You’re My Beat

You’re My Beat Zarah Detand This is a work of fiction. COPYRIGHT © 2023 BY ZARAH DETAND All rights reserved. Table of Contents You’re My Beat 1. Dust Me Off Sometime 2. Give Me a Smile 3. Move Like a Song 4. Spin Me Around 5. Share My Empty Space 6. Stay a While 7. Drunk on Ill-Timed Fireworks 8. Lift Me Up 9. Made My Home on the Road 10. Laugh Twice As Hard, Think Half As Much 11. Used to Live in Flight Mode 12. Keep Your Eyes on Me 13. Linger in Your Margins 14. Blinded by You 15. Too Much Too Late 16. Only Want You 17. Let There Be Music 18. You’re My Beat (Epilogue) Author’s Note More Books by Zarah Zarah Detand You’re My Beat 1. Dust Me Off Sometime I t’s been four years. Lucas stared at his own face in the mirror, blue eyes wide, cheeks treacherously flushed. He resisted the temptation to splash water on his skin—his stage make-up was subtle, but he didn’t want smudged eyeliner to feature prominently in Max’s first impression of Lucas as a grown-up. Not that Max would care either way. It’s been four fucking years. Long enough for Lucas to stop carrying this strange, nauseating weight around every time he thought of Max, to stop the instinctive flinch whenever he remembered how they’d parted ways. Long enough for his gaze to skim over posters advertising Max’s upcoming third album, to move right past headlines and magazine covers that screamed about the latest rumours. Four years. Lucas was no longer the starry-eyed kid running after his brother and Max; he’d lived in London, had been trained by some of the best dancers in the whole bloody world, and survived a gruelling programme designed to filter out anyone who lacked the grit to make it out there. He’d be fine. With that thought firmly in mind, he straightened, lifted his chin, and left the backstage loo. The corridor lay empty before him, everyone gathered in the dressing room to greet The Great Max Fina, trademark symbol implied. When Lucas had slipped out a few minutes ago, there’d been so much excitement and hairspray cloying the air that his own lacklustre reaction to their new sponsor went unnoticed. It wasn’t that Lucas didn’t appreciate his brother wanting to help him and his little troupe out of a financial bind. He just wished Dan had checked with Lucas before calling up his good ol’ mate Max. Ugh. The whisper of voices just around the corner made Lucas stop in his tracks. “—just came to watch the show.” “Those are my conditions.” “You just want to ogle the dancers.” “Ogle?” The laugh that followed carried further than the previous murmurs, infused with warm amusement. “C’mon, Max. You just bought yourself a dance troupe—least you can do is meet them.” Max. Lucas bit down on the inside of his cheek to stifle any sound that might want to escape, and fuck, no matter what he’d told himself, he wasn’t ready for this. “I’m not here to meet them.” Max. Now that he’d raised his voice a notch above a whisper, Lucas recognised it instantly, like the reverberation of a gong in his bones. “I told you, it’s—” “Good for your image, I know. Doesn’t mean we have to wait for the photographer.” Good for Max’s image? Why would… Huh. The global star who’d saved a contemporary dance troupe from his hometown, an international troubadour with both feet on the ground. How sweet of him. How lovely. What a class act, that Max Fina. Well then. Guess that answered the question of why Max would care to step in after their previous sponsor had sacrificed them to a budget cut—not out of the goodness of his heart, it seemed, or as a favour to an old friend, and most certainly not out of some remembered connection to Lucas who he didn’t even want to see now. It was just a publicity thing. Funny how all of Lucas’s nervousness had just evaporated into thin air. This time, it took no conscious effort to straighten his spine into an easy stance, light on the balls of his feet as he rounded the corner with a sharp smile. “Gentlemen. Can I help you?” They both jolted around, much like kids caught sneaking treats, while the bodyguard next to them looked distinctly unimpressed. Lucas intentionally directed his attention at Max’s companion, a lithe, brown-haired guy in his mid-twenties who looked as though he was rarely more than a second removed from smiling, before he let his gaze move over Max. And, God. It was like a slap to the face, all these years later, how familiar he still seemed: the same messy blond hair, just a little more artfully tousled these days; the same brown eyes ringed by dark lashes; the same sensuous mouth. His clothes were different, though—tailored jeans and a leather jacket that had just about become part of his brand, his shoulders wider than Lucas remembered. Personal training, most likely. Also, the way Max’s eyes raked Lucas’s body was most satisfying. Not so little anymore. “We’re looking for the performers.” It was the brown-haired guy who spoke, his smile wide and toothy. “I take it you’re part of the group?” “Yep.” Lucas slid Max a dry look. “I couldn’t help but overhear how eager you are to meet us. As our new sponsor and all.” Max started, eyes narrowing against the stark overhead light. “Thought it’d be better to wait until after. Don’t want to disrupt the pre-show routine.” “How thoughtful of you.” Lucas didn’t bother toning down the sarcasm, and the brown-haired guy glanced back and forth between them, frowning. “Do you two know each other or something?” Lucas let his smile grow to the point of insolence. “Oh, we go way back.” “Lucas and I kind of grew up together,” Max clarified, tone sharper than when he’d first spoken. What had