second man was pale and rotund, squeezed into black leather clothes much too thick and heavy for the hot room, and he sweated profusely—he made Cassidy think of the Pillsbury doughboy in tight leather and shades. He frowned at the sight of Cassidy.
Cassidy ignored him and touched Peyton’s arm. Peyton turned and flashed a grin, then pulled her close and kissed her. She felt the hard ridges of his chest and abdomen press against her through his thin black shirt, and she felt instantly warm and happy. Whether it was love or the love-drug, she could no longer be sure.
“How’s it going?” she shouted in his ear.
“ Good. They’re going for it.” The rapid dance beats were layered with electronic sounds that somehow made her think of shooting stars, plus snarling animal noises, samples of news reports about war and death. Peyton controlled projectors and screens in the club, along with the sound system, and showed a giddy collage of old movies, archival war footage, wild predators, fields exploding with flowers and then shriveling brown and dead in time-lapse photography.
“ Nice rotten bear carcass!” Cassidy pointed to a passing image on the projection.
“ Thanks!” Peyton nodded to the other man. “Can you give us a sec?”
The man frowned even more deeply, then sighed, kicked his toe like a petulant child, and left.
“Who was that?” Cassidy asked.
“ The headliner, Gunterwolf. They brought him in from Berlin.”
“ Fifteen-dollar vodkas,” Cassidy said, nodding.
“ What? Hold on.” Peyton glanced out at the floor, then knelt low behind the blocky sound equipment. He opened a steel case the size of an Altoids box, revealing a straw, a spoon, and a trough full of white powder. Peyton scooped up a spoonful and offered it to her.
“ Hell, yes!” Cassidy knelt beside him. She put the spoon against one nostril, then the other, snorting up the little heap of powder. Her nose burned a little, and she pinched her nostrils. She beamed at Peyton as he snorted a couple bumps himself. Cocaine was Peyton’s love, and Cassidy had done far more of it since she’d begun dating him.
He put it away, kissed her again, and quickly finished his set. Gunterwolf returned and began pushing Peyton’s gear aside with a sneering pout, again acting like a petulant child with low blood sugar.
“Relax!” Peyton said, disconnecting a wire. “I’m clearing out.”
Gunterwolf barked a stream of words that might have been angry curses, or possibly just regular German. Peyton shrugged and hurried to make the switchover.
Peyton packed up his gear, and Cassidy followed him out the back door to a small parking lot protected by chain link. He loaded it into the trunk of his car, a fire-red 1972 Dodge Demon, which his father had fully restored. Peyton’s father collected vintage cars as a hobby, and he’d given this one to Peyton when he’d graduated high school—which was Peyton’s last major accomplishment in life, from his father’s viewpoint. He’d gone from a private Alpharetta high school to Duke, then dropped out a few classes short of an undergraduate degree in philosophy. He was now twenty-four, and he’d been out of school for three years.
“ That crowd was really into you,” Cassidy said. “You think they’ll bring you back?”
“ I hope. The money’s fucking ridiculous compared to what I’ve been doing.” Peyton winked at her. “Let’s get in the car.”
“ I want to dance,” Cassidy told him. The ecstasy was pulsing through her brain now, and her body already missed the music filling her up and swinging her around.
“ Just for a minute.” He winked as he opened the passenger door for her.
Cassidy slid into the brown leather seat. Peyton dropped in beside her, and her MDMA-filled brain was ready for some serious kissing—or anything else he wanted to do to her—but Peyton was more interested in the powder inside his little metal box.
Cassidy ignored him and touched Peyton’s arm. Peyton turned and flashed a grin, then pulled her close and kissed her. She felt the hard ridges of his chest and abdomen press against her through his thin black shirt, and she felt instantly warm and happy. Whether it was love or the love-drug, she could no longer be sure.
“How’s it going?” she shouted in his ear.
“ Good. They’re going for it.” The rapid dance beats were layered with electronic sounds that somehow made her think of shooting stars, plus snarling animal noises, samples of news reports about war and death. Peyton controlled projectors and screens in the club, along with the sound system, and showed a giddy collage of old movies, archival war footage, wild predators, fields exploding with flowers and then shriveling brown and dead in time-lapse photography.
“ Nice rotten bear carcass!” Cassidy pointed to a passing image on the projection.
“ Thanks!” Peyton nodded to the other man. “Can you give us a sec?”
The man frowned even more deeply, then sighed, kicked his toe like a petulant child, and left.
“Who was that?” Cassidy asked.
“ The headliner, Gunterwolf. They brought him in from Berlin.”
“ Fifteen-dollar vodkas,” Cassidy said, nodding.
“ What? Hold on.” Peyton glanced out at the floor, then knelt low behind the blocky sound equipment. He opened a steel case the size of an Altoids box, revealing a straw, a spoon, and a trough full of white powder. Peyton scooped up a spoonful and offered it to her.
“ Hell, yes!” Cassidy knelt beside him. She put the spoon against one nostril, then the other, snorting up the little heap of powder. Her nose burned a little, and she pinched her nostrils. She beamed at Peyton as he snorted a couple bumps himself. Cocaine was Peyton’s love, and Cassidy had done far more of it since she’d begun dating him.
He put it away, kissed her again, and quickly finished his set. Gunterwolf returned and began pushing Peyton’s gear aside with a sneering pout, again acting like a petulant child with low blood sugar.
“Relax!” Peyton said, disconnecting a wire. “I’m clearing out.”
Gunterwolf barked a stream of words that might have been angry curses, or possibly just regular German. Peyton shrugged and hurried to make the switchover.
Peyton packed up his gear, and Cassidy followed him out the back door to a small parking lot protected by chain link. He loaded it into the trunk of his car, a fire-red 1972 Dodge Demon, which his father had fully restored. Peyton’s father collected vintage cars as a hobby, and he’d given this one to Peyton when he’d graduated high school—which was Peyton’s last major accomplishment in life, from his father’s viewpoint. He’d gone from a private Alpharetta high school to Duke, then dropped out a few classes short of an undergraduate degree in philosophy. He was now twenty-four, and he’d been out of school for three years.
“ That crowd was really into you,” Cassidy said. “You think they’ll bring you back?”
“ I hope. The money’s fucking ridiculous compared to what I’ve been doing.” Peyton winked at her. “Let’s get in the car.”
“ I want to dance,” Cassidy told him. The ecstasy was pulsing through her brain now, and her body already missed the music filling her up and swinging her around.
“ Just for a minute.” He winked as he opened the passenger door for her.
Cassidy slid into the brown leather seat. Peyton dropped in beside her, and her MDMA-filled brain was ready for some serious kissing—or anything else he wanted to do to her—but Peyton was more interested in the powder inside his little metal box.
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