contained-yet-excited dance.” She unleashed a small squeal. “Do you know how jealous I am right now? I can’t believe how cool this space is. Scrapbooking-heaven cool, but with state-of-the-art DJ equipment, which probably makes it DJ-heaven cool, but I digress. You need to brush off those artistic fingers of yours and show me some magic.”

He should usher her out. Make an excuse and send her home. Being in the same room, inhaling her intoxicating scent, boomeranged his mind back to their kiss, how good she’d tasted, how much more he’d wanted. Thoughts he needed to shut down. Once this interrogation was over, he’d focus on Rosanna and the merger. He’d ask Annie to quit attending his shows. She could e-mail him snippets of her mixes. He’d return them with critiques and let her use the studio when he was out. Anything, as long as it didn’t involve them making music together.

He shouldn’t indulge her whims now, but he regretted all those “Squirrel” jokes. The last thing he wanted was to discourage her again, and her contained-yet-excited dance had him smiling, that sparkle in her eyes too hard to resist. It was special to see her so passionate about something. One short session together couldn’t hurt.

* * *

Dancing at a club while Falcon-slash-Weston played music was a special kind of high. Watching him in his studio had Annie feeling nuclear. He stood while he worked, barely glancing at his fingers as they flew over knobs and levers. He’d picked an unfamiliar funk record from his shelves, used an old-fashioned turntable to scratch out a percussive beat.

Boom-ch-de-lat-boom-chit-chat

His body moved to the music, small jerks of his shoulders, his chest, his head as the beats moved through him. She was moving, too. Dancing, energized, smiling at Wes, who was dressed to the nines with his cuffs rolled and slacks ironed, funking out to the tunes.

He pointed to a lever on his mixer. “I’ve lined up the next song. Fade it in for me.”

Was this a test? A pass or fail where he’d decide if she was worthy of his teaching? She still struggled with phrasing, matching the beats when introducing a new song. The pressure to prove she could do this had her nearing hyperventilation.

“Close your eyes,” he said.