The red light came on.

ON AIR.

DJ Daz leaned toward the microphone.

Outside the broad studio windows, Magic City burned pink beneath a midnight sky. Headlights streamed along the boulevard six floors below, red taillights running toward the ocean, white headlights coming back from it. Palm trees bent lazily in the warm Atlantic breeze while heat lightning flickered somewhere far beyond Biscayne Bay.

Inside Studio A, two Technics turntables were spinning, a reel-to-reel machine rolled silently behind the engineer, VU needles bounced amber against black and five telephone lines had been flashing almost continuously for the last twenty minutes.

Daz pushed his round tinted glasses higher onto his nose.

His wavy ginger hair was tied back. His headphones hung around his neck. His custom bomber jacket was stitched with chaotic red lines and airbrushed patterns that looked like someone had detonated a paint factory over an RAF flight suit.

He looked through the glass at his producer.

Three.

Two.

One.

Daz smiled.

“Magic City.”

His voice rolled out across South Florida.

“Turn it up.”

A synthesizer screamed.

The WAVE 105 ident exploded through the speakers.

“Miami nights! Neon lights! From Magic City to Heartbreak City! Turn it up and ride the WAVE!”

A guitar tore through it.

“WAAAAVE... ONE-OH-FIVE!”

Daz let the final note burn for half a second before pulling the fader down. “And if you’re wondering why every telephone in this building has been trying to kill itself since ten o’clock, tonight’s show is a little different.”

Across the desk from him, Chloe Love smiled.

Daz looked at her, then back at the microphone. “The woman sitting opposite me has apparently become so popular that my producer has instructed me not to annoy her.”

Chloe leaned toward her microphone. “That must be difficult for you.”

Daz froze.

Behind the glass, the engineer started laughing.

Daz slowly turned toward Chloe. “Oh. So that’s how tonight’s going to be.”

Chloe shrugged. “I’ve met you before.”

“Briefly.”

“You were thrown out.”

“I left.”

“Through a door.”

“That’s generally how leaving works.”

“You didn’t open it.”

The engineer lost it.

Daz pointed across the desk. “Ladies and gentlemen, Chloe Love.”

The telephone board lit up.

Every line.

Almost simultaneously.

Chloe looked at it. “Popular girl.”

“Apparently.”

Sitting between them was the reason she was there.

A brand-new record sleeve.

Pink.

Blue.

Rain-soaked.

Chloe beneath the lights with a microphone in her hand.

DANCING IN THE NEON RAIN.

Daz picked it up. “Fifteen tracks.”

Chloe nodded. “You can count.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Thank you.”

He turned the sleeve over. “Fifteen tracks, Chloe. Most people make an album. You’ve invaded a small country.”

“Wait until the next one.”

Daz looked directly through the studio glass. “You heard it here first. Chloe Love has threatened us with another record.”

Chloe laughed.

Daz set the album down. “Before we get into this, I should probably mention the other thing people are saying.”

“Oh God.”

“They’re saying this could go platinum before the end of the month.”

Chloe’s expression barely changed. “Who are they?”

“People with calculators.”

“Dangerous.”

“Terrifying. But apparently you’re selling records faster than they can count them.”

“Then maybe they need better calculators.”

Daz stared at her for a moment. “That’s Chloe Love, ladies and gentlemen. Imminent platinum isn’t enough. She also demands improved office equipment.”

Chloe shook her head, laughing.

Daz leaned back. “Seriously. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Ask me when it happens.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I believe people are buying the record.”

“That sounds suspiciously sensible.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t let it happen again.”

“I’ll try.”

Daz looked down at the album. “So. Fifteen tracks. New record. Everybody wants to talk about it. Which is why I’m not starting there.”

Chloe frowned. “No?”

“No.”

He reached to his left and pulled another piece of vinyl from a sleeve.

Chloe recognized it immediately. “Oh.”

Daz grinned. “Exactly.”

He dropped the record onto the Technics. “Because before Dancing in the Neon Rain, before fifteen tracks, before people with calculators started predicting platinum records, there was this.”

Chloe sat back.

Daz placed two fingers on the edge of the vinyl. “Magic City, turn it up.”

The needle dropped.

“This is Chloe Love. I Saw You on the Dancefloor.”

The final shimmering synth faded beneath Daz’s fingers.

He let it breathe.

One second.

Two.

Then the microphone light came back on.

Daz slid the record back into its sleeve. “That is where this whole bloody mess started.”

Chloe laughed. “That’s not even remotely true.”

“Excellent. First question and we’re already fighting.”

“You said you wanted the truth.”

“I absolutely did not. This is radio.”

Chloe smiled.

Daz tapped the record sleeve against the desk. “Do you remember the first time you heard yourself on the radio?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

“In a car.”

“Yours?”

“No.”

Daz waited.

Chloe smiled wider. “You don’t get anything else.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Nope.”

“Whose car?”

“Next question.”

“Man or woman?”

“Daz.”

“Were you wearing shoes?”

Chloe stared at him. “What?”

“I’m establishing the scene.”

“You’re an idiot.”

Daz turned toward the microphone. “For listeners just joining us, Chloe Love has refused to confirm whether she was wearing shoes when she first heard herself on the radio.”

“That’s tomorrow’s headline.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Chloe shook her head. “But yeah, I remember it. We were stopped at a light. Another car pulled up beside us and it was playing.”

“Your song?”

“My voice.”

“Different thing?”

“Completely.”

Daz didn’t interrupt.

Chloe glanced toward the studio window. “You spend all that time in a studio hearing yourself back through monitors, listening to the same line twenty times, arguing about whether something needs another harmony. Then suddenly you’re sitting at a traffic light and your voice is coming out of somebody else’s car.”

“What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I listened.”

“Did they recognise you?”

“No.”

“Better?”

“Much.”

Daz smiled. “That doesn’t happen anymore.”

“No.”

“Do you miss it?”

Chloe thought about that. “Sometimes.”

The first telephone line flashed.

Daz’s producer held up one finger and pointed toward the board.

Daz sighed theatrically. “We’ve apparently got somebody who claims they saw you before anybody knew who Chloe Love was.”

Chloe shrugged. “That narrows it down to several thousand people.”

Daz hit the button. “WAVE 105. You’re live.”

A young woman’s voice burst through the studio speaker. “Oh my God. Is that actually Chloe?”

Chloe leaned closer to her microphone. “No. She’s stuck in traffic. I’m filling in.”

The caller screamed.

Daz pulled his headphones farther from his ears. “Easy. We need the equipment tomorrow.”

“Sorry! Sorry. Chloe, I saw you at the Marlin Room like two years ago. There couldn’t have been more than sixty people there.”

Chloe smiled immediately. “The Marlin Room.”

“You remember it?”

“I remember the carpet.”

The caller laughed. “It was horrible!”

“It stuck to your shoes.”

“Yes!”

Daz pointed triumphantly at Chloe. “Shoes. We’re getting somewhere.”

Chloe looked across the desk. “Shut up.”

The caller laughed again. “Do you miss that? Playing somewhere tiny where you could actually see everybody?”

Chloe’s expression softened. “Yeah. I do.”

“Really?”

“Really. Big rooms are incredible. There’s nothing like thousands of people singing something back to you. But those tiny rooms tell you whether you’re actually any good.”

Daz nodded. “No giant lighting rig to save you.”

“No.”

“No explosions.”

“No.”

“No smoke.”

“Usually plenty of smoke.”

“Fair.”

Chloe leaned toward the microphone. “If sixty people were bored, you could see sixty bored faces. There was nowhere to hide.”

The caller hesitated. “You were amazing that night.”

Chloe smiled. “Thank you.”

“I knew you’d make it.”

Daz jumped in. “Did you buy the new record?”

“Of course!”

“Excellent. Chloe needs better calculators.”

The caller laughed.

Daz thanked her and cut the line.

Chloe sat back. “That was nice.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Daz shuffled several records beside him. “You don’t exist in a vacuum anymore. There’s a ridiculous amount of music happening right now.”

“Yeah.”

“I was told I’m supposed to ask who influenced the album.”

“That’s a boring question.”

“Thank you.”

“Ask something better.”

Daz smiled. “Who scares you?”

Chloe paused. “That is better.”

“Who do you hear and think, shit, I need to be better?”

“Power Ballad.”

Daz’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“Power Ballad scares Chloe Love.”

“Musically.”

“Important distinction.”

Chloe laughed. “They’re ridiculous.”

“They are.”

“They’re completely over the top.”

“Absolutely.”

“They make everything too big.”

“Definitely.”

“And somehow it works.”

Daz nodded. “That it does.”

“Listen underneath all of it. Jax Fury can play. Rex Blade knows exactly where to put a synth without drowning everything else. They’re not just throwing noise at a wall.”

Daz waited a fraction too long. “And Cade Maverick?”

Chloe looked at him.

There it was.

Daz smiled innocently. “What?”

“You did that deliberately.”

“I said his name.”

“You said it differently.”

“I said Cade Maverick.”

“Like you’ve discovered evidence.”

Daz turned toward the glass. “Did everybody hear that? I merely mentioned Cade Maverick and Chloe immediately began discussing evidence.”

“There is no evidence.”

“Interesting.”

“Of anything.”

“Even more interesting.”

Chloe pointed at him. “You’re starting rumours.”

“I am asking questions.”

“You haven’t asked one.”

Daz considered that. “Would you record with Cade Maverick?”

Chloe blinked.

Then smiled.

“Maybe.”

Daz sat back. “Magic City, I have done my work for the evening.”

“Oh, please.”

The telephone board erupted again.

The producer held up two fingers.

Daz looked through the glass, listened to something through one earcup, then looked delighted. “This is going to annoy you.”

Chloe immediately shook her head. “Then don’t do it.”

Daz hit the button. “WAVE 105.”

A male voice came through. “Daz, mate, ask her which member of Power Ballad she’d actually record with.”

Daz looked across at Chloe. “Thank you. You are doing God’s work.”

Chloe closed her eyes. “I’m hanging up.”

“You can’t.”

“Watch me.”

Daz protected the telephone controls with both hands.

The caller laughed. “Come on, Chloe. Jax? Rex? Cade?”

Chloe sighed. “If we’re talking purely musically?”

Daz nodded gravely. “Purely.”

“Jax.”

Daz looked disappointed. “Because?”

“He’d push the song somewhere I wouldn’t.”

“Rex?”

“I’d work with Rex tomorrow.”

Daz leaned forward. “Cade?”

Chloe looked at him.

Daz looked back.

The caller waited.

Half of Magic City waited.

Chloe leaned toward the microphone. “Next caller.”

Daz slapped the desk.

The engineer doubled over behind the glass.

Daz hit the button. “Thank you for calling WAVE 105. You may just have changed history.”

Chloe laughed. “Oh, fuck off.”

Daz killed the line. “Right. Moving on before somebody from your record company physically enters the building.”

“Good plan.”

“Arion Wylde.”

Chloe answered instantly. “Brilliant.”

“No hesitation.”

“None.”

“What is it?”

“He understands space.”

Daz nodded slowly. “Explain.”

“He doesn’t need every second of a song filled. He’ll let something sit there. A piano. A voice. A line. He trusts the listener enough not to hit them over the head with it.”

“Does that make you competitive?”

“Good music makes me competitive.”

“Jealous?”

“No.”

“Never?”

“What’s the point? If Arion makes a great record, my record doesn’t suddenly become worse.”

Daz smiled. “Annoyingly mature again.”

“I contain multitudes.”

“Apparently.”

Chloe shifted in her chair. “Good records make me want to make better records.”

“Who would you least like to follow onto a stage?”

“Power Ballad.”

“Because?”

“Have you seen how much equipment they use?”

Daz laughed. “You’d still be waiting for them to get the bloody thing off.”

“Exactly.”

“And Arion?”

“I’d follow Arion.”

“Confident.”

“He’d make everybody cry. I’d make them dance.”

Daz nodded thoughtfully. “Which brings us, inevitably, to Flamingo Panda.”

Chloe started laughing before he’d finished the sentence. “I knew you were going to do this.”

“I am a serious broadcaster.”

“You’ve been trying to make Flamingo Panda happen for months.”

“They are happening.”

“You say that every night.”

“Because every night I’m right.”

“The name is ridiculous.”

“The name is magnificent.”

“The name sounds like a cocktail.”

“A very successful cocktail.”

Chloe shook her head. “The record’s good.”

Daz stopped dead and pointed at her. “There.”

“What?”

“Say it again.”

“No.”

“You said the record is good.”

“I did.”

“WAVE 105 exclusive. Chloe Love endorses Flamingo Panda.”

“I said one record was good.”

“Too late. Posters are being printed.”

Chloe laughed.

Daz looked down at the new album. “You can hear a bit of that collision on this record though.”

“Yeah.”

“Rock. Pop. Club stuff. Synths. Big guitars.”

“That was the point.”

“Was there a point?”

“Not at first.”

“Good.”

Chloe picked up the sleeve. “I didn’t go in saying, this album has to sound like 1984.”

Daz gestured around the room. “Probably wise. We don’t know what 1984 sounds like yet.”

“Exactly. I just wanted it to move. Even the slower songs. I wanted everything to feel like it was going somewhere.”

Daz looked at her for a moment, then smiled. “Speaking of going somewhere.”

Chloe narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Heartbreak City.”

Her expression changed immediately.

Not dramatically.

Just enough.

Daz noticed.

“There it is,” Chloe said.

“The Heartbreak Residency.”

“Yep.”

“Nightly at nine.”

“You’ve seen the posters.”

“I’ve seen your face on buses.”

“That wasn’t my idea.”

“Three-storey billboards.”

“Also not my idea.”

“Your name in approximately seventeen thousand light bulbs.”

“Probably not my idea.”

“A theatre full of people apparently worshipping you.”

Chloe laughed. “Definitely not my idea.”

Daz leaned over the desk. “They say you own the place.”

“I don’t own anything in Heartbreak City.”

“Apparently Andy Speed owns the roads and you own the nights.”

Chloe looked sharply at him. “Who told you that?”

Daz smiled. “Sources.”

“You read it on a bathroom wall.”

“Sources.”

She laughed.

Daz looked down at the mixing desk. “What’s it actually like?”

“Different.”

“Helpful.”

“Magic City knows me.”

“And Heartbreak?”

Chloe thought about that.

“Heartbreak decided what I was before I did.”

Daz went quiet.

Chloe looked through the studio glass at Magic City outside. “You get there and your face is everywhere. Walls. Buses. Hotels. The Palace. You walk down the street and there’s another version of you twenty feet high looking back.”

“Terrifying.”

“A little.”

“You don’t enjoy it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Ah.”

Chloe smiled. “The first night at the Palace, you hear the room before you see it.”

“The crowd?”

“Everything. You’re backstage and it’s coming through the walls. Then the curtain opens and it’s just... there.”

She spread her hands slightly.

“Pink light. Blue light. Smoke. Thousands of people. That giant broken heart above the stage.”

Daz smiled. “And Chloe Love walks out.”

“And Chloe Love walks out.”

“Third person now?”

Chloe shrugged. “That’s Heartbreak.”

Daz laughed.

Chloe smiled at the memory. “It’s hard to explain. You can walk around Magic City and still find streets where nobody gives a shit who you are. Heartbreak doesn’t let you forget.”

“Because you’re everywhere.”

“Everywhere.”

“Do you like the city?”

“I love it.”

“You’d live there?”

Chloe hesitated. “Ask me again when it cools down.”

Daz laughed. “Desert not agreeing with you?”

“I walk out of the airport and immediately start negotiating with God.”

“Yet you keep going back.”

“The Palace.”

“That good?”

Chloe nodded. “That good.”

Daz picked up the sleeve again. “So after Heartbreak Palace, why come back to Magic City and do the Pink Flamingo?”

Chloe answered immediately. “Because Magic City came first.”

“That simple?”

“Yeah.”

“No grand artistic statement?”

“No.”

“No return-to-my-roots bullshit?”

Chloe smiled. “You said it, not me.”

Daz laughed.

Chloe leaned toward the microphone. “Heartbreak is huge. I love it. That room can swallow you whole if you let it. But the Pink Flamingo is different.”

“How?”

“I know what the floor smells like.”

Daz stared at her.

Chloe shrugged. “You asked.”

“That may be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said about a nightclub.”

“Put it on the poster.”

“I might.”

He glanced down the track list. “And now we actually have to get back to your album before your people accuse me of running a Heartbreak City tourism campaign.”

“I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

Daz tapped track eleven. “Love Runners.”

Chloe smiled. “Oh, we’re doing this one?”

“We absolutely are.”

He scanned the sleeve. “Rebel Lover. Love, Love, Love. Love Runners.”

“My name is Chloe Love.”

“That isn’t an excuse.”

“People keep buying it.”

“That isn’t an excuse either.”

“Seems like a pretty good one.”

Daz pulled the vinyl toward him. “Are these songs autobiographical?”

“Some.”

“Which?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No.”

“Is Love Runners?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s yes.”

“That’s maybe.”

“In radio, maybe means yes.”

“In life, maybe means maybe.”

“Not in my life.”

“That explains a lot.”

Daz positioned the needle. “Magic City, Chloe Love refuses to tell us who she’s running from, who she’s running with or whether Cade Maverick is involved.”

Chloe glared across the desk. “DAZ.”

Daz pushed the fader. “This is Love Runners.”

Daz brought the microphones back. “Right.”

Chloe was already shaking her head. “No.”

“I haven’t asked anything.”

“Your face has.”

“Is there a Love Runner?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Next question.”

“Specific man?”

“Next question.”

“Specific woman?”

“Next question.”

“Specific European disc jockey?”

Chloe stared at him. “Definitely not.”

“Cruel.”

The third telephone line began flashing.

Daz’s producer pointed at it and made a heart with her hands.

Daz frowned. “Oh, this looks terrible.”

Chloe glanced at the board. “What?”

“We have a gentleman.”

“No.”

“He claims to have a question.”

“No.”

Daz pressed the button. “WAVE 105. State your case.”

A confident male voice filled the studio. “Chloe.”

Chloe looked at Daz.

Daz shrugged.

Chloe leaned toward the microphone. “Hi.”

“My name’s Trey.”

“Hello, Trey.”

“I’ve got a red Corvette, reservations at Marino’s Friday night and two tickets for the Hurricanes game Saturday.”

Daz slowly removed his glasses.

Chloe bit her lip.

Trey continued. “So I’m thinking you and me should probably stop wasting time.”

Chloe leaned toward the microphone. “Trey?”

“Yeah, baby?”

Daz winced. “Don’t.”

Chloe smiled. “You sound very organized.”

“I am.”

“That’s good.”

“So Friday?”

“No.”

A pause followed.

Trey sounded genuinely confused. “What?”

“No.”

“But you haven’t even seen the Corvette.”

“I believe you.”

“It’s red.”

“That was the least surprising part.”

Daz covered his mouth.

Trey tried again. “I can pick you up at eight.”

Chloe shook her head. “No, you can’t.”

“Seven-thirty?”

Daz hit the button.

The line went dead.

Chloe burst out laughing. “What did you do that for?”

“Protecting broadcasting standards.”

“Jealous?”

“Deeply. I don’t own a red Corvette.”

“You could have let him finish.”

“He called you baby.”

“I had it handled.”

“I know. I was saving Trey.”

“From what?”

Daz pointed across the desk. “You.”

Chloe laughed again.

Daz picked up Dancing in the Neon Rain. “Let’s actually talk about this thing.”

“Finally.”

“Track one. Rebel Lover.”

“Yeah.”

“Why open with it?”

“Because it kicks the door in.”

“Technical term?”

“Very.”

“Then I Saw You on the Dancefloor. Title track at three. Electric Heart at four.”

“Big one.”

“Very big.”

“Big synths.”

“Very big synths.”

“I wanted something that sounded like electricity felt.”

Daz nodded. “Love, Love, Love.”

Chloe held up a finger. “Don’t.”

“Three Loves.”

“I can read.”

“Apparently it wasn’t enough to put it in your surname.”

“Move on.”

“Nowhere to Run But Her.”

Chloe’s smile softened.

Daz noticed. “That one means something.”

“One of my favorites.”

“Why?”

“It changed.”

“In the studio?”

“Completely. It started louder. Faster. We kept taking things away until there was nowhere left for the vocal to hide.”

Daz smiled. “You like nowhere to hide.”

“Sometimes.”

“Paradise Tonight.”

“Escaping.”

“From?”

“Everything.”

“Useful.”

“Very.”

Daz ran his finger farther down. “Self-Respect.”

Chloe looked at him. “Later.”

Daz registered it and moved on. “The Girls of Summertime.”

“Fun.”

“That’s your analysis?”

“Yep.”

“Months of professional music journalism destroyed by one word.”

“It’s supposed to be fun. Windows down. Friends in the car. Sun out. Nobody thinking about tomorrow.”

“WANTED.”

Chloe smiled.

Daz smiled back. “Capital letters?”

“Absolutely.”

“Why?”

“Because lowercase wouldn’t survive it.”

Daz nodded approvingly. “Excellent answer.”

He continued. “City of Fire. Euphoria. Nothing Can Break Us, featuring Katie Kaye. Then Love Runners, and eventually Pink and Blue Fever finishes everything.”

“Yep.”

“Which nearly didn’t make it?”

“City of Fire.”

Daz raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t get the chorus right.”

“So you cut it?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Put it back two days later.”

“Why?”

“I woke up at three in the morning knowing what was wrong.”

Daz nodded. “Deeply unhealthy.”

“That’s making records.”

“Which did you fight hardest for?”

Chloe looked down at the sleeve. “Self-Respect.”

Daz looked at her. “We’ll come back to that.”

“I know.”

He tapped track fourteen. “Katie Kaye.”

Chloe smiled immediately. “Yeah.”

“Only guest on the album.”

“Only one.”

“Why her?”

“Because the song needed another voice.”

“You have another voice.”

“Not mine.”

Daz waited.

Chloe turned the sleeve slowly in her hands. “Nothing Can Break Us doesn’t work if it’s one person saying it.”

“So it’s a conversation?”

“More like a promise.”

“And Katie?”

“She understood it immediately.”

“No rivalry?”

Chloe stared at him. “What?”

“Two women. Two singers. One microphone. Surely somebody threw a chair.”

She laughed. “Is that what you think happens?”

“I was hoping.”

“No screaming.”

“No?”

“No hair pulling.”

“Disappointing.”

“No sabotaged tea.”

Daz looked horrified. “Katie drinks tea?”

“No.”

“Then I withdraw my support.”

Chloe laughed. “She walked in, heard it once and knew where she belonged in it. That’s rare.”

“Would you work together again?”

“Absolutely.”

Daz nodded. “Good.”

He looked through the glass.

His producer held up four fingers.

Daz frowned. “Another call?”

Chloe looked at the board. “Take it.”

Daz listened briefly through one earcup and his expression changed.

The joking disappeared.

“This one came in when we mentioned Self-Respect.”

Chloe sat a little straighter. “Okay.”

Daz pressed the button. “WAVE 105. You’re live.”

A soft voice answered. “Hi.”

Daz’s tone softened. “Hi. What’s your name?”

“Lisa.”

“Where are you, Lisa?”

“Coral Gables.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

Daz glanced at Chloe. “Okay. You’re talking to Chloe.”

A small pause.

“Hi, Chloe.”

Chloe leaned toward the microphone. “Hi, Lisa.”

“I really like Self-Respect.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ve listened to it a lot.”

Chloe sat forward.

Lisa hesitated. “How do you know when somebody isn’t good for you anymore?”

The studio became completely still.

Even the engineer stopped moving.

Daz said nothing.

Chloe looked at the microphone, then at the blinking phone board, then back down.

“When you have to keep making excuses for the way somebody makes you feel, you already know.”

Lisa breathed out. “Yeah.”

Chloe’s voice remained gentle but direct. “You don’t need somebody else to give you permission to know it.”

“Okay.”

“And Lisa?”

“Yeah?”

“Being alone isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.”

Lisa was quiet for a moment. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Daz leaned toward his microphone. “Thanks for calling us, Lisa.”

“Bye.”

“Goodnight.”

He ended the call.

Nobody spoke.

Daz looked at Chloe.

Chloe looked back.

He reached for the record.

She smiled faintly. “No clever question?”

“No.”

“No joke?”

“No.”

“You feeling okay?”

Daz pointed at her. “Don’t ruin it.”

Chloe smiled.

Daz positioned the needle, looked through the glass and waited for the engineer’s nod.

He opened the microphone. “WAVE 105. Chloe Love. Self-Respect.”

The song ended.

Daz didn’t speak immediately.

The vinyl turned beneath the needle.

Once.

Twice.

He lifted it.

Daz looked across the desk. “That’s a bloody good record.”

Chloe held his gaze. “Thanks.”

Another beat passed.

Daz sat back. “Right. That’s enough emotional maturity for one evening.”

Chloe laughed. “There he is.”

“I was worried too.”

Outside, Magic City was still moving.

A taxi stopped beneath the WAVE 105 building. Three women spilled onto the pavement laughing, heels in their hands. A motorcycle screamed through an intersection. Somewhere toward the beach, heat lightning flickered behind gathering clouds.

Daz picked up the album again. “People with calculators.”

Chloe groaned. “We’re back to this?”

“We are.”

“You’re obsessed.”

“Because you’re avoiding it.”

“Avoiding what?”

“Platinum.”

“It’s not platinum.”

“I know.”

“Then stop calling it platinum.”

“I haven’t. I’m saying people who understand these things better than either of us think you might cross it before the month ends.”

Chloe looked down at the sleeve.

Daz watched her. “Does it matter?”

She didn’t answer immediately. “Yeah.”

Daz smiled slightly. “There it is.”

“Not the plaque.”

“No?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

“That people listened.”

Daz nodded.

Chloe ran one finger along the edge of the sleeve. “I remember worrying whether fifty people would turn up.”

“The Marlin Room.”

“Places smaller than that.”

“And now?”

“Now I walk past a car and hear myself coming out of it.”

“Like the traffic light.”

“Yeah. Except now sometimes they recognise me.”

“Terrible.”

“It can be.”

“Must be awful being beautiful and successful.”

“Devastating.”

“Thoughts and prayers.”

Chloe laughed. “But yeah. It matters. Of course it matters.”

Daz nodded. “Good.”

“Why good?”

“Because I’d have thought less of you if you pretended otherwise.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“You’re welcome.”

Daz turned the album over again. “Track three.”

Chloe knew exactly what was coming. “Finally.”

“Finally.”

He held the cover toward the glass. “Dancing in the Neon Rain.”

Chloe smiled.

Daz set it down. “Where did that come from?”

“The title?”

“The whole thing.”

Chloe thought about it. “Walking home.”

“In the rain?”

“No. Blazing sunshine.”

Daz stared at her.

Chloe laughed. “Yes, in the rain.”

“Thank God.”

“It was late. We’d been out. Everything had gone wrong.”

“What went wrong?”

“Everything.”

“Specific.”

“That’s all you’re getting.”

“Man?”

“Daz.”

“Woman?”

“Daz.”

“European disc jockey?”

“Definitely not.”

Daz grinned. “Continue.”

“I’d ruined my shoes. My hair was soaked. I was angry. Somebody had said something they shouldn’t have. I’d said several things I probably shouldn’t have.”

“Hard to imagine.”

“And then I stopped.”

“Why?”

“There was this sign across the street. Pink and blue.”

Daz glanced through the studio windows.

“And the rain was coming through it. Everything looked different.”

Chloe paused.

“The street was filthy. Trash in the gutter. Cars throwing water everywhere. I looked like hell.”

“I’m struggling to picture that.”

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

Chloe looked down at the album. “And I remember thinking, rain makes the lights look better.”

For once, Daz didn’t answer.

Chloe looked back at him. “That’s it.”

“That’s the album?”

“Kind of.”

“Explain.”

“Things don’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.”

Daz remained silent.

Chloe continued. “Sometimes the night goes wrong. Sometimes somebody hurts you. Sometimes you make the mistake. Sometimes you’re soaked and your shoes are ruined and you don’t know what you’re doing next.”

“And?”

“You dance anyway.”

Daz looked at the record. “That might be the first sensible explanation of an album title I’ve ever heard.”

“Put it on the poster.”

“I might.”

The fifth telephone line flashed.

His producer pointed at it, then held up five fingers.

Daz glanced at Chloe. “Last caller.”

“Go on.”

He punched the button. “WAVE 105. You’re our final victim.”

A woman’s voice came through. “Hi, Daz. Hi, Chloe.”

Chloe smiled. “Hi.”

“I’m calling from Fort Lauderdale. Is the June ninth show really happening? Because my sister says the Pink Flamingo thing is just a rumour.”

Chloe looked at Daz.

Daz smiled.

Chloe leaned closer to the microphone. “Your sister owes you an apology.”

The caller screamed.

Daz recoiled. “Again with the equipment.”

“Sorry!”

Chloe laughed. “Yes. June ninth. Pink Flamingo. Magic City.”

“Is it really for the new album?”

“Yep.”

“Can you say what you’re playing?”

“No.”

“Chloe!”

“Nice try.”

“Will you do I Saw You on the Dancefloor?”

Chloe looked at Daz.

Daz shrugged.

Chloe smiled. “I think we can probably find room for that one.”

The caller made a noise somewhere between laughter and another scream.

“What about Dancing in the Neon Rain?”

“Definitely.”

“Pink and Blue Fever?”

“Definitely.”

Daz pointed at the turntable. “Convenient.”

The caller laughed. “I’m getting tickets tomorrow.”

Chloe smiled. “Then I’ll see you there.”

“Oh my God.”

Daz reached toward the button. “Before we lose another telephone line, thank you for calling.”

“Love you, Chloe!”

“Love you too.”

Daz ended the call.

The remaining lines were still flashing.

Chloe looked at them. “Take another.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Power.”

She laughed.

Daz turned back toward Chloe. “So let me get this straight. You’ve got the Heartbreak Residency running, this album’s tearing off shelves, people are predicting platinum and on June ninth you’re coming back here to play the Pink Flamingo.”

“Correct.”

“Why?”

“I told you.”

“Because you know what the floor smells like.”

“Exactly.”

Daz shook his head. “I’m never letting that go.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Heartbreak Palace is what? Thousands of people? Giant production. Your name over the strip. Big cracked heart over the stage. Everybody treating you like royalty.”

Chloe leaned back. “That last part’s your description.”

“And then you come back here.”

“Yeah.”

“To a room where somebody probably still owes the bartender money from 1981.”

“Probably.”

Daz smiled. “Does it feel like coming home?”

Chloe thought about it.

This time the answer took longer.

“Yeah.”

Daz nodded.

Chloe looked through the window at Magic City. “Heartbreak makes you feel huge.”

“And Magic City?”

Chloe smiled. “Magic City remembers when you weren’t.”

Daz sat still for a second.

Then he pointed at her. “That’s going on the poster.”

“No.”

“It absolutely is.”

“Daz.”

“Too late.”

Chloe laughed.

Daz turned toward the record. “Right. Before your publicity department starts writing all this down and claiming they thought of it.”

He placed Dancing in the Neon Rain on the Technics.

“Magic City.”

Outside, the first drops of rain tapped against the studio windows.

Chloe heard them.

She turned.

Daz heard them too.

He looked through the glass.

Then at Chloe.

Then at the record.

A slow smile spread across his face.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Chloe laughed.

The rain came harder.

Daz leaned toward the microphone. “No record company arranged that.”

“Not unless they’re better than I thought.”

“WAVE 105. Chloe Love, live in the studio.”

He looked at her.

“Rain makes the lights look better.”

Chloe smiled.

Daz dropped the needle. “This is Dancing in the Neon Rain.”

Rain streaked the windows by the time the song ended.

Magic City beyond the glass had transformed.

Pink signs bled across wet asphalt. Blue motel lights stretched in broken reflections through intersections. Headlights smeared white across the boulevard. Palms shivered beneath the downpour.

Daz slowly brought the microphone up. “Well.”

Chloe looked outside. “Convenient.”

“Suspiciously convenient.”

“I told you.”

“You control weather now?”

“Contract renegotiation.”

“Platinum by May, meteorological powers by June.”

“That’s the plan.”

Daz laughed.

He glanced toward the clock.

Nearly an hour had disappeared.

“Nearly done.”

Chloe looked genuinely surprised. “Already?”

Daz pointed across the desk. “See? You enjoyed yourself.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’ve been professionally trained.”

“Right.”

Daz leaned back. “Last question.”

“Go.”

“What do you want?”

Chloe frowned. “That’s your last question?”

“Yep.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Answer it.”

“What do I want from what?”

“All of it.”

He gestured around them.

“The record. The shows. The people with calculators. Heartbreak. Pink Flamingo. The cars playing your songs. Whatever comes after June ninth.”

Chloe leaned back.

For the first time all night, she didn’t have an answer waiting.

Daz didn’t rescue her.

Outside, the rain kept falling over Magic City.

“I don’t know,” she said eventually.

Daz nodded. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Better than saying you want to be the biggest star in the world.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Do you?”

Chloe considered it.

Then shook her head. “No.”

“What, then?”

“I want the next record to be better.”

Daz smiled. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The dangerous answer.”

“Why?”

“Because people who want to be famous eventually get enough fame.”

“And?”

“People who want to get better never finish.”

Chloe looked at him. “That almost sounded intelligent.”

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe.”

Daz reached for the album one last time. “Fifteen tracks.”

“You can count.”

“We’ve established that.”

He ran his finger down the list. “Rebel lovers. Dancefloors. Electric hearts. Far too much love. Paradise. Self-respect. Summer girls. Wanted people. Love runners. Burning cities. Euphoria. Katie Kaye.”

He reached the bottom.

“And this.”

Chloe smiled. “Perfect.”

“Track fifteen.”

“Yep.”

“The closer.”

“Yep.”

“So it closes us.”

Daz pulled the vinyl free.

“Before I do, one more thing.”

Chloe looked suspicious. “What?”

“Power Ballad.”

She dropped her head. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Daz laughed. “I knew it!”

“Knew what?”

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Good.”

“Arion Wylde.”

“Brilliant.”

“Flamingo Panda.”

“Ridiculous name.”

“Great record.”

“I didn’t say great.”

“History will remember it as great.”

“You’re impossible.”

“And Heartbreak City?”

Chloe smiled.

Daz waited.

“Different.”

“Still helpful.”

“I’ll be back there.”

“I know.”

“Nightly at nine.”

“Look at you, remembering.”

Daz grinned. “And Chloe Love?”

She looked at him. “What about her?”

Daz smiled. “Ask me at the end of the month.”

Chloe understood immediately. “People with calculators?”

“People with calculators.”

She shook her head.

Daz placed Dancing in the Neon Rain onto the Technics.

The telephone lines were still flashing.

Rain hammered against the windows.

Magic City glowed beyond them, pink and blue reflections spreading across the streets until the whole city looked as if somebody had spilled the album cover across it.

Daz lowered the needle. “June ninth.”

Chloe leaned toward her microphone. “Pink Flamingo.”

“Magic City.”

“Be there.”

Daz opened the fader. “Chloe Love. Dancing in the Neon Rain.”

The needle touched vinyl.

“And this is Pink and Blue Fever.”

The song went out across Magic City.

Through dashboard speakers in sports cars crawling beneath the palms.

Through battered radios behind bars where nobody had called last orders.

Through bedroom stereos with aerials bent toward the city.

Through diners where coffee had been sitting too long and waitresses were counting tips beneath fluorescent lights.

Through garages.

Motel rooms.

Kitchens.

Clubs.

Cars.

Chloe Love rode above the rain.

Back in Studio A, Daz didn’t speak.

He let the record finish.

The final note disappeared.

The vinyl continued turning.

Then he opened the microphone.

“That was Pink and Blue Fever.”

A synthesizer exploded.

“Miami nights!”

A second voice answered.

“Neon lights!”

Drums crashed beneath layered vocals.

“From Magic City to Heartbreak City!”

A guitar screamed.

“GUN RUNNERS!”

“Only at OUTRUN BOOKS!”

The harmonies climbed.

“Retro fiction for the neon age!”

And then the whole station seemed to hit at once.

“WAAAAVE... ONE-OH-FIVE!”

The jingle detonated into its final synth-and-guitar sting.

The red light went dark.

OFF AIR.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Rain rolled down the glass.

Daz lifted the headphones from his neck and dropped them onto the desk.

Chloe looked at the album turning silently between them. “So, was I annoying?”

Daz stared at her. “That was supposed to be my line.”

Chloe smiled. “I know.”

“You’re getting annoyingly good at this.”

“I’ve been professionally trained.”

“Apparently.”

Chloe stood and pulled her jacket properly over her shoulders.

Daz looked up at her. “June ninth?”

“June ninth.”

“Pink Flamingo?”

“Don’t be late.”

“I never am.”

Chloe took two steps toward the studio door before stopping.

She looked back.

Daz was still sitting behind the desk.

She smiled. “Heartbreak on Monday.”

Daz raised an eyebrow. “Nightly at nine?”

“You have been paying attention.”

“Occasionally.”

“And then I’m back here.”

“For June ninth.”

“For June ninth.”

Daz nodded toward the rain pouring down the windows. “You know, after tonight, people are going to think you planned that.”

Chloe looked outside at the pink and blue reflections running across Magic City. “Let them.”

Daz smiled.

Chloe opened the studio door.

Then she stopped once more.

“Daz?”

“Yeah?”

“If it does go platinum...”

He waited.

Chloe smiled. “You’re not allowed to say you called it.”

Daz looked genuinely offended. “Absolutely not.”

“I mean it.”

“I will tell everyone.”

“I know.”

“And I’ll mention the calculators.”

“Especially the calculators.”

She laughed.

Then she was gone.

Daz watched the door close behind her.

The studio seemed strangely empty without her.

He looked at the album.

At the fifteen tracks printed across the back.

At the telephone board that had started flashing again even though the show was over.

And finally at the note his producer had left beside the turntable.

PLATINUM BY MONTH END?

Daz picked up a pen.

He crossed out the question mark.

Outside, Chloe Love stepped into a Magic City night drowning in rain and glowing pink and blue.

Heartbreak City waited for her.

June 9 was coming.

And the lights had never looked better.