Page 18 of Beauty Sleep

Chapter

Eight

PRINCE

“Wait a minute.They fucking cut me from myownnight?”

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 feelingdreamy—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 evenmorepotential for outrageous outfits and depravity. Andit’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 saysFriday, 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, fuckoff.”

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:

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