There’s no better place for a party than an old factory. The vast open spaces, the hulking furnaces in the corners, the raw concrete walls and the bare beams overhead . . . it gives that sense of gritty authenticity you could never find in an event center. The glitterati want to feel like they’re slumming it, and the actual artists need to feel at home.
I’ve got four of my boys running security.
Much as I want the appearance of an out-of-control bacchanalia, everything needs to run smooth tonight. Iggy is about to sign a seven-figure deal with a record label in L.A. They want music from the streets, but no actual criminal charges attached to their newest star.
I’ve known Iggy since we were kids. His dad used to chauffeur my father around when he was mayor of the city. Iggy and I would crowd into the glassed-off front seat, playing music and fucking with the lights, while my parents rode in the back, strategizing for the night ahead.
Iggy is wildly talented. His hooks are catchy, and his rhyme schemes so dense and interconnected that I feel like I have to listen to his songs five times over before I can truly appreciate them.
Iggy’s a sweetheart, more poet than gangster. His only personality flaw is his willingness to trust the wrong people.
Which leads us to the biggest tripwire of the night—Iggy’s piece-of-shit uncle.
“Declan Poe doesn’t get through this door,” I say to my boy Anders, nodding my head toward the double steel doors at the entrance. “If you see him, you call me. Don’t wait for him to cause trouble.”
Anders nods. Beckett and Anders are built like twin refrigerators. They could handle a small army on their own.
I run the party like a maestro in front of an orchestra. I deploy the drinks, the food, the music, the lighting, and the flow of guests with obsessive precision, while creating the illusion of free movement and free choice.
I glide through the crowd, introducing fame-hungry models to sleazy producers, brilliant videographers to marketing reps. Every connection is a new favor in my pocket as I hook people up with exactly what they need.
I hype Iggy up, too. He hates performing, gets nervous every time.
“It’s not even a concert,” I tell him. “People are just here to hang out. There’s no pressure.”
There’s a metric fuck-ton of pressure. More pressure than the San Andreas fault. But it won’t do Iggy any good to hear that.
Everything is flawless. Till I spot another uninvited guest.
She’s standing over by the bar, sipping a glass of my extremely expensive stolen champagne, wearing a minidress that uses less fabric than an oversized handkerchief. I can see at least six different men hovering around her, waiting for their chance to swoop in, while she chats up the Cubs’ newest pitcher.
The pitcher looks like he took a pop fly to the head. He’s staring into Sabrina’s eyes with a dazed expression, failing to bring his straw to his lips as he tries to take a sip of his cocktail and pokes himself in the nose instead. Sabrina stifles a giggle, biting the corner of her lip.
I shove my way through the crowd and grab her by the arm.
“Excuse me,” I say to the pitcher.
He shakes his head, coming out of his trance.
“Hey!” he says. “We were talking!”
“She’s gonna talk you right into Cook County jail,” I inform him. “She’s sixteen years old.”
The pitcher’s jaw drops.
Sabrina scowls at me, an expression that only manages to make her look more beautiful. My cousin is fucking dangerous.
“Let go of me,” she says coolly.
“Not a fuckin’ chance. You’re gatecrashing.”
“Oh, please,” she tosses her long, dark hair back over her shoulder. “You’re letting anybody in here. That dude gave up three home runs to the Sox on Thursday.”
I keep dragging her toward the exit. “Yup. Everybody’s welcome except you.”
“Why not?”
“ ‘Cause I don’t want Uncle Nero to cut my fucking head off.”
Now Sabrina’s really pissed.
“Are you serious?”
“As serious as antibiotic resistance.”
“Miles!”
“Sabrina!” I’ve taken her all the way outside to the ivy-choked alleyway next to the factory. “Look, I get it. You hate being treated like a kid, and you just want to dance and have a couple drinks and make those dudes embarrass themselves for your amusement. On a normal night, I wouldn’t have a problem with it. But I’ve got a lot riding on this and I can’t keep an eye on you at the same time.”
“I don’t need you to babysit me!”
“Yeah, yeah, I know—you can take care of yourself. Go do it at some other party, ‘cause your dad’s already pissed at me.”
I whistle to catch the attention of a cab dropping off another load of partygoers.
Sabrina cocks an eyebrow at me. “You did steal his car.”
“I borrowed it for a photoshoot. And I brought it right back again.”
“With sand in the engine.”
I shove her in the backseat of the cab.
“Goodnight!” I say, slamming the door in her face.
Whatever Sabrina shouts back at me is lost in the pounding bass emanating from the charcoal factory.
With a sigh of relief, I turn back to the party.
I love my cousin, but her dad is a barely-civilized psychopath and my night doesn’t need any more complications.
Besides, I’ve got to focus on Iggy. I can hear The Shakers winding down, which means he’s up in just a couple of minutes.
I head back up to the roof, backstage to the little dressing room I set up for him. Iggy’s pouring over his lyrics sheet, which looks like the journal of a madman, full of inky scribbles, crossed-out lines, and tiny arrows pointing to revisions.
He looks up when I enter, pushing his shaggy hair back out of his eyes and giving me his slow, sleepy grin.
“The band sounds great,” he says.
“You’re gonna sound better.”
“Not too many people out there?”
“Nah,” I lie. “Barely any.”
In the bright stage lights, Iggy won’t see any different till he’s already done.
“That’s good,” he sighs.
Iggy’s normal speaking voice is so soft and slow that the transformation to his rapid-fire rapping jars me every time.
“If your album charts the way I think it’s gonna, the contract with Virgin is a sure thing,” I tell him.
“We’ll find out soon enough,” Iggy says.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, seeing a message from Anders:
Poe rolled up with three dudes, but I told him to fuck off. Think he left.
Good. I knew he couldn’t resist showing his ugly mug, but I’m glad Beckett and Anders were intimidating enough to dissuade him. If he comes back, we’re gonna have a much less-friendly conversation.
“Problem?” Iggy asks.
“Nope,” I say, tucking my phone back in my pocket. “You ready?”
Iggy folds up his lyrics sheet and stuffs it in his pocket. I know he’s already got it all locked up in that insane brain of his—he just likes to look it over to reassure himself.
The crowd whoops and cheers as The Shakers take their bow.