Beats of the Heart - Chapter 10: Chapter 10

The crowd in The Apple was starting to come down from their adrenaline high. Alcohol only did so much to disguise the lacking music, and Miles was close to losing his mind. The Apple was the birthplace of Requiem. The Lunar had singers and jazz artists, but The Apple set the bar for DJs. It's what they were known for. This was becoming an embarrassment.
Desmond rushed after Miles, catching his arm. Typically, he wouldn't have an issue with Miles performing; instead, he would welcome it.
"Wait. There's a reason why Eve didn't ask you to DJ, Miles." Desmond said as he caught his arm. "Brian Smith is up there too."
Miles wrinkled his nose with disgust. "Fucking Eclipse?"
"If he sees Requiem, he will hunt you down."
Miles gave a resigned chuckle. "Keep that door locked. No one goes in." He nodded to the stairs. "I trust you guys to head him off after my set is done."
"Fine, but let me coordinate things," Desmond said. They both rushed into the back room and locked the door behind them. Desmond called the stage manager, Jeremy, on speakerphone.
"Jer, I need your help," Desmond said hurriedly.
"Please tell me you're getting rid of this asshole on stage." Jeremy groaned.
"Exactly that. Requiem is going to jump on," Miles jumped in. "Can you fog the stage, and I'll hijack the soundboard to shut down the DJ's feed? I'll kick him off, but we have minutes to set up Requiem's shit. Can we do that?"
"I can do fog and a light show from hell. It'll distract the crowd while we set it up."
"We need to time it perfectly," Desmond said with a tight voice. It was a lot of pressure to switch DJs in only five minutes.
Miles barked orders to the stage manager, and soon everyone was ready with Miles' equipment to switch out.
Miles made his way to the soundboard with a preloaded mix. His hands were on the switches to cut off the DJ's feed. He was going in blind, knowing he could fuck everything up more than it already was, but luckily the DJ was predictable.
Miles cut the feed when a beat hit and immediately weaved in his mix. The music stuttered slightly during the transition, and Miles hissed a curse. It was sloppier than he had hoped for but still smoother than what that DJ was spinning. The stage manager immediately started the fog and light show, obscuring the stage. The cheers from the crowd were an indication that it went decent enough.
Miles ran onto the stage behind the fog. The DJ yelled at the workers who were setting up Miles' equipment. A couple had stood off to the side, trying to explain that he needed to vacate the stage.
"What the fuck is this shit?" He yelled when he saw Miles approaching.
"You're done for the night," Miles explained. "I need you to pack your stuff."
"I still have about three hours left of my set!"
Miles shook his head. "Your set is falling apart."
"Tell me why your opinion is worth anything?" He snarled.
Miles chuckled, knowing that most DJs would clammer for his opinion. "As one of the owners of The Apple, I have the right to kick you off my stage when your performance is unsatisfactory."
"What the fuck do you know about turntables?"
"A hell of a lot more than you." Miles' voice was twisted with irritability. He looked at his watch and cursed again. Time was not on their side. "Listen, you have two choices. Walk out of this club right now, or be thrown out. You have thirty seconds to decide."
He started to count down with a deadpan stare.
The DJ gritted his teeth and stormed toward Miles. Miles knew exactly what to expect when the DJ pulled back his fist, yet he refused to dodge and accepted the punch. Miles stepped back from the impact and felt the sting of a split lip. However, he had been in enough fights not to be fazed by a minor wound. Instead of griping about it, he licked the cut, tasting a hint of blood.
"Now you have gone and fuck up, kid. You're out officially. Pack your shit and go." Miles said with little emotion.
Once word got out that this DJ attacked a club owner, he would be blackballed from performing anywhere reputable. Call it petty, but this was Miles' end goal. This man had little skill and too much ego.
"Fuck you! And fuck this place! I doubt you can get anyone better than me to fill my slots."
He slammed his laptop closed and stormed off the stage. Miles looked at the equipment left behind and gave one of the workers a concerned look. He didn't understand how anyone would willingly leave their turntables.
"He uses our turntables and mixers while he's here. Only the laptop is his." They explained.
Miles sighed, pissed that they would hire someone who couldn't bring their own equipment. How could anyone DJ comfortably with random turntables? He swore to himself that Eve was banned from hiring any DJs in the future.
"Ok. Less work for us. Switch it out. I will be offline while handling this DJ shit, but Desmond is on point if you need anything."
He rushed to the back room. Desmond had already left, leaving him alone. Miles ripped off his shirt and froze when he opened his locker.
"Fuck!" All he had was his mask. There were no other clothes. He usually had an extra outfit for emergencies but had forgotten to stash some more here.  He even forgot about shoes and was stuck with slacks and oxfords. Neither was an optimal choice for a live performance.
He didn't want to soak his only shirt in sweat, nor did he want others to link him and Requiem together because of it, so it was easier to go on stage without a shirt. He recently completed a stream shirtless, so his fans shouldn't be surprised.
Additionally, he didn't want blisters because of impractical shoes, so he kicked them off. He knew that his ankles would be swollen at the end of the set, his knees would ache, and his back would protest for days, all because he didn't have comfortable shoes.
He was already planning the Epsom salt bath, the hours needed in the sauna, and a date with his chiropractor. Getting old fucking sucked.
He slipped on his mask, keeping the LEDs off for now. He called the stage manager from his phone. "Requiem is going on stage now. Start clearing the fog."
"We gave Requiem the master switch for the soundboard so he can turn on his feed at any time," Jeremy explained.
"Thanks, Jer."
He hung up and walked onto the stage. The fog still obscured him, so he took this time to stretch and warm up his hands. He was still amped up from rushing around, so he was at least ready for a show.
As the fog started to fade, he turned on the LEDs of his mask. At this point, his lit-up mask was iconic at The Apple. Those who noticed began to scream with excitement.
Miles waited for a lull in the mix and switched to his feed.
With a press of his sample pad [I am DJ Requiem] echoed in the club. His low, gravelly voice was distorted with effects.
More screams and cheers sounded as he dropped a beat.
He smiled under his mask, ignoring the pain from where he was punched. The club was hot and humid, so it didn't matter that he was shirtless. He was also entranced behind the turntables, so he didn't feel the discomfort settling in his feet and ankles from being barefoot.
This was his sanctuary. This was where he needed to be.
Hours passed, and the night was filled with his music. More people started to clammer inside the club, and he could see the many lights of cellphones recording his set. He enjoyed watching how he manipulated the crowd to fawn over his music and dance to his beats.
He kept an eye on the time and wound down, closing his show just before the last call. He switched the music to a quieter mix, ready for Eve to kick everyone out. He stepped back from the turntables and bowed to everyone.
He thanked Jeremy and the workers through sign language before he slipped to the backroom.
He groaned as he pulled the mask off and sat on the couch. Everything ached. As he predicted, standing barefoot at the turntables for hours did a number on his back. He was no longer the spry kid he once was now that touched on the age of 30.
After he caught his breath, he dragged himself off the couch and walked over to the sink. He used the paper towels to wipe himself down, trying to give some impression that he was refreshed. Although he did not have spare clothes, he had some hygiene products to clean off the sweat.
After a rinse down, he felt somewhat human again.
He dressed again and slipped on his shoes. With one last look in the mirror, the only thing that was off about his appearance was the bruise forming on his face.
He sighed and walked out of the room, only to be taken aback by the group waiting for him. They were all well-dressed men who looked like they took themselves far too seriously. But the one that Miles truly did not want to see, Brian Smith, was front and center. He bit back a groan, and his eyes caught Desmond, who was arguing with them.
"Sirs, I can guarantee that Requiem does not want to meet with any of you. Please go back because we are trying to close down the club."
The rabble continued.
"We just need a second!"
"He will want to hear what we have to offer."
Brian was the loudest. "I demand to hear that from him directly."
Miles sighed and shook his head lightly. "Requiem already left through another exit."
His voice caused the people in the hallway to fall silent.
Brian glared at him. "And who the hell are you?"
"It doesn't matter. I'm just giving you the facts."
"I don't need some groupie standing in my way." Brian snarled.
Miles smiled despite the insult. Groupie? Is that what people thought he was? It was almost laughable. He chose to refrain from bickering with this man. Instead, he shrugged and said, "Mr. Smith, we're closing, and everyone would like to go home. If you want to meet Requiem, I suggest demonstrating professional courtesy and attempting to schedule a meeting."
Brian bristled. "You degenerate piece of shit. We have every right to be here. I will meet Requiem. Tonight."
Miles laughed, his low timbre ricocheting off the walls. He smiled happily. "Not going to happen."
Brian reached out and grabbed Miles' collar. Miles could foretell that he was about to be punched for the second time tonight.
However, before Brian formed a fist, another voice stopped him in his tracks. "Enough, Brian. You're embarrassing yourself."
Miles looked up and saw Nick make his way through the small crowd. He enthusiastically pulled Miles into a hug. "It's great to see you again, Miles. I was hoping you were here."
Miles chuckled. "Eve put me to work. I couldn't escape it without her guilting me for years to come."
"If I knew you were here, I would have invited you to the meeting," Nick said with a bright smile.
"God, no. Eve is the one you want, especially if it's about the club."
Nick grinned. "Not for the club. I would have liked you to have joined as the owner of Dirge Records."
The group tensed and fell silent. Brian had paled considerably. "What did you say?"
Miles ignored Brian. "Considering the level of CEOs you're entertaining, I'm not sure my little label is worthwhile enough to be part of your meeting."
Nick waved his hand, dismissing Miles' words. "We were meeting about a charity proposal. I'm sure Eve will let you know more about it, but it would be great to have your DJs take part in it."
"Oh," Miles said breathlessly. He had wanted to do more charity work when he found the time. He was sure he could schedule something with his DJs. Besides, working alongside Nick and The Lunar was tempting.
Nick laughed when he saw his surprised look. "Having the best DJs will only help our cause. Considering that you monopolized this city's turntable talent, we would like you to participate."
Miles laughed. "Monopolized? Not when I am missing talent like Discord. Maybe I should have a go at stealing her."
"You'll have to talk to Shawn about that one," Nick said with a grin, and he looked behind him.
Miles' eyes landed on the figure leaning against the wall.
Time slowed to nearly a standstill. Miles felt his entire body pulse, his pain amplified to the extreme, and then became achingly numb. His chest tightened and became heavy with an unfamiliar feeling.  His heart raced, beating at a bpm that could not be considered healthy. His hearing muffled, drowning out all of the chatter around him.
Shawn Pierce.
At that moment, his body was incapable of registering anything except Shawn.
Gratefulness. Admiration. Desire. These strong emotions blossomed inside him, and he nearly laughed at his previously naive mindset. He convinced himself that his long-standing feelings were purely gratitude because he believed Shawn saved him, but one look shattered that. Miles wanted this man almost as much as he wanted music.
He had seen Shawn's pictures in magazines and watched his interviews, but the media failed to display how truly captivating this man was. He was still built and dangerously beautiful. Shawn Pierce aged exceptionally well, especially now with white hair streaking through his dark locks. Somehow, he was even more alluring than he was 12 years ago.
He wanted to map out a beat dedicated to how Shawn licked his lips or how his pupils dilated briefly. He wanted to compose a song based on how his clothes wrapped around his body and how much better it would be to strip him bare. And god, were those beauty marks on his neck? How did he miss those before?
A verse by Sage Francis danced in his head... I played connect the dots with your beauty marks, and I ended up with picture-perfect sheet music.
He felt himself gravitate toward Shawn, ignoring everyone else around him. Before it could register in his mind, he found himself standing in front of Shawn, nearly shivering because of the way Shawn's eyes pierced through him.
"Miles...Mendez." Shawn said quietly with a slight tilt of his head.  It seemed like he was putting pieces of a puzzle together.
Miles bit his lower lip, ignoring the sting from the cut. Shawn's voice was like a smooth Scotch Malt Whiskey, and it took much effort not to melt into a stuttering mess.
He only spoke to Shawn for a few hours over a decade ago. They shared one kiss, albeit a damn good kiss, but then had no contact for years. How did Shawn have this much control over him?
Stop. Don't think about the kiss.
By some miracle, he kept his face neutral and calm.
"That's right," Miles rasped.
Nick chuckled and wrapped an arm around Miles' shoulder. Miles noticed Shawn's eyes narrowed as they followed Nick's movements. His jaw twitched then his eyes raked back up to Nick with a cold glare.
"You've told me how Aura has tried to acquire Dirge before, so you must know Miles," He said to Shawn with a bright smile, ignoring the apparent glower.
Miles gently shrugged off Nick's arms, and Shawn seemed to relax. Miles reached out for a handshake, and Shawn quickly wrapped his warm hand around Miles'. They lingered for a moment too long before they let go.
Shawn seemed to hesitate but then smiled brightly and his eyes lit up. "My VP was the one who always contacted you, but your voice is captivatingly unique, so you're easy to recognize." Shawn smiled.
Miles didn't know how to interpret that. Did he only recognize Miles because of Dirge? Did he recognize the broken boy at the bar many years ago? Had he forgotten their kiss?
Miles cursed inwardly and took a deep breath. He pushed down the ache in his chest and forced himself to compartmentalize his turbulent emotions.
"You have a good VP. He has been courteous when he has reached out to me," Miles said, returning the smile. "He shows restraint that others are incapable of displaying." He shot a dark look at Brian.
Brian tried to make his way toward Miles, but Shawn's glare made him falter. "Mr. Mendez, I assure you want to hear my offer."
Miles sighed. "I want many things, Mr. Smith—a glass of whiskey, a cigarette, a massage. However, your offer is not on the list of my wants. Please stop contacting Dirge."
Brian tried to say something, but Shawn gently grabbed Miles' wrist and steered him down the hallway. They left Nick, Desmond, and the others behind without saying goodbye.
Shawn leaned closer to him as they made their way to the club's floor. "I was quite impressed with your artist's show tonight." His hand was still holding his wrist, but neither moved to break away.
"Requiem loves the performance," Miles said, feeling a little uneasy hiding the truth.
"You can say that about all of your DJs. I have caught Flux's and Phase's shows before, and they show the same level of passion. Nick wasn't lying when he said you have the best DJs under your belt. Your crew is impressive; however, I am not considering releasing Discord."
Miles released a rueful sigh. "A shame. I caught her set the other night and look forward to seeing her future."
"Perhaps we can meet and discuss a collaboration. She admires your crew quite a bit."
"I'm sure my guys would appreciate the opportunity," Miles said with a small smile, excited to meet again, even if it was just a working relationship.
Miles wanted the conversation to last longer and fumbled to find a topic. "Your artists took away several awards in the recent Grammys. Congratulations."
Miles bit his lip in self-admonishment. It was a lame topic, treading on desperate.  However, Shawn didn't seem to be put off. Instead, his chuckle rippled through Miles and soothed him.
"I did nothing to contribute. I simply invested in talented people."
"Then I extend my compliments to your insightful investments." Miles smiled a little. "Perhaps we could—"
Miles flinched when his phone chimed, and he saw Danny's incoming call. He could ignore it and stretch out this conversation. He could do so many things to steal just another minute. However, Danny was someone he could never ignore. What if it was an emergency?
"I have to take this. Thanks for..." He didn't know how to end his sentence. He had many things to thank Shawn for, but Shawn probably wouldn't understand. "...Thanks."
"Of course," Shawn said with a small nod. His thumb brushed across the top of Miles' wrist before he let go.
Miles smiled before he walked away and answered his phone.
"Hey, kiddo, why aren't you in bed?" He said and then listened to the excited voice on the other line.
Miles fought the urge to look back at Shawn when he walked out of the club. However, if he did look back, he would have seen the nostalgia and mutual desire burning in Shawn's eyes.