Black Bird of the Gallows(11)

He looks out on the crowd again. The smile on his face twists with mischievous delight. “Not about losing a twenty-dollar bet, but cheer up, kid. Your boy’s not making out with anyone. He’s headed straight for you.”

I wobble on my platform shoes. “What?”

Deno stretches. His grin goes Cheshire wide. “I need to take a piss. Be back in five. Or ten.”

“No! Don’t you dare—” I grab for his arm, but he skips out of my grasp.

“Thank me later,” he tosses back, just before disappearing.

Reece doesn’t come around the side like he’s supposed to and, with Deno gone, there’s no point. He’s so tall, he doesn’t have a problem leaning over the speakers and mixer to get my attention.

“Hey,” he says—shouts.

I hold up a finger, finish setting up a transition sequence that totally could have waited, before tilting my head at him. Even with my big, green glasses, he’s got a pretty good view of me, which makes me nervous. I will kill Deno when he returns.

Reece’s eyes are amused, like he knows I’m stalling. “I want to make a request.”

Without speaking, I hand him the Post-it pad and a pen. His fingers brush mine, and I swear he does it on purpose. He wouldn’t be the first guy here to do it, but he’s the first to send tingles marching up my arm.

Reece scribbles something on the pad and hands it back to me. I stare at him, jaw slowly hinging open. In the six months I’ve been a DJ here, no one has requested this song. Given what I experienced with him at the bus stop a few days ago, his request is more than a little unsettling. The song on the Post-it, sprawled in slanted Sharpie, is Black Wing.

“You want me to play this?” I look at him, unable to hide my surprise.

A smile plays at his lips. “Do you know it? It’s a little obscure. The guys I came here with said you had an extensive library, so…” He gives a slight, self-conscious shrug.

The guys I came here with. So he didn’t come with Kiera. My heart does an uncomfortable flip in my chest. I have this song. I love this song. I’ve remixed it twice myself. It is obscure, and one of my favorites. But still…

“Black Wing.”

I really hope this song isn’t some sort of message. I swallow thickly. “Do you want the original or one of the remixes?”

“Which remixes do you have?” He grins. “Never mind. You choose.”

I nod and turn away from him. This is usually when the civilians—even the odd ones—move along, go back to the dance floor, but Reece leans closer and cocks his head at me. He smells like Pepsi and fresh air and all I want to do is lean in and breathe deep. “Hey, you look kind of familiar,” he says. “Do I know you?”

What? We’re done here. If he sees through my disguise… I’m not ready for that. I wave him off, trying to keep my voice from revealing my jumpy nerves. “Go. Play with the other kids.”

He backs up, but his black eyes continue to study me like I’m a weird vanity license plate he’s trying to decode. I swing back to my laptop with gritted teeth.

Sloppy. I almost missed the end of the song. Almost had dead air. My fingers fly over the mixer, fading in a makeshift beat to bridge to the next song.

Deno returns, making a show of adjusting his pants. He grins, eyebrows raised and palms out as if to say Where’s my thank-you?

“Yeah. That was great,” I snap at him. “Very professional.”

“Admit it. You’re secretly thrilled I did that.”

Maybe I am. I’m also relieved that Deno isn’t being weird about it. It’s pretty obvious now that I am interested in Reece. Seriously, I couldn’t have bungled that more. “Don’t ever do that again. Or you’re fired.”

“You can’t fire me.”

Damn it, he’s right. He’s the one who talked the owner into giving me a shot here. If anything, he could probably fire me.

“I still think he’s weird,” he says.

He’s not wrong.

“Hey, you must have done something right. He’s not dancing with Kiera.”

I don’t look up. I can’t. Won’t. “What’s he doing?”

Deno’s brows draw together in confusion. “Why don’t you just look?”

He’s not being a smart-ass this time, so I do. Reece is no longer with Kiera, and it’s disturbing how happy I am about it. He’s on the other side of the room, talking with a couple of seniors on the hockey team. Kiera glances at him once, twice, then flips her hair and doesn’t look at him again. She’s never worked for a boy’s attention. Eventually, he’ll come back to her. They always do.

But Reece Fernandez doesn’t appear interested in getting Kiera’s attention. He mimics the other boys’ loose postures, leaning back against the bar. One of them raises a cup and laughs at something Reece says.

My mouth is dry and my hands shake a little, but I queue up Reece’s song. It’s something I never do—play a request right after receiving it—but here I am, sending a message to him.

Reece tips back his Pepsi like it’s a beer and splays his fingers over the rim of his cup. I puzzle over some bizarre hand gestures between him and the guys he’s talking with until I deduce the topic is sports—hockey, naturally.