Beats & Bets

Henry Milton let out a ridiculously loud yawn, rolling off the black suede couch in his third-floor studio. The place looked like a dream for any aspiring musician: LED-lit mixing consoles, racks of guitars, scattered lyric sheets, plus a minibar in the corner for "creative inspiration." Everything was drenched in sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows, beyond which the Uriel River shimmered below. His favorite boat, the Serenade, bobbed at the dock.

"Dude, you're drooling on my new lyric sheet," Steve Dawnwell teased, shuffling over from behind the console. Steve was Henry's childhood friend—heck, they used to skateboard together in some half-abandoned tennis court back in the day. Now, Steve was his right-hand man, covering up every scandal Henry stumbled into, from surprise pregnancies to broken hotel furniture.

Henry wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Shut up, bozo. Who you calling drooly?" He sat up, scratching his chest. "Man, we outdid ourselves last night. Did you see the table in the lounge? Champagne bottles for days."

Steve snorted, flipping a stray trackpad cable off a stool. "More like for months, bro. By the way, I ordered us bagels."

"Oh, good man," Henry said, patting Steve's shoulder. Then Henry's phone buzzed—a custom platinum-plated monstrosity. He blinked down at it, reading the caller ID.

"Yo, Hen, I think your phone is buzzing," Steve called, messing around with some reverb levels. He stepped over the ashtray, half-kicking an empty energy drink can away. "Might be Kat again. She's been all up in your grill, right?"

At the mention of "Kat," Henry's grin spread wide. He unlocked the phone. Sure enough, notifications:

Kat (9:17 AM): Miss me?

Kat: My suite's lonely. So am I.

Henry turned the screen around to face Steve. A steamy photo of Katherine Korotzov—silk thong, bedroom eyes—glowed on the display.

Steve half-choked on the swig of soda he'd just taken. "Damn it, dude!" He spluttered, spraying a few drops onto Henry's Christian Dior T-shirt. "Aw, come on, not your Dior piece—my bad!"

Henry feigned a wounded expression, snatching a napkin. "You absolute clown. This is a one-of-a-kind gift from the man himself."

But Steve's eyes were glued to the phone, drool-worthy pic and all. "That's definitely… whoa. She's wearing less than nothing."

Henry let out a sly laugh. "Fork over my money, buddy. We had a bet: you said she'd never send me spicy pics again after that fiasco last month. You lost."

"Dang it!" Steve rummaged through his jeans, pulling out a worn wallet and flicking out a few $100 bills. He tossed them onto the coffee table. "That's five hundred. You better spend it on something cooler than your usual brand of nonsense."

"Who's the man?" Henry sang, collecting the bills with a flourish. He hopped up, doing a silly victory dance.

"Man, you know you are," Steve groaned, but he was smiling.

"You're playing with literal fire, bro," Steve warned, eyes narrowed. "Kat isn't just some random hottie. She's on Tanya's payroll. Tanya's, like, top dog. Top dog with fangs."

Henry shrugged, plopping back down on the couch. "Whatever, man. Tanya and I are not exclusive. We do our thing for the tabloids, keep up appearances for brand deals, but behind the scenes, she's doin' her own life."

"And you're doing yours, which apparently is hooking up with her subordinate," Steve teased, flicking a guitar pick across the table.

Henry just smirked. "Yep. And I'm having a blast."

Steve leaned against the mixing console, lighting a cigarette. "Remember that time, like three months ago, when Tanya almost walked in on you with those two groupies in your studio? She texted me: 'I'm on my way up to surprise Henry with a cameo in his next track.' Dude, you were half-naked with those groupies singing random lines."

Henry burst out laughing, slapping his thigh. "Oh God, that was a close call. I was strumming chords, literally in my boxers, two girls giggling, thinking they were my backup vocals or some nonsense. I was feeling 'inspired.' Next thing I know, you're screaming at me to hide. You practically tackled those girls into the closet."

"Yep," Steve said, proud grin creeping across his face. "I slammed them behind the mic booth, told them if they so much as coughed, they'd be out the door. Then I gave you pants. Pants, dude. All in under ten seconds."

Henry cackled. "Tanya breezed in like a queen, 'Hen, I brought coffee!' She'd have freaked if she saw that fiasco."

Steve shot him a side-eye. "Freaked is an understatement. She'd blow a nuclear fuse, man."

Henry shrugged. "But you saved the day. As always."

Steve exhaled a ring of smoke, rummaging through mental files of Henry's near-catastrophes. "Or the time with those influencers from Ping? You know, that social media after-party fiasco? You had, like, four half-tipsy girls in the hot tub, Tanya was due to show up for a photoshoot—"

Henry groaned. "Holy crap, that was a doozy. I literally heard the elevator ding. Everyone scrambled out, I started throwing towels around, and you, my dear buddy, physically blocked the door with a hamper full of laundry."

"I told Tanya the hamper fell and jammed the door track," Steve said with a grin. "She gave me that suspicious look, but hey, we pulled it off."

"All these stunts," Henry mused, rifling through the $100 bills. "One day it might blow up in my face."

Steve arched a brow. "Dude, it's a wonder it hasn't already."

Henry's phone vibrated again:

Kat (9:25 AM): I'm bored out of my mind. Suite 2002, Aureate Hotel. Wanna come take care of me?

He smirked, typing a quick reply:

Henry: You bet. Gimme an hour.

Kat immediately shot back:

Kat: Wear something black. You look sinful in black.

Henry: I'm all about sin, baby.

A winking selfie from Kat popped onto the screen—she wore a robe half-slipping off her shoulder, pouting seductively. Henry felt his pulse spike. He turned to Steve. "I'm out in an hour."

Steve folded his arms. "Again with the Aureate? Didn't we do that scene last month with those two fitness twins? This is your new routine?"

Henry just laughed, pocketing his phone. "Times change, my friend."

Before Henry left, his phone beeped once more. Another notification, but this time from a random fan on Ping, the massive social platform. Steve normally managed Henry's profile to keep the thirst at bay. But Henry glanced anyway:

RandomFanGirl17: "OMG Henry, I love you! Marry me? xoxo"

He snorted, "Deal with it, manager. I can't handle these spammy proposals."