Page 2 of All Mixed Up

And holy shit…my own dressing room, too.

I ran fingertips across the plate on the door, the first I found upon entering the building. It was embossed with my name, so I got bold and went inside.

As soon as I stepped in, one word tumbled from my gaping mouth.

“Wow.”

It was the stuff from every girl’s fantasy of hitting the big time, Paris style. There was a wide vanity and chair with a brightly-lit mirror, next to a rolling clothes rack and a dressing screen decorated with pastel peacocks and swans. Occupying the other side of the room was a small seating area with two black leather easy chairs. They bracketed a matching leather couch that was accented with pink and black paisley throw pillows. A glass and gold coffee table looked yanked from the boudoir of Marie Antoinette herself, especially with the huge gift basket on top of it. The ornate container brimmed with fresh whole fruit, an assortment of French cheeses, baguette crackers, and a sample pack of gourmet caviar.

“Mon dieu,” I whisper-laughed. For someone who didn’t want to be a French princess, I absolutely had the gastronomic cravings of one. Though I was due out in the main room this very second, the basket enticed me. I’d be a lousy gift recipient if I didn’t take even a little sample, right?

With cruel timing, my phone buzzed. The screen lit up with a picture of Gigi Proust, looking stylish and adorable in the Las Vegas Sun. I’d taken the picture of her just a few months ago, when the woman talked me into participating on a panel called “Fabulous Females” at some big-time music and mass media convention. Of course, the wench had never told me the other two panelists were Gaga and Mary J. Blige, so needless to say, I’d gone around for two days in an existential crisis. Cut open one of my best friends like for ensuring I sounded like a stammering idiot during that hour, or offer to kiss her toes after they’d soaked in a footbath of my grateful tears?

But existential crises were Gigi’s specialty. Like the one she’d help me overcome before even taking off for that whirlwind Vegas weekend. While flattered she’d invited me, I’d originally turned her down, unwilling to leave New York. Mom had been pretty weak from her final round of chemo, and I’d just returned from three days in Florida, spinning dance parties for military kids enjoying well-deserved trips to the Orlando amusement parks. But Gigi Proust could talk an Eskimo into buying air conditioning—and on top of that, surprised me with an airline ticket for Mom, too. The trip had been just the key to putting some color back in Mom’s cheeks—and granting me a dream-come-true by sitting between Gaga and Blige for a solid hour. By the time the weekend was done, I’d assured Gigi she had a go-to panelist until the end of time.

Yes, even now—when her panicked voice filled my ear as soon as I stabbed the green button on my phone. “Where. Are. You?”

“Well, bonjour to you too, missy.”

“Juls, I’m serious. Are you okay? Are you on your way? Are you lost?”

“Define ‘lost’. Do you mean, am I debating whether to dive into the Camembert or the Livarot cheese first? Well then, yes, I’m lost—and would prefer to stay that way, merci beaucoup.”

She groaned but surrendered to a laugh. “Goofball.”

“That’s Mademoiselle Goofball to you, Ms. Proust.”

“See? You’re sounding like a local already.”

“And you’re pushing it already.”

Her huff roughed up the line, still keeping things light, but I already knew she’d grasped my darker meaning. It had always been that easy with her, from the moment we caught each other humming to “I Think We’re Alone Now” at a SoHo coffee house, through all the quirky run-ins we had through mutual friends after that, to this very moment. No subject was ever off-limits and no opinion was ever “wrong” or “stupid,” especially when we learned about our mutual messed-up daddy issues. Where Peter Proust had been hiding a polyamorous “family” that he met at secret sex clubs and had finally “married” in a pseudo-official ceremony, Zachary Darienne had decided two days with a complete stranger, hired as his translator during a Paris business trip, was enough reason to ditch a wife, a daughter, and twenty-three years of marriage.

“All right, just get your sexy tush out to the main room,” Gigi finally muttered. “I can’t wait to see what you look like in ‘mind blown’ mode.”

“Hold on. There’s something in this building better than this cheese sampler?”

I was only half kidding—and approached the club’s main room with the same skepticism. I’d been a headline DJ in most of the major dance clubs of the world, from Rio to Ibiza to New York, and had considered my mind “blown” for over a year now. Still, it’d be cool to see what Gigi’s gorgeous cousin had concocted for this place, a mash-up of three old Paris warehouses. Milo Proust was a visionary in the industry. The clubs in New York and Vegas were already top ten contenders on the hottest clubs lists, beside names like Green Valley, Space, and Hakkasan. Simply being considered for the grand opening of the Paris locale had been a big deal. I’d never expected to be picked, especially because I’d kept the submission a secret from Gigi—a fact she’d understood as soon as the news was made public. Only a soul sister would understand my priority to land the jam on my own, instead of relying on her influence with Milo.

Yet only she would understand how much it meant to have a friends on hand to help celebrate the occasion, too.

So there she stood, in the middle of Avanti Paris’s massive dance floor, with a pair of faces that made tears threaten to slide down my own.

Wordlessly, I rushed to hug Leese then Greer, inhaling the minty-candy scent of the first and the Georgia honeysuckle of the second. As I pulled away, tugging at the corners of my eyes to stop the embarrassing stings, my two lifelong girlfriends joined Gigi in knowing giggles.

“Oh, yeah.” Greer nodded, bouncing chocolate curls against her light mocha cheeks. “Her mind’s a Mento in diet pop.”

“Isn’t,” I girl-growled. “Though I’m so damn glad to see you both.”

“It’s her fault.”

They chimed it in unison, making playful stabby fingers at Gigi. She busted out in a laugh, sweeping her accusing digits in another direction.

“No,” she blurted. “It’s his fault.”

From the shadows she’d indicated, a tall figure swaggered. Nico Rocca’s eyes twinkled with copper mischief as he approached his fiancé then yanked her close. None of us doubted Gigi’s claim; Nico spoiled her friends as thoroughly as he pampered her. Still, he confused the hell out of me. How could the front man for one of the world’s hottest rock bands be so nice? Guys didn’t play that way in the music industry.

Pax had proved that little ditty in spades, as well.