Page 82 of The Beat Match

He started the video feed and watched the playback on his screen.

Kids with toy guns, playing and laughing, spliced to a kid hiding under his school desk, crying. A pregnant mother spliced to a woman slumped over a tombstone. Dark images followed, violent and upsetting, spilling from one screen to the next, footage that would distress some club goers. As it should. It was silent in the massive club. Quiet so tension-filled it screamed with the madness of weaponry, guns purchased too easily, consequences ignored. The only sound Weston heard was the hard pounding of his heart.

He unleashed the first fragment of sound. Cello. Plaintive. Angry; the instrument lamenting its sorrow for so many senseless deaths. Faster images. Faster music, the growing cacophony gripping Weston’s throat in a fiery crush. He closed his eyes. Memories, still so brutal and strong, flashed to life.

Leo yanking him around, pissed Weston had ignored their meeting. Yelling at him. Words he didn’t remember.

Then, “Dude, why didn’t you—”

The bullet.

Screams.

Blood.

Chaos.

Leo in a crimson heap on the floor.

Weston forced his eyes wide, fought the burn. A few gasps drifted from the club. He knew what was coming next. Hope. Clear, clean water dripping from a gun barrel, irrigating a field. Growth. Advancement. Belief in the power of change. A rifle from afar, up close a cluster of butterflies that fluttered away. Stringed instruments joined the plaintive cello, a flute, the rumble of a bass. An orchestra, powerful, played together. A larger voice.

Together we can make a difference.

This wouldn’t be the first time these people would have seen cries for better gun control. For every person who didn’t believe changes were desperately needed, there was at least one who wanted upheaval. The problem was getting people to act. He hoped he and Annie had packaged their message meaningfully, through a medium that already resonated with the crowd. Empowered them as a collective.

Unable to see their reaction, he focused on the screen in front of him, the images and music peaking, so loud and bright it silenced the violent images in Weston’s mind. He would never fully forgive himself for what happened with Leo, but he would live with it. He would live better and be the man Leo’s sister deserved. The man his mother had raised. The man he wanted to be.

He cut the music.

The last curtain flew up.

The same three words glowed on every screen: Your voice matters.

A decree. A dare to try.

Weston stood tall, flushed with adrenaline. Thousands of faces snapped toward him, some with tears on their cheeks. Fire in their eyes. They had heard him. They had heard Annie and Leo and every other person fighting for progress. For all his and Annie’s efforts, at least some would leave here changed.

Wes was supposed to transition now, blast his beats and get this party started. But his sights snagged on the brightest light in the room. Annie, here, standing on the bar, brazen, her hand pressed over her chest. She wore casual jeans and what looked like a gray hoodie, zipped up to her neck. Odd style for her, considering her eccentric closet, but she could be wearing a garbage bag for all he cared. She was looking at him, tall and open, letting him see to the heart of her.

He whipped off his mask while mixing the music.

The crowd roared. Annie gawked, the cutest grin slashing across her face. He blasted into his set, pointed at her and crooked his finger. She needed to get her ass on this stage, next to him. Closer. Close enough for him to drag in her scent.

She didn’t move. He didn’t know why.

Vivian and her girlfriend were by Annie’s legs, talking at the bartender and gesturing wildly. Unsure what was up, he adjusted the volume, danced to the experimental electro pop tune, hard against the beat. Abstract, nature-inspired videos morphed across the screens. Annie tipped her head back, popped her hips in time. His. That woman was his, and he wanted to leap off stage, say screw it and tear out of there with her in his arms.

As tempting as that was, he was here for a reason.

He dragged his gaze away from hers for a moment. Focused on the crowd. A Freed by the Falcon junkie was dancing, one hand up, his fingers spread in a peace sign as he lost himself to the beats. His huge smile was a gift, infectious and uplifting. This was the definition of music. Inspiring. Empowering. Raw and honest.

Weston faded in the next song earlier than planned, fed off the club’s contagious vibe. It was a partnership. Transactions traded in spirit, rising up, up, up until their joy punched through the ceiling.

His eyes jerked back to Annie. She was still standing on the bar, bent over at the waist, having a heated conversation with the bartender. The bartender shook her head and pointed at the floor. Vivian shouted something back. Management wanted Annie down, and Weston couldn’t agree more. If she got off the bar top, she’d get up here where she should be, basking in this radioactive energy.

A bouncer moved toward the scene. Weston tensed. He pictured Annie tripping, falling, smacking her head on the edge of the bar.

She turned toward him abruptly, sidestepped the bouncer’s grabby hands, and unzipped her hoodie, letting it fall to the floor. The bouncer was on her in seconds, manhandling her into his arms, escorting her to the exit. It all happened in the blink of an eye, but Weston caught a glimpse of her shirt before she was hauled off. Bright yellow. Black lettering.