Page 40 of The Beat Match

“And you become obsolete,” Weston finished.

The saying had been his father’s version of a bedtime story, along with the Aldrich men don’t fail and there’s no empathy in business. To Victor S. Aldrich, reputation trumped compassion.

His father puffed out a rough grunt. “Get your head out of your ass, son. You’ve always been too emotional. This is business, and every choice has implications. If this merger falls apart, our stocks drop. Investors will get nervous. Jobs will be lost. Yours might be one of them. There’s more at stake than losing a deal you hoped would secure your personal footing with shareholders. Stop lamenting the hours you’ve worked. And for the love of God, get some sleep. You look like hell.”

He marched out of the office as though his words hadn’t stung.

Too emotional. Jobs will be lost. Yours might be one of them. There was no nepotism at Aldrich Pharma. Weston was Chief Operating Officer because he’d worked more than he’d slept since high school. He was smart. He was damned good at his job. The sacrifices had helped him cope when dealing with his personal losses. DJing helped, too.

But music was his weak spot. As was Rosanna’s unpredictability.

DLP had proven adept at digging up dirt on adversaries. Dangerously so. Weston had become more diligent since Annie had discovered his secret identity. His driver kept his eyes peeled for tails. Walks home after shows were no longer an option. He slipped in and out of his gigs without so much as a nod at backstage fans. Falcon had zero digital footprint. The only person who could blow his cover was Annie, and he was ninety-nine percent sure she wouldn’t rat him out. Rosanna, however, could undermine him with one misjudged selfie.

Marjory knocked on his open door. “Your ten o’clock with marketing tomorrow has been moved up to nine. I need the compiled Alera files before then if you want them couriered on time, and your lunch with the Warner Group will be trickier than planned. Their head bulldog will be attending. He wants to curb investment dollars. And Annie called.”

Weston nodded while replaying his dates with Rosanna, his nights DJing, wondering if unsavory sorts had managed to tail him. “Did Annie leave a message?”

“I just told you the message. You weren’t listening.”

Story of his life these days. He’d barely digested tomorrow’s headache of a day let alone listened to all Marjory had said. “Sorry. What did she say?”

“Do I get paid extra for telling you the same thing twice?”

Marjory’s eighties shoulder pads matched the width of her curly red hair. Her sarcasm filled the doorway, too. “Do I get to deduct the hours you spend gossiping instead of working?”

“Do you want the message or not?”

He wasn’t sure. The past four weeks Annie had sat in on his mixing sessions, not saying a word as promised, just bringing him a plate of cut up vegetables and hummus before he’d realized he was hungry, or a glass of Scotch, or homemade cookies, or a notepad when his was full. Intuitive, thoughtful gestures that made him inexplicably angry.

When he’d cancelled a session because of a dinner or posh gallery opening with Rosanna, or a weekend at Karim’s country home, Annie had gotten distant and curt, and acid had burned Weston’s gut. He’d even lied to Annie and invented a couple of dates so he could have some peace. Those nights had been the most frustrating of all.

He was spending more time with Annie than he had in ages, but he felt further from her than ever before.

“Yes,” he told Marjory. “I want the message.”

She clasped her hands and smiled indulgently. “Annie said she would be late tonight.” She raised her voice and talked slowly, as though English were his second language. “She said you can let yourself into her apartment if you get there first.”

He should cancel their plans. Annie had asked him to come over and see the DJing equipment she’d purchased, help her set it up. Nothing that couldn’t wait, and he had a million things to do. His focus was already abysmal. But he pictured her chaotic apartment, that awful purple carpet and floral couch, the mess of magazines and scrapbooking decorations scattered in the small space, and a deep yearning took root. A craving for that familiarity. A moment to catch his breath.

Maybe he was putting too much pressure on himself. Pulling himself in too many directions. He could quit DJing. Walk away. Forget about his plans to use his platform for change. He’d mostly only done it for Leo and his mother, as it stood. Or he could walk away from Aldrich Pharma, quit fake-dating Rosanna and developing an ulcer every time the merger hit a snag. No more deals buckling, patents failing, stressing over competition taking a bite out of his market share. Pursue music with more determination and hope Aldrich Pharma thrived under someone else’s lead.

The base of his neck twinged. A cramp gripped his chest.

Unable to clear his head, he left work earlier than he should have. Way earlier than he’d originally planned to meet Annie. He drove to her apartment, impatient to get there. He practically ran up the steps in the musty hallway, fumbled with his key to get inside. He couldn’t think straight. Didn’t understand this desperate need to be here, in this space, even with Annie gone. The second he pushed inside and saw the colorful anarchy that was all Annie, he could suddenly breathe.

The space smelled like her. Of sage and honey and…chicken noodle soup? He dragged the back of his hand along his forehead, fingers shaking slightly. Leading two lives was getting to him.

He exhaled heavily and noticed a piano. Annie hadn’t mentioned a piano. Only DJ equipment purchased secondhand. Was she planning to use the old piano for her mixes? Try for a more classical sound like in his intros? They hadn’t discussed her DJ plans. Every time she came over, he expended all his energy into keeping his emotions contained and her at a distance. But he thought about her all the time, relived their kiss when he closed his eyes.

The last thing he wanted was for his control to snap, to feed his depraved thoughts by actually pressing her against the wall, kissing her senseless, feeling that first hot push of his body inside hers—sweet agony—then freak out and lose her for good.

He loosened his tie and yanked it off as he dodged a purse lying on the floor, then a stack of magazines. He slipped on a random sock and almost nailed his shin on the coffee table, before making it to her couch. With his ass finally planted on her soft cushion, he sighed and rested his head on the back. His eyelids felt like lead weights. His neck still hurt. He’d rest for a minute, then he’d pull out his phone and text human resources, start the ball rolling on replacing Saanvi. He’d call Rosanna, plan their next date. He’d get back to the promoter who’d been messaging Falcon for a gig, then he’d work on the Alera files, have them on Marjory’s desk before the sun was up.

He’d just keep his eyes closed for a few breaths.

* * *

Someone was sawing a log in Annie’s apartment. Or robbing her while wielding a chainsaw. Or Wes had fallen asleep as he sometimes did and was doing his best impression of a vicious warthog.