Page 1 of Surprise Best Man

Chapter One

SEAN

I flew in from Thailand, and boy were my arms tired.

Sounds like a bad, bad, joke—I know. But it was the damn truth. You ever DJ in front of a crowd of thousands for five hours straight? Fun as shit, believe me, but it’s murder on your arms to work the ones and twos for that long. Wouldn’t trade it for the world, obviously, but it’s totally a case of the spirit being more than willing, but the body saying “damn, kid, give it a rest.”

Well, bod, that’s the plan. The moment I stepped off the private plane at Van Nuys Airport and felt that first rush of fresh (fresh-ish—this is LA we’re talking about) California air I made a quick, silent vow to fucking take it easy. I’d spent the last three months traveling the world, DJing, and partying like it was the end of the world. For now, I was ready to roll up to my pad in the Hollywood Hills and…

Shit. I didn’t really know what I was going to do. Watch Netflix?

Thankfully Matt, my manager, was ready with a suggestion as soon as we got into the limo.

“I know this place,” he said.

“A place? Sounds ominous. Tell me this isn’t one of those ‘cock-fighting-dice-throwing’ combination joints. Don’t know if that’s the kind of relaxing that I’m in the mood for.”

“Nah, nah. Got a better kind of relaxing in mind for you. More…rich-LA-trophy-wife kind of shit.”

I raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Shopping spree on Santa Monica Boulevard?” I grinned. “Brunch at one of those joints where you pay fifty bucks for a soft-boiled egg? I mean, sure—as long as you’re buying, bud.”

He let out a snort of a laugh. “Nah. Something a little more suited to your situation.”

“And what kind of situation might that be?”

“The situation of someone absolutely fucking wrecked by jetlag, that’s what kind of situation.”

Believe it or not, my first instinct was to tell him he was wrong. When you’re in my line of work, after all, ignoring your body when it’s positively screaming for rest is part of the territory. Think I’m being unreasonable? You try doing a show in Seattle then flying to Tokyo the next night to do another one the next…night? Day? Morning? Whatever it would be with the time difference.

Point is, I had to do it. More than that, I wanted to. Ever since my time as the bassist for Lover Boys, the 80s-throwback rock band I’d been in with my buds since I was a teenager, I knew that the stage was where I was meant to be. So, when we threw in the towel around a decade ago, agreeing to quit while we were on top and—most importantly—still friends, I didn’t waste any time before getting started on my new line of work as a speaker-busting, dance-floor-igniting DJ.

“Am I right?” asked Matt, all grins, his exquisitely-tailored dark suit catching the morning light streaming into the limo. “I mean, you don’t even need to say anything. I know I am.”

“Let’s hear it,” I said, intrigued.

“Place in Silver Lake. Kind of my little secret. It’s a day spa.”

I laughed at him. “A day spa?” I asked. “Are you kidding me?”

“Are you?” he asked. “With that reaction?” He tsk-tsked, shaking his head as if he were a touch disappointed.

“What?” I asked. “Day spas aren’t really my thing. They seem kind of…I don’t know. Decadent? Lazy?”

“Since when has DJ Mad-Ox had any issues with decadence?” he asked with a smile.

DJ Mad-Ox wouldn’t have been my first pick for a name. But I hadn’t had time to pick my own. After spinning at a few parties in college, someone in the audience pointed out that “Maddox is a madman up there.” So Mad-Ox was it and the name stuck.

“Good point.” And it was. I was no stranger to luxury, decadence. Memories of the insane fucking partying from the last few months flashed in my head like a particularly debauched movie played at high-speed.

Partying that was…starting to get a little old. But that was a whole other thing.

“I don’t know. Lying there like a lump while someone rubs your body? Seems like a little much.”

“You’re acting like they’re doing it against their will or something, bud,” he said. “These are trained professionals, and nothing makes them happier than doing their thing while an aching guest is on the massage table. You love being in the DJ booth? They love being in a room with incense burning and that weird, spacey music playing. They’ll be over your body like—”

Here he did a really, really bad imitation of me at a DJ booth, one hand on the gear and the other on an imaginary headphone cup. And some, uh, really bad 90s rap record-skipping sounds.

“OK, OK,” I said, wanting the terrible impersonation to stop. “Let’s hear it.”

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