Chapter Seven
Cece
Three hours ago, I was naked in Revel St. Clair’s bed.
Now I’m standing behind a DJ booth in front of a packed club, pretending I can’t still feel his hands on me.
Professionally, I’m doing amazing.
Personally?
Puta madre.
The room is dark except for strips of blue and purple light cutting through the haze, flashing over sweaty bodies packed together below me. Neon Tide is full tonight, every table crowded, the bars three people deep, and the dance floor moving like one giant living thing beneath the bass.
This is usually where my brain goes quiet.
The second I put my headphones on and touch the controls, everything else disappears. There’s no room for bills, bad dates, annoying men, or whatever new emotional crisis I plan to ignore until it becomes physically impossible.
There’s only the next transition.
The next build, and the exact second I want the room to lose its mind.
Tonight, apparently, there is also Revel.
He’s standing near the front with the rest of the crew, wearing a black T-shirt that fits him in ways I absolutely do not need to notice.
Unfortunately, now I know exactly what's under it feels like. Tastes like.
Every hard line and tattoo. Every muscle that tightened beneath my hands when I—
No.
I pull one side of my headphones closer and adjust the bass.
Focus, Cece.
The track rolls into a darker Latin house beat, low and filthy under a woman’s breathy vocals. I let it build slow, holding the drop just long enough to make the whole room impatient.
Below me, Bexley has both arms in the air, dancing between Talon and Sayshen. Talon has one hand at her waist while Sayshen leans into yell something that makes her laugh, probably stupid and definitely inappropriate.
Echo is nearby with Thorne and Draygon, bouncing to the beat while Thorne looks like he’s trying very hard to pretend he knows how to dance to something that isn’t Backstreet Boys.
He does not.
Not even a little.
Reign catches my eye from farther back and raises his drink. Lena is beside him, laughing as he pulls her closer. Everyone is loose after the race, riding the high of a win that almost gave me a fucking heart attack.
And then there’s Revel.
Of course he isn’t dancing like a normal person.
He’s standing there with one hand around a bottle of water, shoulders moving slightly with the beat, staring directly at me like the people between us are irrelevant.
The second our eyes meet, his mouth curves.
Not a huge smile, but that slow, knowing little grin that says he remembers everything.
My thighs tighten before I can stop them.
Cabrón.
I look away and bring in the next track, but I can still feel his attention. It sits against my skin like another set of lights, warm and impossible to ignore.
Fuck, he knows what he’s doing.
He has known exactly what he’s doing since he dragged me against him that night I kissed him and every sensible thought in my head seemed to disappear.
Today shouldn’t have happened. I followed him to yell at him.
That was the plan.
And you know what, it was a very good, and reasonable plan.
I was going to make it clear that nearly dying for a race win was not attractive, no matter how hot he looked crossing the finish line.
Then I slapped him, he grabbed my wrists, I saw the way he looked at me, and somewhere between calling him a pendejo and telling him I was scared, my plan slipped, fell down a flight of stairs, and died.
Now I can’t forget the ache he left between my legs.
Ay, cono.
I almost miss the cue for the next transition, but recover fast, cutting the vocal at the right second and letting the percussion breathe before I slam the beat back in. The entire floor jumps with it, hands going up as the bass hits hard enough to shake the booth.
A rush moves through me.
There.
That is mine.
The crowd yelling, the lights flashing, the whole room moving because I told it to. I built this set from nothing, spent hours tearing it apart, and put it back together until every drop hit exactly where I wanted.
Revel lifts his bottle toward me in a silent toast.
I raise my middle finger without missing the next cue and his grin gets bigger.
Bexley catches the exchange and looks between us.
I immediately drop my hand.
Shit.
She narrows her eyes at me, then turns toward Revel. He says something to her, probably a lie, because she laughs and shoves his shoulder before going back to dancing.
My stomach tightens.
Nobody knows, and nobody can know.
It’s not like I’m embarrassed or anything. I am a grown ass woman and I am allowed to make terrible choices with beautiful men whenever I want.
That is feminism.
The problem is this crew has no concept of privacy. They would turn one hookup into a full investigation, complete with timelines, witness statements, and screenshots from the group chat, and I’m not ready for all that.
Especially for something that isn’t serious.
This is private.
Physical.
One time.
Simple. Physical. Done.
My traitorous body chooses that exact moment to remember Revel’s mouth between my thighs.
Ay, cono.
I turn the volume up harder than necessary, like more bass might knock the memory straight out of me.
It does not.
The set runs another forty minutes, and by the time I bring the final track down, my skin is damp, my shoulders ache, and the whole room is still moving like they’re not ready to let me go yet.
Perfect.
That’s exactly how I like to leave them.
Sweaty, a little desperate, and already wanting more.
I pull off my headphones as the lights shift, and the room erupts.
Cheers, whistles, hands in the air—the whole club still buzzing from the last track.
For a few seconds, I just stand there and let myself feel it.
Not the attention, but the proof.
Every hour I spent fixing transitions nobody else would notice. Every promoter who called me cute before he bothered calling me talented. Every man who reached for my equipment like I needed help touching the same controls I knew better than he did.
Ay, mira.
Still here and better than half of them.
This is why I kept going.
I lift one hand toward the crowd, pass the booth over to the next DJ, then start packing the few things I brought with me. Laptop into its case, headphones wrapped properly, cables checked twice because replacing shit is expensive and, unfortunately, rent does not accept vibes as payment.
I leave my equipment secured behind the booth and head downstairs through the staff entrance. The second I step into the main room, the heat closes around me. It smells like alcohol, perfume, bodies, and that weird fog machine scent every club has no matter how much money they put into the place.
The crew spots me before I reach the bottom of the stairs.
Bexley throws both hands up and screams my name. Echo joins in, Draygon whistles, and Thorne cups his hands around his mouth.
“Fuckin’ smashed it!”
I laugh, lifting a hand as I point toward the bar.
Drink first.
Friends second.
Mostly because I need one minute to get my shit together before standing near Revel in front of everyone and pretending I wasn’t naked in his bed a few hours ago.
I make my way to the bar, squeezing through the crowd until I find a little space near the service end. The bartender spots me right away. She’s gorgeous, dark hair in a high ponytail, sharp liner, tiny black top, moving fast enough to make every drunk man waving cash at her look stupid.
“Tequila soda?” she asks.
“With lime, please.”
I lean against the bar while she starts pouring. My black cutout top is doing exactly what I bought it to do, the cropped purple shrug barely covering my arms, and my baggy black track pants sit low enough on my hips to keep the whole thing from looking too planned.
Cute, comfortable, and just slutty enough.
Perfect.
A warm body slides in behind me before I even get my drink, one hand landing on my waist like, apparently, fucking once means Revel has developed ownership issues.
“Put it on mine,” he says.
Of course.
I look down at the hand on my hip, then back at him. “Ay, mira. Somebody got comfortable.”
His grin turns slow and filthy. “Thought we were past pretending you don’t like me touching you, Mama.”
“We are not past shit.”
He pulls me back against him anyway, all cocky and pleased with himself. “Could’ve fooled me a few hours ago.”
I elbow him lightly in the stomach. “Do you ever shut up?”
His grin goes filthy. “You shut me up just fine earlier. I mean, if you’re already sick of my voice, we can go again.”
Heat shoots straight up my neck.
Cocky little shit.
I glance toward the crew. They’re far enough away that the music should cover us, but Echo is already looking in our direction with that nosy little squint she gets when she thinks she’s about to catch something.
I shift closer to the bar instead, putting a little space between Revel and me before he gets too comfortable and ruins everything with his face.
The bartender sets my drink down, and I take it with a quick, “Thank you.”
I sip slowly, mostly so I don’t smile. The tequila and lime cut through the heat from the dance floor, but they do absolutely nothing for the warmth still crawling across my skin.
Revel stays beside me, close enough that I can feel him without him touching me.
Somehow, that’s worse.
A few hours ago, his hands were everywhere. Now he’s standing there behaving, and my body is apparently offended by the sudden lack of attention.
Ridiculous.
I keep my eyes on my drink. “Earlier was fun.”
His lips twitch.
“Fun?”
I cut him a look. “Do not make me regret saying that.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did, cabrón.”
He smirks. “All right, so fun means good, right?”
I shift a little closer so I don’t have to yell over the music. “Yeah. It was good.”
His brows lift.
I roll my eyes. “Really good, actually.”
The teasing drops from his face just enough to make my stomach tighten.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I take another sip because apparently admitting that sober is already too much honesty for one night. “But it was also a one-time thing.”
He just looks at me for a second.
Then he laughs.
Low. Amused and annoying as fuck.