The Beat Match

by Kelly Siskind

  He opened the door and switched on the light. Annie gasped.

  A breath later, she faced him. “Why didn’t you tell me about the DJing?” Her hesitant voice sounded small. Pained.

  He always managed to hurt her, no matter his intentions. “A bunch of reasons.”

  She waited, checked her watch, dug her finger into her ear as though clearing it.

  He laughed. “Is that your subtle way of telling me you want the reasons?”

  “I wasn’t going for subtle.”

  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.

  “So you can lick your finger and stick it in my ear?” A gross stunt Leo had taught him.

  “It would be fun, but no. Close your eyes. Listen for the beats until you feel them more than hear them.”

  She dialed down her dancing, closed her eyes, and listened. She counted the phrasing in her head. It wasn’t a typical eight-bar chorus, making it hard to track. She squeezed her eyes tighter, but dizziness rocked her. A warm weight pressed against her back—Wes’s hand steadying her equilibrium. He was usually the calm to her chaos. The caution to her impulsivity. But the heat from his hand seeped through her dress. Hamptons sunshine warm. And she suddenly wanted more chaos than calm. To lean into him, feel his sunlight in her bones, live wildly without worrying about consequences.

  Unfortunately, he seemed keen to forget their kiss, and there was the minor problem of his girlfriend. Plus this was a test of sorts. One she had no intention of failing.

  She held her breath, listened, listened, listened so hard.

  “Feel it,” he murmured in her ear.

  How was she supposed to feel anything besides his proximity? His persistent blasts of bone-melting heat? She felt cheated, having kissed Wes without realizing it had been him. If she’d known, she would have…what? Mauled him on stage? Bitten his lip for his lies then licked it better like some depraved vampire? No. She would have panicked. She’d been fighting her attraction to him then. She wasn’t fighting it now, but she was nervous around him, and the distraction was messing with her concentration.

  She took deeper breaths, relaxed
her tense body, and moved to the beat again. Wes matched her rhythm, his fingers spreading wider on her back. The contact pebbled her skin, and a small sigh escaped her lips.

  Focus, Annie.

  She quit counting the beats, let the bass control her movements instead, listened with her body instead of her ears. Moved more freely.

  There. After the chorus. Two extra bars, then a drop.

  She opened her eyes. Her finger itched to press the fader. She controlled her impulse, waited for the next chorus, no longer dizzy or uncertain. She was conscious of Wes’s hand still on her back, but she was more focused on the music. The tempo changed. Her heart raced as she pressed the lever. When the beats lined up, she jumped, and Wes laughed.

  She swiveled and hugged him, instantly realizing her error. Their proximity short-wired her already haywire hormones, made everything inside her glow warmer. Hot sun. Everywhere.

  Wes latched his arm around her, both of them breathing hard. Something in his pants also felt hard. And did he just inhale her hair? “You did good, Squirrel…shit. Annie. You did good, Annie.”

  He pulled back at his fumble, moved behind a console, hiding his crotch from view. It could be wishful thinking, but she was pretty sure their hug had affected him. This whole evening had affected her.

  “I don’t mind.” She readjusted the shoulders on her dress and slowed her breaths. “Like this, the name’s kind of sweet.”

  He didn’t budge from behind the console. “No. It’s not. I’ll shake the habit eventually.”

  She suddenly wasn’t sure she wanted him to. She may have imagined his reaction to her just now, but he’d said the nickname with pride, a private name only he used. It made her feel special. Admitting as much was sharing too much of her feelings, and it wasn’t fair to berate him for the label one minute, then go all squishy at the endearment the next.

  She wiped her palms down her skirt and surveyed her new classroom. “You’ll have lots of practice not calling me Squirrel during our lessons. I can do three or four times a week. Five if you can swing it. And I can help with your shows, setting up or—”

  “No.”

  She paused. Maybe he’d misheard her. “I know we haven’t talked about you officially teaching me, but I’m committed to this. I’ll work around your schedule. And three times is fine.”

  He seemed to grow ten inches taller as he crossed his arms, his expression suddenly as impenetrable as his father’s. “You can use the space when I’m not here, send me tracks to critique. I don’t have time to do more.”

  His eyes were still slightly sunken, bruised underneath. Balancing two lives, when one of those was heading Aldrich Pharma, was taking its toll. She should finally ask him about that, but he would use the topic change to his advantage. “You make time for your own music, right? You don’t show up to your sets and wing it.”

  His fingers looked like they were crushing his biceps. “Your point?”

  “If you don’t have time for instruction, let me sit in. I’ll be quieter than Felix. You’ll barely notice I’m here.”

  His gaze darted to her cheek, then to her lips. It was the same fidgetiness he’d exhibited in the dive bar, before she’d known about his dual identities. Interesting. Her cheek had still been chafed from his mask that night. It could have been a reminder of their kiss to him. Attraction he didn’t want to face.

  “Answer’s still no,” he said curtly, not meeting her eyes.

  Weston always made eye contact. He’d lectured her on the importance of strong handshakes, eye contact, and listening when networking with people or potential employers. She’d give him a limp shake to annoy him, but she’d listened to his advice, and she was attuned to his behavior now. His uncharacteristic awkwardness suggested she hadn’t imagined his body’s response to her. Maybe her Rosanna theory was also on point and Wes had feelings for Annie, but he couldn’t handle all they entailed.

  The prospect of dating him certainly scared her, but what if he was the reason she’d never fallen in love? What if her heart had known all along where it belonged?

  She’d have to do some sleuthing on his relationship status, maybe ask Vivian’s girlfriend for private-eye tips. First she had to lock down Wes the DJ. “You sure that’s your final answer?” she asked. “Because an anonymous call to your father or Biotrell—that’s the company you’re wooing into a merger, right?” When his jaw looked ready to break, she grinned. “Like I said, a quick call about a certain executive’s extracurricular activities wouldn’t look too good for you, would it?”

  Anger practically wafted off of him. “You wouldn’t.”

  Of course she wouldn’t. But the threat hit on target. “Maybe I would, maybe I wouldn’t. Is it worth testing me?”

  He jabbed a hand through his dark hair and slashed a look at the exit as though he might bolt. Instead he leveled her with a baleful stare. “You have yourself a deal. But you won’t talk while you’re here. You won’t ask questions. I won’t even know you’re in the room. Don’t think I’ll bend the rules and go easy on you.”

  She was done with easy. She was ready to learn the extent of her perseverance.

  Which now included learning if Weston Aldrich had feelings for her.

  12

  “Say that again.” Weston was having déjà vu. It was the only explanation as to why he was in his office, staring at his father, once again at a loss for words.

  His father’s face was pinched. “Saanvi gave her notice. She’s leaving.”

  The blow was as harsh the second time around. “She’s our best researcher. She’s one of the reasons we’re Karim’s top choice for the Biotrell merger. And she signed a non-competition clause. She’s not going anywhere. We’ll offer her more money. Better perks. Whatever it takes to keep her on board.”

  “You don’t think I pulled out all the stops to convince her? And she’s not taking a job with our competition.”

  “Then why the hell would she leave so suddenly?”

  “She said she needs a break.” His father’s left cheek twitched.

  As a kid, that small muscle spasm would send Weston searching for shelter: a door to slip through, a menu to lift in front of his face, a nearby escape hatch. When he got older, the twitch meant threats were on the horizon.

  The day Weston had blown off a summer work meeting, still reeling from his mother’s death, Victor S. Aldrich had sat Weston down, his cheek twitching, face splotchy as he’d listed his son’s faults. “You’re out of control. It makes you weak. It’s an embarrassment to me, to the Aldrich name. You want respect in life? Earn it. You want to be successful? Don’t welch on commitments. Everyone has hardships. Another stunt like this and you can find another job.”

  It hadn’t been an empty threat. After his wife’s death, Victor had fired his longtime chauffeur for picking him up late. Once. Even as a kid, Weston had overheard the man cut off his own parents, whom Weston had been forbidden from speaking with. Years later they’d been refused attendance at their daughter-in-law’s funeral, because they’d once asked to borrow money for a gambling debt. A taint on the family name, Victor had declared. He hadn’t yelled or cursed at them. The man was vicious in his quiet decisiveness, but he could ooze venom.

  He was also brilliant and savvy. And incredibly sad.

  No one else would know it to see it, but Weston knew. He saw. He’d seen Victor blow into the house with flowers and gifts, whisking his wife away on last minute trips. He’d catch them dancing in the living room, no music playing, secret smiles on their faces. Victor hadn’t been a natural father, but he had loved his wife. And they’d had family dinners back then. Between Victor’s bouts of domineering temper, there had been moments of affection as he’d ask Weston about his day and praise his school efforts. Birthdays and holidays had held laughter and joy.

  The man now spent holidays at the office and his secretary purchase and deliver birthday gifts. The only affection he showed Weston was a nod for work well done. Their relationship would never
be functional, but Weston didn’t have the heart to tell the man where to shove his briskness. Cutting him off would tarnish his mother’s memory.

  At least with business, they had something in common. “How do we get Saanvi back?” Weston asked.

  “We don’t.”

  “Since when do you give up?”

  “Since I have it on good authority DLP has leverage on Saanvi.”

  “Blackmail?”

  His father cocked his head. “Does this surprise you?”

  No. Not when it came to DLP. Rumors had circled them for years, the worst story revolving around a woman’s death. The company had never been convicted of hiring a thug to dig up dirt on the woman’s husband—a ploy to sink their competition—but Joseph Anderson claimed someone had been tailing them. Their erratic driving had caused his car to crash, killing his wife instantly. No charges had been laid against DLP, but everything about them reeked of deceit.

  Now Saanvi was likely caught in their crosshairs. She’d always behaved above board, as far as Weston knew, diligent in her work, appreciated by the staff. Could be her family had skeletons that needed protecting. Regardless, the loss was another merger obstacle. Saanvi was their head Alzheimer’s researcher. Karim had hoped her input would push Biotrell’s clinical trials to the next phase. It would be a hefty blow.

  “As much as that loss pains me,” Victor said, already heading for the door, “you’re the one dating Karim’s daughter. No bribes can alter that leverage. As long as you keep her happy, we have nothing to worry about.”

  Such a crock of shit. “So my work doesn’t matter? The months and years I’ve spent lining up this deal mean nothing if I don’t put a ring on Rosanna’s finger?” The last thing either of them wanted.

  His father’s left cheek twitched again. This time Weston eyed his desk. At thirty-three he still wanted to dive under it. “One sign of weakness—”