Liam

The ground under my feet of the outdoor venue vibrates with the beat while I manipulate the breakdown and bring in the latest European hook for the hundred thousand people who’ve paid to rave with me tonight. I fucking love my job. There aren’t many professions where people worldwide adore you. Women throw themselves at your feet, and the people you party with make Jordan Belfort’s lifestyle from The Wolf of Wall Street look like child’s play.

Somebody in the crowd screams, “I love you, Freedom!” during a break in the music, and camera flashes go off in every direction when I smile and pull my shirt off. I ball it up and hold it over my head before tossing it into the crowd that’s rushing the stage. They love my smile, but they love my abs more. I flip my headphone back off one ear and give them what they want. I smile so wide that I can feel my dimples piercing my cheeks. I pump my fist in the air along with the heavy pounding beat while the lucky people who are close enough to the booth snap pictures. Did I mention that I love my fucking job?

Tonight is bittersweet though. I’m going to wring every single second of happiness out of the time I’m here, because tomorrow, I go home to Los Angeles and my pretend but not-so-pretend wife, Amira.

“Hey!” My stage manager yells, and I feel the presence of someone directly behind me. Nobody is ever supposed to get in the booth, ever.

I turn to see who’s broken the security barrier, and standing behind me is a tiny woman in a bikini covered in glow in the dark body paint, glow bracelets, candy necklaces, purple-streaked hair, and ski goggles. Yeah, she’s one of mine.

I wink at her and motion to my stage manager, Steve, to let her stay. She’s a fan, and I love my fans—just not when they inject me with illegal drugs and marry me, which is what my wife did six months ago. I’ve never been able to prove it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.

“She wants to come closer—that ok with you?” Steve signs to me. I made my entire crew learn basic sign language so we can communicate easier during the long shows when the music is too loud to even yell over. Ever since my incident with Amira, I don’t let people get close in the booth. But this chick worked really hard to get in here, and despite all the paint and glowing clothes, she’s hot. I allow it just this once. I nod my head and motion for the petite raver to come closer, and she jumps to my side, clasping her hands together over her chest.

It’s become well-known that I don’t like people getting too close to me, although they don’t know why. This particular fan is schooled on my quirks. She’s keeping her hands to herself while we bob our heads to the music together. I look over, and she smiles a perfect set of white teeth. They glow in the dark under the black lights, reminding me of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. She asks with her eyes if she can touch me, and I give her a quick nod up and down.

The crowd goes insane when the moment is flashed on every big screen in the stadium. The light show pulses with the music, and I hear them chanting, “Free-dom, Free-dom, Free-dom!”

My little glow worm wraps her hand around my thick bicep and pulls herself into my side. I keep my other hand moving over the massive control panel to keep the music pumping and let her enjoy her moment in the spotlight.

Steve hovers behind us, waiting for me to dismiss the girl, but I’m enjoying the human contact for a change. Maybe because I know that this tour is almost over, and I’ll be going back to LA and my psycho, pretend wife. I’d love nothing more than to take this little thing back to my hotel and spend the night making her sweat that paint off her body. I’d turn my cock into a light saber, sliding in and out of her and claiming those curves all night long, but I can’t risk getting caught. I don’t cheat on my so-called wife. I’m not about to let her claim adultery and take half of my fortune.

As much as I can’t stand her, I have never so much as touched another woman intimately since Amira brought my playboy life to a screeching halt. When I divorce her ass, I’m not losing the career I’ve been building since I was fifteen. Her father swore he would destroy me if I aided in disgracing his Nigerian royal family by divorcing Amira. He was embarrassed enough that she married a lowly Caucasian American DJ, but to have this lowly DJ dump her would be reprehensible.

With that thought, I wrap my arm around my sweet, glowing fan girl and give her one last hug. I look at Steve and sign, ‘take her away’. She hugs me and happily bounces off with Steve, bobbing her head of wild purple hair to the beat . . . to my beat . . . to DJ Freedom’s beat.