The Beat Match

by Kelly Siskind

  Agitated, he slipped behind the two sets of curtains, checked the monitors and cables again.

  “All good?” one of the stagehands asked. The kid looked nervous, shifting on his feet.

  Falcon’s reputation had preceded him, his eccentric silences and demands known and respected. Weston wore the same black outfit and Falcon mask he’d worn to his other shows, hadn’t alerted Mick or anyone to a change in status. He’d normally nod, not chance speaking, but his father knew the score now. He actually looked forward to telling Rosanna and seeing the shock on her face. She’d always teased him for being a stuffy country-club boy.

  He was uneasy about the story leaking to the press, as it no doubt would. Heir to Aldrich Pharma has Wild Side, or some other salacious heading. Assuming he got fired, he believed other pharmaceutical companies would hire him, but it wasn’t certain. Still, there was no reversing this trajectory.

  To the skinny kid, he said, “I could use a glass of water.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure. Right on it.” Eyes bright, he skittered off.

  Thirty minutes later Weston stood behind his mixer, finger on the dial, nervous energy pulsing through him. If Annie didn’t show, he’d search her out tomorrow. Fix this. Fix them. Make sure she knew unequivocally she held Weston’s beating heart in her small hands. He loved her. He wouldn’t mince words. He’d tell her straight and true and make sure she never had reason to doubt him again. But he wanted her to see the video feed’s first steps. The audience’s reaction. Leo’s tribute. Their collaboration. He couldn’t have created something this powerful without her.

  The sound system cut out. The crowd hollered from the other side of the two curtains, the crescendo rising into a roar. His body vibrated with the thunderous sound, and all he could think was this. This is who I am. If he’d quit DJing as planned, he would have missed this unparalleled rush.

  He kissed two fingers and pressed them to the photograph of Leo he’d attached to his mixer. “This one’s for you, man.”

  He signaled the skinny kid who’d brought him the water, and the outermost curtain sailed up. Weston was still hidden behind the second curtain, but he felt the descending quiet, the crowd’s excited anticipation.

  He started the video feed and watched the playback on his screen.

  Kids with toy guns, playing and laughing, spliced to a kid hiding under his school desk, crying. A pregnant mother spliced to a woman slumped over a tombstone. Dark images followed, violent and upsetting, spilling from one screen to the next, footage that would distress some club goers. As it should. It was silent in the massive club. Quiet so tension-filled it screamed with the madness of weaponry, guns purchased too easily, consequences ignored. The only sound Weston heard was the hard pounding of his heart.

  He unleashed the first fragment of sound. Cello. Plaintive. Angry; the instrument lamenting its sorrow for so many senseless deaths. Faster images. Faster music, the growing cacophony gripping Weston’s throat in a fiery crush. He closed his eyes. Memories, still so brutal and strong, flashed to life.

  Leo yanking him around, pissed Weston had ignored their meeting. Yelling at him. Words he didn’t remember.

  Then, “Dude, why didn’t you—”

  The bullet.

  Screams.

  Blood.

  Chaos.

  Leo in a crimson heap on the floor.

  Weston forced his eyes wide, fought the burn. A few gasps drifted from the club. He knew what was coming next. Hope. Clear, clean water dripping from a gun barrel, irrigating a field. Growth. Advancement. Belief in the power of change. A rifle from afar, up close a cluster of butterflies that fluttered away. Stringed instruments joined the plaintive cello, a flute, the rumble of a bass. An orchestra, powerful, played together. A larger voice.

  Together we can make a difference.

  This wouldn’t be the first time these people would have seen cries for better gun control. For every person who didn’t believe changes were desperately needed, there was at least one who wanted upheaval. The problem was getting people to act. He hoped he and Annie had packaged their message meaningfully, through a medium that already resonated with the crowd. Empowered them as a collective.

  Unable to see their reaction, he focused on the screen in front of him, the images and music peaking, so loud and bright it silenced the violent images in Weston’s mind. He would never fully forgive himself for what happened with Leo, but he would live with it. He would live better and be the man Leo’s sister deserved. The man his mother had raised. The man he wanted to be.

  He cut the music.

  The last curtain flew up.

  The same three words glowed on every screen: Your voice matters.

  A decree. A dare to try.

  Weston stood tall, flushed with adrenaline. Thousands of faces snapped toward him, some with tears on their cheeks. Fire in their eyes. They had heard him. They had heard Annie and Leo and every other person fighting for progress. For all his and Annie’s efforts, at least some would leave here changed.

  Wes was supposed to transition now, blast his beats and get this party started. But his sights snagged on the brightest light in the room. Annie, here, standing on the bar, brazen, her hand pressed over her chest. She wore casual jeans and what looked like a gray hoodie, zipped up to her neck. Odd style for her, considering her eccentric closet, but she could be wearing a garbage bag for all he cared. She was looking at him, tall and open, letting him see to the heart of her.

  He whipped off his mask while mixing the music.

  The crowd roared. Annie gawked, the cutest grin slashing across her face. He blasted into his set, pointed at her and crooked his finger. She needed to get her ass on this stage, next to him. Closer. Close enough for him to drag in her scent.

  She didn’t move. He didn’t know why.

  Vivian and her girlfriend were by Annie’s legs, talking at the bartender and gesturing wildly. Unsure what was up, he adjusted the volume, danced to the experimental electro pop tune, hard against the beat. Abstract, nature-inspired videos morphed across the screens. Annie tipped her head back, popped her hips in time. His. That woman was his, and he wanted to leap off stage, say screw it and tear out of there with her in his arms.

  As tempting as that was, he was here for a reason.

  He dragged his gaze away from hers for a moment. Focused on the crowd. A Freed by the Falcon junkie was dancing, one hand up, his fingers spread in a peace sign as he lost himself to the beats. His huge smile was a gift, infectious and uplifting. This was the definition of music. Inspiring. Empowering. Raw and honest.

  Weston faded in the next song earlier than planned, fed off the club’s contagious vibe. It was a partnership. Transactions traded in spirit, rising up, up, up until their joy punched through the ceiling.

  His eyes jerked back to Annie. She was still standing on the bar, bent over at the waist, having a heated conversation with the bartender. The bartender shook her head and pointed at the floor. Vivian shouted something back. Management wanted Annie down, and Weston couldn’t agree more. If she got off the bar top, she’d get up here where she should be, basking in this radioactive energy.

  A bouncer moved toward the scene. Weston tensed. He pictured Annie tripping, falling, smacking her head on the edge of the bar.

  She turned toward him abruptly, sidestepped the bouncer’s grabby hands, and unzipped her hoodie, letting it fall to the floor. The bouncer was on her in seconds, manhandling her into his arms, escorting her to the exit. It all happened in the blink of an eye, but Weston caught a glimpse of her shirt before she was hauled off. Bright yellow. Black lettering.

  It read: I Love the Falcon.

  His ribs constricted, the feeling burning a hole in his chest. She’d said the words to him once before, but everything was different now. Her love. His love. Her willingness to forgive him his failings and risk vulnerability again. Once they talked and he found out what had driven her to break up with him, he’d do everything in his power to make Annie the happ
iest she’d ever been. He wouldn’t lose her again, not for any reason.

  He checked the music, gestured aggressively for the skinny stagehand to come over. “The girl who was standing on the bar—her name’s Annie. Find her. Get her on stage. Do it now.”

  Weston’s fingers worked the mixer. He danced with the crowd, filled with thoughts of Annie, while trying to stay dialed in to his show. Not an easy task. He glanced at Leo’s photograph, thought about how long he’d fought his feelings for his best friend’s little sister, how his friendship with Annie had grown organically alongside his love for her, so many random choices pushing him toward one end goal: Anthea Ward.

  Always her. There had never been another option.

  “Thank you,” he told Leo. Call him crazy. Foolish. A believer in signs and portents. Someway, somehow, his best friend had played cupid.

  “I won’t jump on the bar again. I swear.” Annie tried to wiggle out of the massive bouncer’s hold. She’d have better luck escaping a straitjacket. “You can’t kick me out. Seriously. I’m not some crazy stalker. I’m…friends with Falcon.”

  He smirked at the writing on her shirt. “Sure you are, sweetheart. And I’m best buds with Chris Hemsworth.”

  She deflated in his iron grip. Friends didn’t begin to cover what Falcon was to her. She was being dragged away from her center of gravity, each step making her feel untethered.

  “If you hurt a hair on her head,” Vivian shouted while trailing them, “I will rain hell on your life.”

  “I’ll investigate you,” Sarah added. The bouncer didn’t look scared. He absolutely should.

  Annie turned while being half-dragged away. “Stay in here. If I don’t get back in, find Falcon after the show and tell him I’m in a timeout outside.”

  The girls got swallowed by the masses.

  The bouncer walked Annie outside and deposited her feet firmly on the ground. “You’re out for the count. Don’t let me catch you in there again.”

  “Can’t you just get him a message? Tell him Annie’s outside. He’ll be pissed if you kick me out.”

  A streetlight glinted off the man’s bald head. His face held as much expression as a rock. “And I have some magic beans to sell ya.”

  He lumbered his huge thighs through the entrance, and Annie collapsed against the club’s outside wall. She still couldn’t believe Wes had removed his mask. Boom. Just whipped it off and exposed himself like it was no big deal. Would the reckless move get him fired? Had he already been fired because Duncan had gotten to him before she’d had a chance to tell Wes about the evidence in her apartment? Sarah had dropped off the files just in time for Annie to leave for Wes’s show. She needed to tell him about those files after he performed, and that she loved him as deeply as ever. She wasn’t sure he’d seen her shirt.

  That was supposed to be their moment. Her treasured memory with him blown away by her grand gesture, followed by him shouting how much he loved her, too. All she’d accomplished was a G-rated strip show before being dragged off by King Kong.

  She eyed the line extending out the door and around the block. A different bouncer was at the entrance. She could sweet talk her way back in. Bat her eyelashes and unleash her feminine wiles. But her yellow T-shirt and jeans weren’t particularly wiley. Maybe he wanted piano lessons.

  A skinny kid busted through the entrance, out of breath, scanning the street frantically. When he looked at her, he did a little jump and rushed over. “Annie?”

  “Yes…”

  “Thank God. Come with me. Falcon wants you on stage.”

  She gripped his upper arms. “You’re a life saver, and I’m going to hug you now.”

  An awkward hug later, he straightened his black T-shirt. “I’m more of a lackey. That Falcon guy is scary.”

  Wes was undeniably intense when you didn’t know him. But she knew him, down to his soft, gooey center.

  They pushed their way back into the club.

  King Kong stopped them the second he saw her. “What did I tell you, lady?”

  She pointed to her savior. “This nice guy was sent by Falcon to bring me on stage. Tell your buddy Chris Hemsworth I say hi and that I prefer his hair short.”

  King Kong’s cheeks flushed.

  The kid grabbed Annie’s hand. “Get moving. I don’t wanna lose my job.”

  Falcon’s music pulsed hypnotically, a provocative beat that swelled into a shriek of synthesized keyboards. She wanted to stop and dance. Close her eyes and get lost in the funky rhythm. The club was hot and steamy. On fire. Bodies pulsed wildly, arms in the air, shoulders popping. The same people who’d been seized by emotion during the video intro were euphoric now, as she and Wes had planned. Grip them by their hearts, then set them free. Leave them feeling high. Changed. She and Wes had made people feel.

  She followed the kid to a door at the side of the stage. VIP access. Another bouncer let them in, then she was being led down a corridor, up dark stairs, into the stage wings. And the view? The crowd was insane from this perspective. Both floors seemed to bounce, the whole club jumping to the intoxicating beats. Lights exploded from the massive disco ball, white lasers cutting through the sweltry air.

  She felt Wes’s attention before she looked at him. A sixth sense. Her Wes radar. The second they locked eyes, static sparked along her skin. Even without his mask, he looked feral. A bird of prey intent upon her, those chiseled features slashed into a sculpture, noble and savage.

  She wanted to jump on him, maul him. Kiss the straining veins along his strong neck, bite his earlobe, mark every inch of him because every inch of him was hers. God, she’d missed him so much. But he was in the middle of a massive show, the entire club plugged into his socket.

  She wouldn’t jump his bones here, but she could do this.

  She faced him fully and tugged on the hem of her yellow shirt, making it easier to read. “I never stopped loving you,” she yelled over the music. “I don’t think I ever could.”

  Giddy with anticipation this afternoon, while waiting to get Sarah’s files, she’d had the cotton printed with: I Love the Falcon. She expected Wes to step away from his equipment now. Give her a brief kiss. Or stay playing while sending her a hungry snarl of possession.

  Instead of doing any of those things, he lowered the mixer’s volume and faced the crowd. “When you love someone,” he said into his microphone, clear and rough. “You never let that person go.”

  The volume flared back to life. The crowd cheered. Her heart inflated to three times its size as his long legs ate up the distance between them and he hauled her into his arms, twirling her on stage and kissing her breathless. In front of everyone. Hungry. Deep.

  Not a G-rated kiss.

  She whimpered into his mouth. “I didn’t want to break up with you. It was the worst thing, but crazy stuff was happening. Things you need to know.”

  His face sobered, the chaotic club fading slightly. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine now. I just love you so much.”

  His eyes darkened. Another depraved kiss later, he sucked on her neck and bit her ear the way she’d wanted to bite his. “I fucking love you, Squirrel. And I’ll never let you break up with me again. You’ll have to chain me down if you think I’ll ever let you go. Now get over here and make music with me. We’ll talk later.”

  He tugged her toward the mixers, no mask to hide behind, his intentions clear. She felt like a supernova, uncontained happiness and energy exploding through her pores. They played together, alternated like they’d practiced, one of them controlling the volume while the other manipulated the beats. Louder bass. Softer drums. Adding back tracks and merging layers as the songs built into breathtaking peaks. They were in sync with each other. The crowd was in sync with them. She never wanted it to end. But it did. Gloriously.

  Images had been drifting across the monitors since the powerful introduction. Wondrous colors and shapes, nature preening its natural beauty. They killed the videos. The lights dimmed as they took the
music down low. They stooped themselves and motioned for the masses to do the same. The entire room crouched. They were one creature. One organ thumping together. One crush of humanity that, for this one night, would believe their voices could be heard.

  Those three words from earlier flashed on the monitors, one at a time.

  Your. Voice. Matters.

  A growing chant. The words flashed faster. The music built, the lights, the energy. Dynamism exploded through every set of smiling eyes.

  “Don’t forget this feeling,” Wes called into his microphone, fist pumped into the air. “Take the cards from the bouncers when you leave. Make your voice count.”

  The answering outcry was deafening, wolf whistles and shouts coming from all directions. Weston didn’t stick around to bask in his glory. One hand locked around Annie’s wrist, he dragged her off stage into a private dressing room.

  He spun around and pinned her against the closed door. “I’m so sorry. I should have fought for you. For us. I was an idiot.”

  “You should have, but I understand why you didn’t.” She breathed in his sincerity, their tumultuous history, all the regret filling his declaration, and tossed him a playful smile. “Back massages go a long way when earning forgiveness. As do foot massages.”

  Amusement softened his stern features. “Am I that screwed?”

  “Never hurts to go the extra mile.”

  “I plan to massage all of you, slowly, with undying devotion.”

  She blinked up at him, dazed from the show and his sultry promise, unable to reply or make another joke. His temples were sweaty, his hair askew from the non-stop dancing. Utterly scrumptious. She grabbed his hips and yanked all his raw male energy against her. “I missed you so much.”