“You sing and each of us will give you a half mil.”
He meant each of the founders. One and a half million, in a single night, in less than fifteen minutes. Sia had an album called This is Acting which had the perfect song on it called “Cheap Thrills.” The chorus was all about not needing dollar bills to have fun. It was insanely ironic.
It also meant she had to leave the shelter of Cal’s body. She shoved her hand out. “Deal.”
Neil spat in his—gross—and slapped it into Fin’s, and they shook. “Deal.” There was a back and forth about the logistics, and Neil left to round up his partners and probably top up his high.
She turned to check on Cal before she went to request a backbeat from the DJ. “This is where you could have done with a cue for I’m not with her.”
“Are you kidding?” He took her hand and squeezed it. “I’m choked up with pride. My girlfriend is the bomb.”
She didn’t have time to think about that or get stage fright, because Neil moved fast, and it was show time. The DJ had “Cheap Thrills” and could knock the voice track out to give her exactly what she needed, just the beat. He also made an announcement, telling the hundred or more VIPs what was about to happen, so when Fin climbed up on his platform, she had the attention of the whole room.
“My name is Fin Cartwright, and this is for my charity Dollars for Daughters, which supports disadvantaged women,” she said and launched into the song.
Her voice shook, and she started out too softly, but by the chorus, random people had started dancing. She couldn’t see Cal, but the three founders were right in front of her, half a million dollars each poorer by the time she sang the last line and took a bow to raucous applause.
She came off the DJ’s platform, and Neil mock punched her arm. “I’ve been had. Cal never said you were a singer.”
“I’m a good faker.”
“You want a job at XRad?” he said. “We need good fakers.” He waved a hand. “Go find my assistant. Green hair, silver pants. She’ll set you up.”
One and half million dollars. Easy as that.
Fin tracked down Neil’s assistant. She’d get her money transferred on Monday.
She found Cal ensconced in a quieter corner of the space with some of his old-money cronies from the Langleys’s dinner party. They looked uncomfortable in casual clothing, with pinched expressions that said they hated the whole scene. It gave her a swooping feeling of satisfaction; sometimes even super-rich people had to do things they didn’t enjoy. Who’d have guessed?
She caught his eye, and he gave her the stay away signal, which shouldn’t have stung, but she was buzzing on her success and wanted to celebrate with him. She pointed to tell him she was going to go down to the main floor.
Downstairs, it was hotter and the DJ was louder, and when it turned out the band was Grammy winners Edit the Truth, and she finished squealing, she sent Lenny a blurry picture of them on the stage with the message, #noteventhebestpart. Then she forgot about feeling spun out about singing and the money and fighting with Cal in the parking lot and letting his absence matter. She was deep into the pulse of the music and zoned out about her surroundings, so it was a jolt when arms caged her from behind, but not an unpleasant surprise.
No one’s touch affected her like Cal’s. It soothed and excited in one complex flavor burst. She rested her head on his chest to bring their faces close enough to be heard. “How did you find me?”
His chin brushed her hair. “You weren’t missing.”
“Are we going?” It was too loud to argue, though the band had a second set to play. For Cal to be here, his business must be finished for the night.
“Want to dance with you.”
Too good an offer to refuse, but not to resist teasing him. “Thought you couldn’t.”
He gripped her tighter, flattened a hand on her hip, bent his knees, and shifted his weight. It was exactly the right kind of dancing for the thud of the bass and the amount of space they had, a deliberate sway that was almost a grind and owed its origin to those scenes in Dirty Dancing where the professional dancers showed Baby what they could do.
She settled into his grip, throwing an arm up and around his neck, and let him lead; eyes on the band, head full of the beat, and her body given over to the heat and hardness of Cal’s chest, the brush of his thighs on the backs of hers, the pressure of his hand over her hipbone, the way his body cradled her ass, and the rhythmic shift of his hips.
They didn’t talk, breaking to guzzle water when the band did. Cal’s shirt was slicked to his chest and his hair was wet through, pushed back from his forehead. Her own face was hot, her hairline sweaty, but there was no question they were staying through the second set and continuing to dance, careless of their agreed need for distance, as if the music gave them a wild-card excuse to come together.
It was circumstance, the band, the venue, the fact they were working together, rolling with it.
It was a seduction so casually deadly it should’ve been a punishable offense for what it did to her heart.
It hurt to separate after the last encore played, when the lights came on and they blinked painfully at each other, when Cal grabbed her hand and they made a run for it, back to the real world of trying to beat the crush out of the parking area.
Fin’s thighs were sore, her feet, her throat from singing and whooping. The anger churning in her gut that’d became a wash of anxiety, then a wave of elation, was now a raging sea of need. And that hurt, too, because Cal was all business again when she was melted and softened and wanting, wanting, wanting.
“Check your account,” he said once she was seat-belted in the car.