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Upbeat

Erica Smith

    He got to the club late and was immediately escorted into the VIP lounge, where they had the DJs hang out until it was time. There were svelte women wearing next to nothing, endless drinks, pills, powder, smokes, palm-slapping, smiling for selfies. Jax photobombing every chance he got. Five minutes until his set was to start, fuckin-a he’d made the promoters nervous. Thought maybe he’d been in a car accident.
    Damien sat on the couch, a beacon of calm amongst a roiling mass of chaos. The bass reverberated through the walls, under his feet. He didn’t know who was spinning right now, but it sounded like some ghetto house with, inexplicably, Balearic getting mixed in. What? Or maybe he was just that out of it.
    He didn’t want to feel like this; it wasn’t professional. And he was, above all, a professional. He loved the music, just wanted to be happy, which had always meant two Tech 12s, a Behringer, a stack of wax, some dope ass speakers, and Molly. His wife, not the drug.
    “Your shit’s all set,” Jax said, dropping down on the couch next to him. “Even got you some Evian water bottles up there. Chilled and shit.”
    “Thanks,” Damien said.
    Jax kept talking. He was wearing a purple velour track suit. Aviator sunglasses. Baseball cap, flat brim, tilted a smidge to the right, left you wondering if his hat was on crooked or his head. Damien wore jeans, a black t-shirt. Had day-old stubble, hadn’t showered. Did he smell? Hard to say. The women kept coming up to him, would wind themselves around him like a cat if he’d let them, but of course he wouldn’t.
    He was married.
    To the love of his life.
    Who had just returned from Cabo San Lucas.
    She’d left him home with their two young daughters. Flown a private jet down there, some doctor who was old enough to be her father.
    She called on Tuesday, to say she missed him, how were the girls?
    “When are you coming home?” he asked, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice because the girls were right there. She didn’t know. She had bought some joints from a guy on the beach.
    “I thought you hated pot,” he said flatly.
    “I know you’re playing at Kaleidoscope on Saturday. I’ll be back before then.”
    There were two things he loved more than life itself: music and Molly, and he’d never touch a record again if she’d just come back to him, let them be a family, which is all he’d ever wanted. How long had they known each other? Since they were six, seven. He’d loved her ever since.
    “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice hushed now as though someone had just come into the room and she didn’t want them to overhear.
    When she returned home, a mere two hours ago, she’d breezed in as though she’d just been out at the grocery store. The girls were already in bed. She had a tan, and she was wearing a pink dress he’d never seen before. He tried to make eye contact but she wouldn’t look at him.
    “You don’t want to be late,” she said.
    And now he was here, Jax was railing a line of coke out of some girl’s cleavage, knew better than to ask Damien if he wanted any, though if there was ever a night to get skiied, this would be it.
    The muffled voice of the emcee, announcing to the raucous crowd to get ready and give it up for Damien Meadows. Superstar Damien Meadows—he hated it, never encouraged anyone to call him that, but it had started four years ago after a marathon twelve-hour set in Ibiza and had clung to him ever since. No matter how much he disliked it, it wouldn’t go away.
    Was that how Molly felt about him?
    Jax bounced up off the couch, offered his outstretched palm.
    “You’re up, bro.” Damien grabbed his hand, let his long-time manager haul him up. “Give ‘em hell.”
    Damien made his way from the VIP lounge to the main stage. The area was dark, though he could sense the sea of bodies, the collective anticipation, how enamored they all were with him, how in the eyes of all these strangers, he could do no wrong.

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