Chapter 8

Chapter

Eight

PRINCE

"Wait a minute. They fucking cut me from my own night?"

I'm used to scanning the email lists of DJs for the next month of Vibes events and not seeing my name. But this is just a shit sundae with a cherry on top.

I roll over in bed, thumbing at my screen to go back to the top of the email. Darren, Vibes' general manager, sent it at four in the morning. I floated to bed on such a high last night that I didn't bother looking at my phone until I woke up.

I wish I'd put it off a little longer. I woke up feeling dreamy —with the kind of morning wood that practically threatens my ceiling's structural integrity and a big smile on my face. Needless to say, that's gone now.

"Jesus." I toss my phone down on the bed, rubbing my palms over my face. "Kick me harder in the nuts, Darren."

I usually get along well with Darren. Last night, he was all panicked about cancelling Friday's private event after some organizer drama, so I suggested the theme I've been pushing him to do for months: Twisted Fantasies.

As I told him, it's all the fun of last night's masked ball, with even more potential for outrageous outfits and depravity. And it's absolutely perfect for my DJ brand: equal parts risqué high art and filthy piggy raunch.

Everyone's going to see the photos from tonight on Insta or Snapchat or whatever. Capitalize on the FOMO, I urged him.

Looks like Darren took my suggestion—and my whole concept—and forgot where it came from. They aren't even sticking me in the "exclusive" room—AKA, a shitty little side room that gets next to no footfall.

Wait a sec. There's another email from Darren. The subject line says Friday , and it was sent at four-thirty in the morning.

I scramble to pick up my phone again. This better be an apology, or at least an explanation. Maybe Darren made a mistake. Or he forgot that I told him I can sell the night out. After years working the door, my networks are bigger than anyone else suspects.

Hey Prince,

Can you work the door this Friday? I know this isn't what you were hoping for, but I trust you more than anyone… we all know it's the door culture that makes or breaks a night...

Thanks a million,

Darren

Talk about adding insult to injury.

"Oh, fuck off ."

I angrily swipe out of the email before I can respond with any of the choice words that come to mind first.

Four rooms, six DJs, and almost all of them are infants who probably couldn't work out how to press play on a first-generation iPod. But they're pretty and twenty-something, which draws a crowd.

Judging by the attached graphics—probably made by Darren in Paint at 3:57am—they all like to be shirtless.

I start to dismiss my notifications one at a time, violently enough to send them flying into another state. "They'll probably paint historically inaccurate chainlink armour on their sculpted torsos," I grumble. "And it'll work."

At least there's one name I'm happy to see on the list: DJ Quarrel. The legend otherwise known as Benji Smith-Keyes is one of my best friends. We've been friends for longer than either of us can remember, and he's been DJing for about the same amount of time. He's the one who helped me break in.

And, if I'm not mistaken, a text just arrived from him… something about how it's easy to play him?

I need the tea. Anything to distract me.

"Oh, holy crap. That's a wall of text. Jesus and Dorothy and Buddha save me," I mutter. "I need coffee for this."

I have a rule against loungewear in public, so I push myself up and head to my drawers. I set my phone on top of the dresser to start reading while I rummage for a nice shirt and matching socks. Or just clean socks, at this point.

QUARREL:

WTF, man???

You've been talking about that idea for months! I'm gonna kick Darren's ass into the sun, just say the word

…Or you can pretend to be me and I'll dress up as you…

Like a 2000s comedy

(Dibs on Renée Zellweger playing me)

That's why he's my best friend. He can make me laugh in less than twenty seconds, even when I'm pissed off. I snort, swiping to respond to that last message.

PRINCE:

You'll be sorry when I play myself & we end up becoming besties…

Then I scroll down the wall of text, leaning against the dresser to tug my jeans on.

QUARREL:

Then we do a big reveal and Darren falls to his knees in apology and worships your musical genius!!!

(In the R-rated cut, he'll worship your cock as a metaphor for your musical genius)

Just let me know and I'll brush up on my aloof sarcasm and commanding presence and steal your clothes

It's easy to play me, just wear Crocs and have 70 thoughts per minute and say them all

As I reach the bottom, my phone buzzes with Quarrel's answer to me.

QUARREL:

But then I get to be besties by proxy, AND she'll inhabit my psyche so deeply that we'll understand one another without words

PRINCE:

Nobody ever believes me when I tell them you're the biggest dork I've ever met

Now I have Exhibit A

QUARREL:

Did I mention there's an agent who scouts you? And your DJ career takes off? And you meet the love of your life???

(Who is definitely not Darren despite the dick-sucking apology…)

(BUT! Maybe he awkwardly interrupts the dick-sucking apology and you all laugh sheepishly but meaningfully?)

(Except Darren, because his mouth is full)

…At least we have time to workshop this, you've been single long enough

"Fucking ouch," I grumble, flipping off my phone screen.

PRINCE:

You're supposed to be making me feel better, you prick

QUARREL:

No, I'm supposed to be distracting you. Did it work?

PRINCE:

It did until you threw shade at my love life

QUARREL:

OnlyFans isn't love, darling, it's direct community support

I should tell Quarrel what happened last night. Then he'll really eat his words. But the seconds are ticking by and I'm still just staring at the keyboard, my thumbs hovering over the letters.

Why didn't I tell him last night?

We had a few minutes to talk near the beginning of the night. And sure, I left in a rush after my set, but I didn't text him anything either. Normally we share every passing thought—and horny encounter.

But this time felt different.

I don't want Beauty to be gossip fuel.

Oh. Yeah. That's exactly what it is—because that's how the scene ends up tearing people to shreds, when people pick apart other people they don't even know.

It's not just because men like Beauty are sleepwalking through life.

It's because the rest of us are secretly jealous. Most of us wish we could be a little more like them—naive and filthy-minded, innocent and full of desire… and above all, sweet.

A lot of us wish we could be that sweet, and lose the edge of bitterness we feel like we have to use to protect ourselves from the world. And even our closest friends.

I can't stop remembering last night, just before I climbed out of Beauty's window. I turned to get one more look at him, and I saw him tucked in right where I put him, under the covers, drifting off to sleep with a smile on his lips.

And the sight of it… did something to me.

There it is again.

Something is unfurling in my chest. A part of me that feels… well… a little like Beauty, actually.

Sweet.

I kept that naive part of me under lock and key, but it never quite went away. It's fizzing away— I'm fizzing right now, in a way I forgot I was capable of. Tentative, nervous, excited, hungry… and just young and dumb enough to think this could work.

My phone buzzes and I swallow hard, looking down at it.

QUARREL

You know what else counts as community support in this trying morning?

PRINCE

Let me guess: bringing you coffee in bed?

QUARREL

Even better: I'll meet you there in 5. I'm paying.

Jeez… he really must feel sorry for me.

But I'm not gonna turn it down. Just like I probably can't afford to turn down Friday's shift of patting pockets, scanning IDs, and keeping the waiting customers happy.

PRINCE

I'm on the way.

As I lock the front door, I shake my head and clatter down the stairs toward the street.

Why can't I just suck it up and start taking the roles I'm given?

Quarrel will tell me to fight back. There's a reason that's his DJ name. But maybe I should just be making the magic I can make while staying right where I've always been: hidden in plain sight.

Lost in thought, I barely notice the walk to the coffee shop. I'm just suddenly pulling the door open, scanning the room for a familiar face—and terrible Crocs—before I head to the counter.

Quarrel isn't there. But I do see a face that I last saw in the moonlight, looking radiant as an angel.

It's Beauty.

With all of his personal bouncers again this time—AKA, those overprotective friends. They're huddled over a table with textbooks open, heads together.

The bell jingles behind me as I let go of the door.

Shit. Beauty shifts in his seat. He's about to look up.

What if he recognizes me from the bar? Or worse still…

If I'm going to turn and run, I have a split-second to do it. But I'm stuck where I am, rooted to the spot by the memories unfolding in my body. And the sweetness of the thing that's fizzing to life in my chest, too.

I remember Beauty's moans in the night, his breathless giggles and sly smiles, his warm lips and unashamed desire, his nakedness… oh, fuck, his nakedness. He gave me everything last night without question, body and mind.

And I discovered something I've never quite believed before. I can be not just tolerated, even wanted… but needed . And I've waited too long, fought too many dragons, suffered too many cutting defeats to get to that place.

I can't turn and leave now.

"Whoa." The door jangles again as Quarrel almost barrels right into me. "What's the holdup?"

I can't answer him. I'm still staring at Beauty, watching as he slowly looks up at me.

Our eyes meet.

The chatter around us from his friends and mine suddenly vanishes. Or maybe I'm just not hearing it over the ringing in my ears.

Even as his lips part with surprise, he doesn't look away, and I wait for his reaction.

Anything but disappointment, please.

Beauty's face is shifting again. Something is sparkling there. A glimmer of something mischievous and self-assured and so much stronger than anything he showed me at the bar. More like what I saw in the night—and even bolder in the light of day.

That grumpy friend of his is standing up and scowling, and Quarrel puts a hand on my shoulder. But I barely even notice, because I'm smiling at Beauty, and I'm lost in the way he smiles back.

The first time we met, I wasn't sure… but now I am. I've found a boy worth fighting for.