All Mixed Up

by Angel Payne

  ALL MIXED UP

  By

  Angel Payne

  Some would call it sacrilege.

  I’m living in Paris for a whole month. The city of light and lovers—and the home of the newest jewel in the Avanti nightclub empire, where I’m gigging as its grand opening DJ. I’m living a dream, but I don’t want it. I’m only in this for the huge paycheck, and if I’m lucky, I’ll forget I’m in the same city as the father who walked out me years ago. I’m only interested in the music and the money.

  But fate’s set up a different plan.

  Out of all the nightclubs in the city to invest in, Lucien Paget picked Avanti. Now, the billionaire with the gaze of a demon and the body of an archangel has decided on a new challenge for himself. Me.

  It’s pretty hysterical, this little “offer” of his—made even funnier by the money he insists on throwing behind it. But it’s his fortune, and if he wants to invest it in a few dates with me, who am I to argue? He probably thinks his impossible beauty and debonair charm will topple me into true love. Well, the joke’s on him.

  Then why am I not laughing?

  All Mixed Up

  Copyright © 2019 By Angel Payne Writes, LLC. All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Reserved

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-9986158-0-6

  Kindle Edition

  NOTE: If you have purchased a copy of this eBook, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book. This purchase allows you one legal copy for your own personal reading enjoyment on your personal computer or device. You do not have the rights to resell, distribute, print, or transfer this book, in whole or in part, to anyone, in any format, via methods either currently known or yet to be invented, or upload to a file sharing peer to peer program. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. Such action is illegal and in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. If you no longer want this book, you may not give your copy to someone else. Delete it from your computer. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction.

  All characters, names, places and scenes are the product of the author’s imagination, and used fictitiously.

  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or places/locales/events, is entirely coincidental.

  For Tom.

  For loving little mixed-up me.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  About the Book

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  30 Days and Counting

  28 Days and Counting

  26 Days and Counting

  25 Days and Counting

  24 Days and Counting

  17 Days and Counting

  15 Days and Counting

  14 Days and Counting

  10 Days and Counting

  30 Days and Counting

  I had this.

  I could do this.

  I put both refrains on mental repeat while bounding up the steps from the République Metro station, in the heart of Paris’s hottest nightclub district. Though the afternoon was overcast, I still struggled to readjust to the light in order to recheck the walking directions in my phone. A spring breeze blew through trees growing from ornate steel circles; other grates betrayed sounds of steel-on-steel, followed by the rush of subterranean trains. In short, aside from the French street and building signs, a scene fairly similar to what I’d be looking at back home, in New York City.

  Yeah, I was that girl. The only person on the planet who didn’t give a flying fig about it being her first full day in Paris, France. This was just another gig in another city—granted, the most lucrative job I’d accepted in the three years of my world DJ career—but to survive it, that was exactly how I’d have to keep thinking of it. This was business, pure and simple. There was no room for anything else. No swooning over the light on the Seine at twilight. No tourist trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower. No strolling through the Marais on Sunday afternoons, sighing over the neighborhood while hunting down the trendiest shoe buy of the day.

  No wistful sighs. And no shoe drool.

  No feelings. Period.

  See, fate and I had a deal on this month. I wouldn’t let my heart write any more bad deals for my life, and she’d keep my feelings safe back in New York for me. When I got back, my debt would finally be manageable—then feelings would be allowed in once more. And nights of sleep longer than four hours. And shit like smiling. Maybe even laughing.

  But first, the next thirty days.

  You have this.

  You can do this.

  Perfect timing. I looked up in time to observe workmen putting the final polish on six glistening letters, as well as the filigreed steel frame around them.

  AVANTI

  Just looking at the world-famous name, made so famous by Milo Proust already in Vegas, Rome, and New York, jolted my chest with a small thrill. Okay, the money had been my lure here, but I was also human. The implied prestige of the Avanti name was enough to make even princesses giddy—several of them had actually been to both the existing clubs—and here I was, about to be the headline DJ in the newest club’s main room.

  So, yeah…maybe two seconds of feeling would be okay. They were both filled with my soft giggle, while watching another worker straighten the temporary letters on the marquee beneath the permanent sign.

  Grande Fête D’ouverture

  avec

  Juliette Darienne

  Engagement Limité

  The air got misty with early rain but I couldn’t resist taking a picture for posterity. I even snuck in a shot of the showcase windows, positioned at street level, all filled with the Grand Opening promo poster of me. Well, the girl I kept telling myself was me. The picture was from a photo shoot in New York just a few weeks ago, which still felt beyond surreal. But there was the proof of it happening, before me in luxurious color.

  In the shot, I was clad in a designer ball gown to match the light pink streaks in my white-blonde hair. I was poised on a swing appearing like upended headphones, dangling from a blade of the famous Moulin Rouge windmill. All the lights in the windmill were a decadent shade of fuchsia, and the photo itself had been filtered with a pink wash to make it look vintage yet trendy. It was all very girlie and very French.

  Very not me.

  Well…not the normal me.

  Whatever I could call “normal” anymore.

  I quirked half of a rueful smile as that truth really sank in.

  Pink-And-Poofy Lane had been fun while it lasted, but roses, pearls, and happy-ever-after weren’t the universe’s plan during my spin in the mortal coil. Six months of a disaster known as Pax Halstead had verified that clearly enough. In my next life, maybe I’d get to be a club-hopping princess—just as long as I wasn’t a French one.

  I wanted to be nothing like the woman who had stolen Dad from Mom a year ago.

  And there I went, violating the rules already.

  Just business. You’re here on business and nothing else. I pounded it into myself with every determined step I took around to the back of the club, where the stage door was located.

  Yeah. A real stage door.

  And holy shit…my own dressing room, too.

  I ran fingertips across the plate on the door, the first I found upon entering the building. It was embossed with my name, so I got bold and went inside.

  As soon as I stepped in, one word tumbled from my gaping mouth.

  “Wow.”

  It was the stuff from every girl’s fantasy of hitting the big time, Paris sty
le. There was a wide vanity and chair with a brightly-lit mirror, next to a rolling clothes rack and a dressing screen decorated with pastel peacocks and swans. Occupying the other side of the room was a small seating area with two black leather easy chairs. They bracketed a matching leather couch that was accented with pink and black paisley throw pillows. A glass and gold coffee table looked yanked from the boudoir of Marie Antoinette herself, especially with the huge gift basket on top of it. The ornate container brimmed with fresh whole fruit, an assortment of French cheeses, baguette crackers, and a sample pack of gourmet caviar.

  “Mon dieu,” I whisper-laughed. For someone who didn’t want to be a French princess, I absolutely had the gastronomic cravings of one. Though I was due out in the main room this very second, the basket enticed me. I’d be a lousy gift recipient if I didn’t take even a little sample, right?

  With cruel timing, my phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a picture of Gigi Proust, looking stylish and adorable in the Las Vegas Sun. I’d taken the picture of her just a few months ago, when the woman talked me into participating on a panel called “Fabulous Females” at some big-time music and mass media convention. Of course, the wench had never told me the other two panelists were Gaga and Mary J. Blige, so needless to say, I’d gone around for two days in an existential crisis. Cut open one of my best friends like for ensuring I sounded like a stammering idiot during that hour, or offer to kiss her toes after they’d soaked in a footbath of my grateful tears?

  But existential crises were Gigi’s specialty. Like the one she’d help me overcome before even taking off for that whirlwind Vegas weekend. While flattered she’d invited me, I’d originally turned her down, unwilling to leave New York. Mom had been pretty weak from her final round of chemo, and I’d just returned from three days in Florida, spinning dance parties for military kids enjoying well-deserved trips to the Orlando amusement parks. But Gigi Proust could talk an Eskimo into buying air conditioning—and on top of that, surprised me with an airline ticket for Mom, too. The trip had been just the key to putting some color back in Mom’s cheeks—and granting me a dream-come-true by sitting between Gaga and Blige for a solid hour. By the time the weekend was done, I’d assured Gigi she had a go-to panelist until the end of time.

  Yes, even now—when her panicked voice filled my ear as soon as I stabbed the green button on my phone. “Where. Are. You?”

  “Well, bonjour to you too, missy.”

  “Juls, I’m serious. Are you okay? Are you on your way? Are you lost?”

  “Define ‘lost’. Do you mean, am I debating whether to dive into the Camembert or the Livarot cheese first? Well then, yes, I’m lost—and would prefer to stay that way, merci beaucoup.”

  She groaned but surrendered to a laugh. “Goofball.”

  “That’s Mademoiselle Goofball to you, Ms. Proust.”

  “See? You’re sounding like a local already.”

  “And you’re pushing it already.”

  Her huff roughed up the line, still keeping things light, but I already knew she’d grasped my darker meaning. It had always been that easy with her, from the moment we caught each other humming to “I Think We’re Alone Now” at a SoHo coffee house, through all the quirky run-ins we had through mutual friends after that, to this very moment. No subject was ever off-limits and no opinion was ever “wrong” or “stupid,” especially when we learned about our mutual messed-up daddy issues. Where Peter Proust had been hiding a polyamorous “family” that he met at secret sex clubs and had finally “married” in a pseudo-official ceremony, Zachary Darienne had decided two days with a complete stranger, hired as his translator during a Paris business trip, was enough reason to ditch a wife, a daughter, and twenty-three years of marriage.

  “All right, just get your sexy tush out to the main room,” Gigi finally muttered. “I can’t wait to see what you look like in ‘mind blown’ mode.”

  “Hold on. There’s something in this building better than this cheese sampler?”

  I was only half kidding—and approached the club’s main room with the same skepticism. I’d been a headline DJ in most of the major dance clubs of the world, from Rio to Ibiza to New York, and had considered my mind “blown” for over a year now. Still, it’d be cool to see what Gigi’s gorgeous cousin had concocted for this place, a mash-up of three old Paris warehouses. Milo Proust was a visionary in the industry. The clubs in New York and Vegas were already top ten contenders on the hottest clubs lists, beside names like Green Valley, Space, and Hakkasan. Simply being considered for the grand opening of the Paris locale had been a big deal. I’d never expected to be picked, especially because I’d kept the submission a secret from Gigi—a fact she’d understood as soon as the news was made public. Only a soul sister would understand my priority to land the jam on my own, instead of relying on her influence with Milo.

  Yet only she would understand how much it meant to have a friends on hand to help celebrate the occasion, too.

  So there she stood, in the middle of Avanti Paris’s massive dance floor, with a pair of faces that made tears threaten to slide down my own.

  Wordlessly, I rushed to hug Leese then Greer, inhaling the minty-candy scent of the first and the Georgia honeysuckle of the second. As I pulled away, tugging at the corners of my eyes to stop the embarrassing stings, my two lifelong girlfriends joined Gigi in knowing giggles.

  “Oh, yeah.” Greer nodded, bouncing chocolate curls against her light mocha cheeks. “Her mind’s a Mento in diet pop.”

  “Isn’t,” I girl-growled. “Though I’m so damn glad to see you both.”

  “It’s her fault.”

  They chimed it in unison, making playful stabby fingers at Gigi. She busted out in a laugh, sweeping her accusing digits in another direction.

  “No,” she blurted. “It’s his fault.”

  From the shadows she’d indicated, a tall figure swaggered. Nico Rocca’s eyes twinkled with copper mischief as he approached his fiancé then yanked her close. None of us doubted Gigi’s claim; Nico spoiled her friends as thoroughly as he pampered her. Still, he confused the hell out of me. How could the front man for one of the world’s hottest rock bands be so nice? Guys didn’t play that way in the music industry.

  Pax had proved that little ditty in spades, as well.

  I knuckled Nico in the shoulder. As he flashed back a cocky smirk, I drawled, “Well, this definitely proves that I like you for more than your pretty face, Mr. Rocca.”

  Nico scowled. “Mister Rocca is my father, missy.”

  “And he raised you right, mister.”

  “Thanks Juls,” he muttered, and attempted a small chuckle. “I think.”

  “Wait. What?” Gigi jumped in, totally feigning her alarm. “You mean there’s more than the pretty face?”

  Nico dropped his head and slid his mouth against her neck. “Hmmm. So much more, Bellissima. Want me to show you?”

  Gigi gasped then sighed out, “Per favore…”

  “Ew,” Greer mumbled.

  “Ew,” Leese seconded.

  “Would you two get a room?” But I quickly ditched the argument for more important things, taking a chance to turn around and really look at this place. And I meant look—as in my eyes bugging and my jaw plummeting. “Speaking of rooms…wow.” I couldn’t wait for my full tour of this place. “Is this all for real?”

  The question was justified. In spades. I’d never seen a modern dance club like this. The marriage of old textures and new technology was breathtaking. The soaring ceilings were painted in the Baroque style of the 17th century, only the scenes weren’t all pastoral innocence. Instead the subjects were twisted together in erotic glory, limbs splayed in the throes of passion, intimate parts barely covered by artistically arranged sheets. That was literal. The strips of luxurious fabric were bunched and gathered against the paintings, then given dimension by colored uplighting. In strategic spots, each sheet descended from the ceiling, swept down then anchored by the pillars around the dance floor. Onto t
he pillars, rotating images were projected: everything from medieval prints and Renaissance portraits to World War II rally posters and modern glam music legends. The laser array was incredible, too. Not only were there eight different colors, but the beams themselves could switch color in the middle, allowing the lighting engineers to “tailor” the room’s look for every song. The overhead rig also had fog blowers and confetti cannons.

  Darker spaces along the second floor, blocked from view due to thick velvet curtains, led me to believe the club had plenty of VIP lounges. Bring on the French princesses.

  Gigi moved up next to me, twisting an elbow beneath mine. “All right; admit it now.”

  “Admit what?”

  “Your mind is blown.”

  I patted her hand, flattened over my forearm. “Getting there fast, amiga. This is pretty amazing.”

  She pouted. “Only ‘on your way’?”

  I laughed. “It’s stunning, okay? But all the stunning in the world is zilch if the sound system doesn’t deliver.”

  An approving hum from Nico. “Now I know Milo picked the right woman for this job.”

  “But only for a month,” I rebutted. That line was firm. I’d gotten it in black and white on the contract. Four weeks, then I was in a cab bound for Charles de Gaulle International. And then home. And then at last, normalcy. But finally, at last, doing it debt-free.

  I already felt better.

  No. better than that.

  Standing here, surrounded by the opulence of the room and the support of my friends, the upcoming month didn’t feel like so much a jail sentence. I actually started believing I could do this without keeping track of every passing minute. That maybe I’d even…enjoy it sometimes.

  But only sometimes.

  No matter what, everything seemed much more doable. Maybe it really was possible to live and work in the same city as my ass wipe of a father. Yes, even in the city where he’d been seduced away from Mom and me. Didn’t mean I had to go drink the unicorn juice he kept claiming as the best table wine in the world, or spend a Sunday afternoon strolling dreamily through the Marias with him.