Page 3 of Beautiful Enemy

We pass another venue on the beach side of the road. The sign marking the entrance to the outdoor club is huge, and I watch it in the passenger mirror, a shiver starting in my chest and leaving me tingling all the way down to my toes.

“That’s La Mer.” I sit up straighter.

People plan their entire vacations, their entire years, to join the party at one of the biggest clubs in the world.

“I’m going to play there someday.”

Toro laughs. “No woman has.” He shrugs at my curious look. “My daughter is into EDM.”

I slide my sunglasses down, feeling my ribs expand with possibility. “Tell her I’ll be the first.”

* * *

Debajo is housed beneath a resort, a fact I forgot until Toro parks around the side of the hotel and walks me to a back entrance.

The underground venue used to be popular but has seen better days, but it still picks up crowds on the long weekends in the summer—like everywhere else on the island.

Toro speaks to security in rapid-fire Spanish, and they let me in.

“Call when you are ready to go to the villa,” he insists, pushing a card into my hand as I sling my crossbody bag over my shoulder.

I send him away with a promise that I will.

When he’s gone, I turn to survey my space.

Everything is industrial, black and chrome. Bars along either side and the stage at the far end of the floor. Booths surround the dance floor. A catwalk overhead wraps around in a balcony and cuts over the middle of the floor, partially obscured by a low, black wall—probably VIP booths.

Two guys work behind the bar, readying it for the evening ahead, while another moves boxes with a cart. None acknowledge me. Capacity is supposed to be two thousand, not that it pulls in that many now.

Still, it’s nicer than I expected, and for the next month, this place is mine.

Despite my terrible year so far, tonight is the start of something better. I can feel it.

“Damnation.”

I jump at the female voice before a woman straightens from behind the setup of boards and sound equipment on stage.

When she spots me, her eyes narrow. “Doors don’t open for another twelve hours.”

“I’m not a tourist. I’m mixing tonight. Raegan Madani. Little Queen,” I go on, supplying the stage name I picked years ago because of its similarity to my given name and because it gave me a persona to build on.

The woman’s cropped blond hair has a little gray, but she’s midthirties, slim, and wearing a green sundress. A shrewd elf with a tan. “Leni. I run the club.”

“And you’re American,” I say, noticing the accent.

“Hawaii. Big Island, born and raised.”

I take the stairs to the stage, then turn to survey the sleek, black Pioneer media players flanking the latest mixer. A lifetime of dreams turned into switches and dials that put power in one person’s hands.

“It’s had a makeover,” she says, noticing my appreciation. “I’m taking over from the previous management long enough to get her on her feet.”

“Her?”

“Every club is a woman. Don’t think a man could hold this much passion or euphoria. Or this many secrets. She’s had a rough patch, though.” Leni pats the board but her knowing gaze lands on me. “Must sound familiar.”

I bristle, hands gripping the strap on my bag tighter.

“Calling out the head of Echo Entertainment on social media for everyone to see was a dumbass move,” Leni goes on, folding arms across her chest.

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