Three days.
Three fucking days of his business card burning a hole through my nightstand drawer. I'd moved it from my bra to my pocket, then to my wallet, before finally shoving it in the drawer. Out of sight, but never out of mind.
The static lingered like phantom pain after amputation. I caught myself tuning in for it during crowded moments at the club, scanning for that empty frequency that had rattled my carefully constructed world.
Nothing. Just the usual symphony of emotional noise that I'd learned to filter and manipulate like a sound engineer.
I pressed my fingertips against the fresh cut on my collarbone—a thin, precise line I'd added to my collection last night. Not deep, just enough to feel. The endorphin rush had temporarily cleared my head, but this morning the static was back. Not Darian's static. My own.
"I've got the Montgomery couple at seven, and that tech billionaire—whatshisname—Caron at nine." Kass's voice cut through my thoughts, her anxiety trilling in my ears as she studied her tablet. "He requested the Red Room, and I told him the upcharge."
I nodded, running my fingers over the rough texture of my desk. The wood grain's peaks and valleys made tiny vibrations against my skin. Today, I needed the sensory anchor.
"The Richardsons left another ridiculous tip." She slid a receipt across the desk. "Should I enter it under your private account or the club's general?"
"Mine." I didn't look at the number. The Richardsons had been coming for monthly sessions for two years. He liked to feel understood; she liked to feel desired. I gave them both what they needed, tuning into their frequencies like adjusting sliders on a mixing board. Up on admiration, down on judgment. Up on desire, down on the jealousy that threatened to splinter their marriage. Simple.
So why the fuck was I still thinking about the man whose frequency I couldn't read?
"Are you feeling okay?" Kass asked, her concern manifesting as a soft violin hum. "You've been off since that guy the other night."
I raised an eyebrow. "What guy?"
"Come on." She rolled her eyes. "Tall, expensive suit, dead-behind-the-eyes hot? You practically drooled watching him leave."
"I don't drool, Kass."
"Fine. But you haven't been yourself. Usually after our sessions with the Richardsons, you're all..." She gestured vaguely. "Charged up. But you walked out looking like someone ran over your cat."
Because for the first time, their frequencies felt flat. Predictable. After experiencing Darian's static—and those brief, jarring moments when it broke—everything else seemed muted. Like switching from surround sound to a shitty motel television.
"I'm fine." I reached for my letter opener, a silver blade with an obsidian handle. I ran my thumb along its edge, not hard enough to cut. "Just bored. These people are so fucking predictable."
Kass's eyebrows rose. "The ones paying your bills?"
I shrugged. "It's like playing the same three chords over and over. I adjust their emotions, they feel better, they pay, they leave. Next week, same shit."
"Sounds like a pretty sweet gig to me."
She didn't understand. Couldn't. Kass knew I had some talent for reading people, but she had no idea of the true extent. No one did. The closest I'd come to revealing myself was with Dr. Hannoway, back when I was seventeen and institutionalized. He'd asked me to explain what I heard when people spoke, and I'd told him the truth: not just words, but the emotional frequencies beneath them.
He'd diagnosed me with synesthesia coupled with delusional disorder and upped my meds.
A knock on the door interrupted my thoughts.
"That's probably the new bartender," Kass said, heading for the door. "I'll get it."
I nodded, pulling out my phone and the business card I'd been pretending wasn't consuming my thoughts. Darian Frost. Just a name and number, embossed in matte black on cream stock. No title, no company.
Kass opened the door, and immediately I was hit with a wall of chaotic emotion—the bright, anxious trumpet blast of someone trying desperately to make a good impression.
"Hi, I'm Derek, the new..." The voice faltered as I looked up. Young guy, early twenties maybe, with that eager puppy energy that usually grated on my nerves.
"The new bartender," Kass finished for him. "Come in."
He stepped into my office, and his frequency shifted to a low, thrumming bass note of attraction when he saw me. Basic. Predictable. I could already map exactly how this interaction would go.
"Ms. Voss, it's amazing to meet you." His hand extended, then faltered when I didn't immediately reach for it. "I've heard so much about your club."
I stood, sliding Darian's card back into my pocket. "Kass will show you the setup. Rules are simple: be on time, don't fuck the clients, don't steal the liquor, and don't ask questions about what happens in the private rooms."
His frequency spiked with both intimidation and intrigue. Another predictable response.
"Yes, ma'am." He nodded too enthusiastically.
"And don't call me ma'am." I grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair. "I'll be back later, Kass. I have an errand to run."
Her frequency shifted to confusion—a discordant note that made me wince internally. "But the Montgomerys will be here in two hours."
"I'll be back." I brushed past them both, the decision suddenly crystal clear. "Handle the prep. You know the routine."
Outside, the autumn air bit at my cheeks, a welcome sharpness after the stifling sameness of the club. I pulled out my phone and the business card, my finger hovering over the keypad. Was I really doing this? Calling a stranger who somehow knew my secret, who offered a job that would pay seven figures, who emitted nothing but static except for those brief, addictive moments of clarity?
Fuck yes, I was.
I dialed before I could second-guess myself. The phone rang once, twice—
"Ms. Voss." His voice came through, exactly as I remembered it. Controlled. Precise. "I've been expecting your call."
Of course he had. I leaned against the brick wall of the alley beside my club, watching my breath form clouds in the cold air.
"Your job," I said without preamble. "Tell me more."
"Not over the phone." Still no emotional frequency I could detect, even through his voice. Just perfect, maddening static. "Are you free this evening?"
I thought of the Montgomerys, the tech billionaire. Regular clients with regular needs and regular frequencies. Kass could handle them—tell them I was sick. Or I could rush through their sessions and still make it to wherever Darian wanted to meet.
"I can be," I said. "Where?"
"I'll text you an address. Seven o'clock." A pause, and then, "Come alone."
I almost laughed. "Do I strike you as someone who needs backup?"
"No." Another pause. "But you strike me as someone who might bring surveillance."
Interesting. I traced the scar at my collarbone through my shirt. "Worried I'll record our conversation?"
"Cautious." His voice lowered slightly. "This job requires discretion."
"Most high-paying jobs do." I pushed off from the wall, starting to walk. Movement helped me think. "But I'm not agreeing to anything until I know what it is."
"Of course not." I could almost hear a smile, though his voice remained neutral. "Seven o'clock, Ms. Voss. Wear something warm. The location can get cold at night."
He hung up before I could respond. Typical power move—end the conversation on your terms. I shoved my phone back in my pocket, irritation and anticipation warring in my chest.
Whatever game he was playing, I was now officially a participant. And despite every survival instinct I'd honed since childhood, I was fucking excited about it.
---
The address Darian sent led me to an abandoned church on the outskirts of the city. Gothic architecture loomed against the darkening sky, stone gargoyles snarling from their perches. The perfect setting for either a horror movie or an extremely pretentious art installation.
I parked my car a block away, scanning the area for other vehicles. Nothing obvious, though a black SUV with tinted windows sat at the far end of the street. Subtle.
The massive wooden doors were unlocked, swinging open with an appropriately dramatic creak. Inside, the church had been gutted—pews removed, altar stripped. Scaffolding lined the walls, and plastic sheeting covered sections of the floor. Renovation in progress, apparently.
The space felt enormous, cavernous enough that my footsteps echoed. And something else echoed too—something I felt more than heard. A low-frequency vibration that made my teeth ache slightly.
"You're punctual." Darian's voice came from behind me.
I turned, keeping my expression neutral despite the way my pulse jumped. He stood in the shadows of what had once been the choir loft, dressed in charcoal slacks and a black turtleneck that emphasized his height and the breadth of his shoulders. The scar on his neck was more visible now, a silvery burn pattern that disappeared beneath his collar.
"I hate people who waste my time." I remained where I was, forcing him to come to me if he wanted to close the distance. "Interesting choice of venue."
He descended the stairs with that same deliberate economy of motion I'd noticed at the club. Nothing wasted, nothing extraneous. When he reached the bottom, he stayed several feet away, respecting the boundary I'd established.
"It's owned by my client." He gestured around the space. "Being converted into a private concert hall. The acoustics are exceptional."
That explained the strange vibration I was feeling—sound waves bouncing perfectly through the designed space. Even our voices seemed to carry differently here.
"Fitting," I said. "Given what you know about me."
His eyes caught the dim light filtering through the stained glass windows, shifting from amber toward that darker shade. "What I know is that you have an extraordinary ability. One my client needs."
"And what ability is that, exactly?" I needed him to say it. To confirm he knew my secret without me having to explain it.
He took another step forward, and the static intensified—that strange pressure in my inner ear. "You perceive emotional frequencies as physical sensations. Like sound waves. It allows you to read people with uncanny accuracy, to know what they're feeling and thinking without them saying a word."
Hearing it laid out so precisely sent a chill down my spine. I'd never told anyone. Not even Kass. Yet he spoke about it like reciting my medical history.
"And how the fuck would you know that?" My voice remained steady, though I felt my heart rate accelerate.
"Because it's my job to know things about people they'd prefer to keep hidden." He tilted his head slightly. "And because we've been watching you."
"We?"
"My client and I." He reached into his pocket, and I tensed instinctively. But he only pulled out what looked like a small remote. "May I demonstrate something?"
I nodded cautiously.
He pressed a button, and suddenly the low vibration I'd been feeling intensified. Not painfully, but noticeably—a hum that resonated in my chest cavity and made the tiny hairs on my arms stand up.
"What do you feel?" he asked.
"Vibration. Low frequency." I crossed my arms. "What am I supposed to feel?"
"Exactly that." He stepped closer, the remote still in his hand. "Most people wouldn't notice. The frequency is too low for average human perception. But you're not average, are you, Emira?"
The use of my first name sent another ripple through me. In the club, he'd called me Ms. Voss. This felt more intimate, somehow.
"What's the job?" I asked, ignoring his question.
He clicked the remote again, and the vibration stopped. The sudden absence felt like pressure dropping before a storm.
"My client is negotiating a high-stakes business merger. Billions on the line. He needs to know if the other party is being truthful about their intentions and financials."
I raised an eyebrow. "So he wants a human lie detector."
"In essence." Darian slipped the remote back into his pocket. "But not just any lie detector. One that can read the emotional undercurrents, the subtle shifts that reveal true intentions. One that can't be fooled by practiced liars."
"And the seven figures?" I took a step closer, noting how the static intensified with proximity. "That's a lot for a few business meetings."
"The stakes justify the cost." His gaze was steady, assessing. "And the job may require more than just sitting in on meetings. The other party is... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"They've been known to employ unconventional tactics. Including psychological manipulation."
I almost laughed. "You mean like hiring someone who can read emotional frequencies?"
His mouth quirked slightly—not quite a smile. "Exactly like that."
"So you want me to what—attend meetings, tell you if they're lying, report back to your client?"
"Initially, yes." He crossed to one of the scaffolds, leaning against it with casual confidence. "But there's more. We believe they have someone like you on their team."
That stopped me. "Someone who can read frequencies?"
"Not exactly like you. Their abilities manifest differently. But the result is similar—heightened emotional perception, the ability to detect lies and manipulate responses."
My mind raced. I'd never encountered anyone else with abilities like mine. The doctors had all told me my condition was unique, a result of the specific damage to my auditory cortex from the childhood accident.
"Who?" I demanded.
"That's part of what we need you to discover." He pushed off from the scaffold, moving toward me again. "We know they have an advantage we can't counter with conventional means. We need your ability to level the playing field."
I studied him, trying to detect any hint of deception beneath the static. Nothing.
"And what makes you think I'll agree?"
"Three reasons." He held up one finger. "The money, which would allow you to expand your club or start a new venture—whatever you want." A second finger joined the first. "The challenge. You're bored, Emira. I saw it the moment I walked into your club. You've mastered your environment to the point of tedium." The third finger rose. "And curiosity. About me. About why you can't read me like everyone else."
Each point hit with uncomfortable accuracy. Especially the last one.
"You still haven't explained that," I said. "The static."
"No, I haven't." He took another step closer, now near enough that I could smell that clean, medicinal scent again. "That's not on offer yet."
"Yet?"
"Agree to the job. Complete the first phase successfully. Then we can discuss... personal matters."
The static between us seemed to compress the air, making it difficult to breathe normally. Or maybe that was just the effect of his proximity.
"When do you need an answer?" I asked, buying time to think.
"Now."
Of course. He wasn't the type to allow deliberation.
I should walk away. A man who knew my secret, who admitted to watching me, who emitted nothing but static except for those brief, tantalizing moments of clarity—every instinct should be screaming danger.
Instead, I felt the most alive I had in years.
"If I say yes," I began, "I set the terms of how I work. No one controls my process."
"Within reason."
"I define what's reasonable." I stepped closer, purposely breaching his personal space. The static surged between us, almost painful in its intensity. "And I want access to everything you know about this other person with abilities."
His eyes darkened as I moved closer, pupils dilating slightly. A physical tell, since I couldn't read his emotional frequency.
"Agreed." He didn't back away from my proximity. "Anything else?"
I reached up slowly, telegraphing my movement, and placed my palm flat against his chest. The fabric of his turtleneck was soft, but I could feel the solid wall of muscle beneath. And there—just for a second—the static fractured again. A sharp spike of something hot and electric shot through my hand and up my arm.
Desire. Pure, predatory desire, quickly contained as the static slammed back into place.
I smiled, letting him see I'd caught it. "Just one more thing. If I ever feel you're hiding something that puts me at risk, I walk. Immediately. No questions, no arguments."
"Fair enough." His voice remained perfectly controlled, though I noticed his hands flexing slightly at his sides—that small tell I'd spotted at the club. "Does that mean you're accepting?"
I withdrew my hand, the ghost of that electric shock still tingling in my fingertips. "Yes. But I want the details in writing. Contract, payment terms, timeline."
"I'll have everything sent to your club tomorrow." He reached into his pocket again, this time withdrawing what looked like a small metal case about the size of a business card holder. "This is for you."
I took it cautiously, turning it over in my hands. Brushed titanium, expensive and minimalist. "What is it?"
"Open it."
I slid my thumbnail along the seam, and the case clicked open. Inside was what looked like a small earpiece, almost invisible, and a thin metallic disc about the size of a quarter.
"The earpiece allows us to communicate during meetings," he explained. "The disc is a frequency modulator. It can help you filter out background noise so you can focus on specific emotional patterns."
I picked up the disc, feeling its weight. "You seem to know a lot about how my ability works."
"We've been studying similar phenomena for some time." He reached out, fingers brushing mine as he took the disc and held it up to the light. "This was developed for a different purpose, but we believe it will enhance your natural abilities."
"We again. Your mysterious client?"
"Among others." He handed the disc back. "There's a research division that specializes in sensory augmentation."
"Military?" I guessed, noting the practiced way he avoided specifics.
That slight mouth quirk again. "Former military. Now private sector."
I closed the case and slipped it into my jacket pocket. "When do we start?"
"There's a preliminary meeting on Friday. Low stakes, just to get you acclimated to the players." He checked his watch, an understated piece that probably cost more than most cars. "I'll pick you up at six. The meeting's at eight."
"I'll need dossiers on everyone who'll be there." I started toward the door, needing space to process everything. The static was beginning to give me an actual headache. "And anything you have on this person with abilities similar to mine."
"You'll have everything tomorrow." He didn't move to follow me. "One more thing, Emira."
I paused, looking back over my shoulder.
"Don't try to use your abilities on my client. He's... sensitive about his privacy."
The warning carried weight beyond the words themselves. "Is that why you've been sent to handle me? Because you're immune to my particular talent?"
"Partly." His eyes caught the last rays of sunset through the stained glass, turning them a burning gold. "But mostly because we're alike, you and I. We both understand what it means to weaponize what others see as damage."
The observation hit too close to home, resonating in my chest like a perfectly struck chord. I didn't respond, just turned and continued walking.
Behind me, I heard him call out, "One last thing."
I stopped but didn't turn around.
"Wear black on Friday. My client appreciates aesthetic consistency."
I let out a sharp laugh, the sound echoing through the empty church. "I don't take fashion advice from men in turtlenecks."
As I pushed through the heavy doors and back into the night air, I could have sworn I heard him laugh—a low, quiet sound quickly swallowed by the static. But maybe that was just my imagination, creating an emotional response I couldn't actually detect.
Either way, I was in. And for the first time in years, I had no idea what happened next. The thought should terrify me.
Instead, I felt fucking electric.