Page 5 of All Mixed Up

So…what the living hell?

Could he really have left the building that fast? Or had the man truly been a wraith or a ghost, checking out the invaders of his favorite haunt?

Sure. That’s it. Because old ghosts go around dressed in bespoke Prada, shined wingtips, and long, silky scarves few men could wear and make a woman think of stealing—for the purpose of modeling it for him. Naked.

Finally, I’d forced myself to blame the apparition on my jet lag—especially when my mystery man never appeared again. Nor did Milo even mention him in passing, quelling me from asking anything about him. Ghost or wraith or runaway god from Olympus, he clearly wasn’t meant to be anything but creative inspiration. I’d gotten the hint and put it to good use over the last two days. My specialty sets for Avanti’s grand opening bash were nothing short of genius jams. Now, the night was here—and I felt antsy, waiting for the right moment of the night to unveil these mixes to the world.

And to him.

No.

For the hundredth time since the doors had opened, I fought the sentiment by clenching every major muscle group in my body. I forced my brain to kick in and battle the feeling that this blend of songs, specifically inspired by him, would make the ghost “materialize” again. Besides, if it was a ghost, why the hell was I begging for another haunting? But the sensation was as woven into my psyche as that surreal sighting, unwilling to let go.

But somehow, I had to let it go.

Let him go.

Playing the music had to be my purge. My goodbye song to make him vanish, not my rain dance to bring him back.

Finally, it was time.

After midnight but before the exhaustion hour, I gazed over the sea of bodies on the dance floor. Collectively, they resembled one giant creature: a grand, graceful creation with a thousand independent muscles. Though each part was unique—a different sway of the hands, a wilder or tamer hair style, a body clad in leather or barely anything at all—they were all bound to the same melody, the same beat. My beat.

It was magic—and everyone was bound by its throbbing spell.

And I freaking loved being its mistress.

Well…usually.

Tonight, a higher power ruled me. I spun the music because I needed to banish that damn ghost. Had to scrub him out of my mind, my fantasies, my imagination…

My desire.

Insanity.

How was this possible? How could I still be lusting after someone I didn’t know? Someone who didn’t exist?

I had to release him. I needed to do it now.

Should I have been surprised that my fingers shook? Steeling my nerves, I forced them steady enough to punch the necessary buttons, amplifying the opening strains of the mix. Black Mambo by the Glass Animals, with its tinkling teardrop track and haunting vocals, was the ideal audio expression of that moment when his dark eyes and sculpted face had drawn me in. As the song talked about science and slowing down, because a lover was waiting to bring the listener down, my breath caught with sharp recognition.

Waiting.

Yes. That was what he’d been doing, standing so still…so focused on me. I wasn’t certain he even breathed. Ghosts didn’t need to breathe, did they? I simply knew that I hadn’t. Not by a single molecule of air.

I forced myself to do it now.

Yes, I actually told myself to breathe, as the song’s strains pulsed through the club, until the point where I’d mixed in my trademark aria: this time, Vissi d’Arte from Tosca. The yearning notes in the piece were a perfect contrast for the next song that melded into the mix: Toni Braxton’s You’re Makin’ me High. Purpose for this one? My ode to what the wraith hadn’t just done to my psyche. He needed to know, from wherever the hell in the cosmos from where he was listening, exactly what he’d done to me. That I couldn’t get my mind off of him. That I was damn near close to obsessed.

Obsessed…

My eyes slid shut as the word snaked inside me. Was that really what this was? It felt like more. So much more. The heat he’d swelled into parts of me, that lovely Toni had to get creative with in the song. Illicit parts. Parts that were even more needy as I let myself go, just for a minute…moving as the song compelled me. Letting my head roll as the aching melody shifted into its perfect partner: Madonna’s Justify My Love.

It spoke of wanting.

Of needing.

Of waiting.