Page 28 of Beautiful Enemy

“I want a fucking line of them. Enough to hydrate a platoon.”

He nods and speaks into his walkie. Moments later, one of the bartenders arrives at the stage with a champagne bucket full of waters on ice.

At the end of the next track, she glances at the waters, then back to her computer.

She transitions into a mashup, “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend” mixed with something R&B.

Then she looks up toward the catwalk and flips both middle fingers in the air.

The crowd erupts. They have no idea what’s going on, who she’s calling out, but they get off on her defiance.

Perhaps I’d get off on it too, if I wasn’t the one she was defying.

Despite the fact that she refused to eat with me the one time I took dinner at home, and barely acknowledges me when we pass in the house, I notice things.

She’s terrible at taking care of herself. Lives on fumes. Doesn’t go to bed until four or five—I was up one night and saw her light on—even when she doesn’t have a show.

That might be fine for a group of college students on holiday, but for a professional who does this year-round? It’s unsustainable.

By the end of her set, I haven’t seen her touch the water. It’s concerning.

“Bring her to the VIP,” I tell security.

I’m waiting there, halfway through a poker game, when I feel the presence at my back.

But when I turn, it’s security, alone.

“Señor King, she did not want to come.”

I drop my cards and leave my chips where they are as I shift out of my chair with a nod to the other players—rich businessmen and VIPs all of them. I grab my jacket off my chair and shrug into it.

“Where is she?”

He doesn’t immediately answer, and I take off through the halls.

She’s still taking selfies with patrons.

Concern replaces my irritation when I see the fatigue on her face. Security shadows me, but I wave them off as I cut through the crowd to her.

“I told security to bring you back.”

She glances at me but poses with her fan. “I didn’t want to.”

Frustration clashes with the other emotions inside me today—loss, grief, sadness.

“You looked unwell.”

Her grin is as aggressive as her spiked hair. “Unwell? I tore the roof off your chic basement tonight, and you think I’m unwell?”

She shoves me out of the way and beckons for the next fan.

“Strange. A woman reamed me out recently—and publicly—for avoiding taking care of someone who was my business,” I bite out as the fan takes a selfie, Rae muttering an apology when her hair nearly pokes the man in the face before he heads on his way.

I dismiss the small line of eager fans waiting, ignoring their protests as I grab my DJ’s wrist and tug her after me toward the back door.

On the way, I snatch a water bottle off the bar and shove it at her chest.

When we’re outside, fresh air washing over us both, she rounds on me. “I can’t handle this tonight.”

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