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places.”
“Let’s just say I have an ex who owns an interest in that club. It’s too fresh for me to go there right now.”
“Gotcha. Okay, we’ll go to one of the old haunts near campus, then. Pick you up at ten?”
“Ten is excellent. It’ll give me time to close up shop here and go home to change.”
“Okay, adeus, querida .”
“ Adeus, bonito .”
     
~*~
     
Carmelo and I settle on Bordelo, a club not far from the University of Chicago downtown campus. Jada flew to Phoenix for one of Nate’s away games, or I’d have her come along just to make sure this doesn’t look like I’m going out on a date. I may or may not have had a crush on Carmelo back in the day. However, there was never an opportunity for us to hook up. By the time he broke up with my suitemate, I was talking to Byron.
What a difference four years and a day make. Now Byron’s up on charges for drugging me with malicious intent, Tristan—who’s awakened my kinky side—is persona non grata, and Carmelo is here in the flesh, looking even better than he did when we were at DePaul. There was a time when I would’ve climbed Carmelo’s rock star body like a tree, but all I can seem to muster for him right now is something akin to sibling affection.
The club is packed, and Carmelo takes my hand as we make our way through the crowd to the VIP elevator. The bouncer looks at us impassively, but then Carmelo says something into his ear and the magic words convinces him to insert his key card into the slot and lift the velvet rope. The elevator dings as the doors slide open, and we enter.
I move to slide my hand out of Carmelo’s now that we have braved the crowd, but he doesn’t let go. In fact, he takes my other hand and scans my body. “ Meu Deus , querida , post-college has been good to you.”
“I could say the same for you.” I slip my hands out of his, making an exaggerated show of putting mine on my hips. “How many broken hearts did you leave on your last tour?”
He pretends to count, and I smack him playfully. “I didn’t really expect you to try to answer.”
Carmelo laughs. “Just teasing.”
The elevator opens onto a more sedate scene in comparison to the melee downstairs. The music is thumping and people are dancing, but then others are relaxing in their private booths or lounging at the bar.
Carmelo greases the hostess’s palm, and she escorts us to a booth with a gorgeous view of downtown. The feel of Carmelo’s palm at the small of my back reminds me of Tristan. My heart shudders, but I push all thoughts of Tristan away and smile up at Carmelo as he hands me into the booth and slides right in next to me.
“A waitress will be right with you,” the hostess says with a smile.
Carmelo props an elbow on the table and rests his head against his fist, smiling at me. He resumes our conversation from the car where I told him all about KSR and how it came to be. I left out the part about Tristan and me being involved, but I did tell him that Tristan was our backer.
“So, you’re working with a dozen acts already?”
“Yeah, not to mention thousands of independent groups and stand-alone artists who are using our software to make demos so they can pursue music deals from existing traditional studios.”
“Then KSR is like the Amazon of the music industry.”
I consider for a second. “I suppose that’s right.”
The waitress comes by and we order drinks. We talk until we’re on our second drink and I’ve loosened up considerably. Why did I fear this would be some kind of come-on? Carmelo is—and always has been—a dear friend. I am laughing at a hilarious story he’s telling me about being on tour when I feel my skin crawl. I look toward the bar. Byron is perched on a bar stool, drink in hand, staring at me. Carmelo notices my sudden unease and follows my eyes.
“Speaking of exes, isn’t that Byron McCaskill?”
“Yeah.” Before I can clue Carmelo in on our current situation, Byron comes over.
“Keisha, I need to