Page 1 of All Mixed Up

30 Days and Counting

I had this.

I could do this.

I put both refrains on mental repeat while bounding up the steps from the République Metro station, in the heart of Paris’s hottest nightclub district. Though the afternoon was overcast, I still struggled to readjust to the light in order to recheck the walking directions in my phone. A spring breeze blew through trees growing from ornate steel circles; other grates betrayed sounds of steel-on-steel, followed by the rush of subterranean trains. In short, aside from the French street and building signs, a scene fairly similar to what I’d be looking at back home, in New York City.

Yeah, I was that girl. The only person on the planet who didn’t give a flying fig about it being her first full day in Paris, France. This was just another gig in another city—granted, the most lucrative job I’d accepted in the three years of my world DJ career—but to survive it, that was exactly how I’d have to keep thinking of it. This was business, pure and simple. There was no room for anything else. No swooning over the light on the Seine at twilight. No tourist trip to the top of the Eiffel Tower. No strolling through the Marais on Sunday afternoons, sighing over the neighborhood while hunting down the trendiest shoe buy of the day.

No wistful sighs. And no shoe drool.

No feelings. Period.

See, fate and I had a deal on this month. I wouldn’t let my heart write any more bad deals for my life, and she’d keep my feelings safe back in New York for me. When I got back, my debt would finally be manageable—then feelings would be allowed in once more. And nights of sleep longer than four hours. And shit like smiling. Maybe even laughing.

But first, the next thirty days.

You have this.

You can do this.

Perfect timing. I looked up in time to observe workmen putting the final polish on six glistening letters, as well as the filigreed steel frame around them.

AVANTI

Just looking at the world-famous name, made so famous by Milo Proust already in Vegas, Rome, and New York, jolted my chest with a small thrill. Okay, the money had been my lure here, but I was also human. The implied prestige of the Avanti name was enough to make even princesses giddy—several of them had actually been to both the existing clubs—and here I was, about to be the headline DJ in the newest club’s main room.

So, yeah…maybe two seconds of feeling would be okay. They were both filled with my soft giggle, while watching another worker straighten the temporary letters on the marquee beneath the permanent sign.

Grande Fête D’ouverture

avec

Juliette Darienne

Engagement Limité

The air got misty with early rain but I couldn’t resist taking a picture for posterity. I even snuck in a shot of the showcase windows, positioned at street level, all filled with the Grand Opening promo poster of me. Well, the girl I kept telling myself was me. The picture was from a photo shoot in New York just a few weeks ago, which still felt beyond surreal. But there was the proof of it happening, before me in luxurious color.

In the shot, I was clad in a designer ball gown to match the light pink streaks in my white-blonde hair. I was poised on a swing appearing like upended headphones, dangling from a blade of the famous Moulin Rouge windmill. All the lights in the windmill were a decadent shade of fuchsia, and the photo itself had been filtered with a pink wash to make it look vintage yet trendy. It was all very girlie and very French.

Very not me.

Well…not the normal me.

Whatever I could call “normal” anymore.

I quirked half of a rueful smile as that truth really sank in.

Pink-And-Poofy Lane had been fun while it lasted, but roses, pearls, and happy-ever-after weren’t the universe’s plan during my spin in the mortal coil. Six months of a disaster known as Pax Halstead had verified that clearly enough. In my next life, maybe I’d get to be a club-hopping princess—just as long as I wasn’t a French one.

I wanted to be nothing like the woman who had stolen Dad from Mom a year ago.

And there I went, violating the rules already.

Just business. You’re here on business and nothing else. I pounded it into myself with every determined step I took around to the back of the club, where the stage door was located.

Yeah. A real stage door.