“That so, cariño?” I lunged for him, wrestling him till he was begging for mercy.

Bea slipped out of bed and headed for the bathroom, saying over her shoulder, “We’re going to be late. It’s like I keep saying: something will—”

“—always go sideways,” Joe and I finished in unison.

Grumbling, I released him. Everyone thought we had so much fun as party promoters, but hosting raves was a lot of work. Especially since we moved them around from one abandoned building to the next.

Each time, we had to do a fresh setup—power, lights, sound, decorations, etc.—and we had to do it on the day of, else our equipment would get stolen.

We worked like beasts for hours before the rave even started, then pulled an all-nighter alongside the attendees. But we’d almost made enough money to travel over winter break.

When Joe rose from the bed, I watched him stretch with just as much heat as I had Bea. Who would’ve known?

He caught me leering at him in the mirror and the cocky cabrón smirked, so I threw a pillow at him.

He chucked it back. “I don’t care what we do after work, but tequila needs to be involved.”

Bea peeked out of the doorway. “Seconded.”

I nodded. “Motion carried.” We wouldn’t be together without the help of Cuervo.

Two years ago, Joe had fallen for Bea as hard as I had, trying to steal her from me, which had brought about the worst—and the best—day of my life.

Worst? Bea’s heart had been so torn between her boyfriend and her determined new suitor that she’d threatened to cut us both out of her life. I’d decided to fight him. Then I’d realized Joe—a linebacker in his undergraduate years—was a really big fucker who could probably kick even my ass.

Best? After some tequila, I’d muttered that she deserved to have us both. I’d been half-joking, but she’d agreed, telling us we could share her in and out of bed or never see her again!

Which left me and Joe to figure out the rest. Our love for Bea—and more tequila—got the three of us into bed together. To our surprise, it’d been amazing.

Life-altering.

I couldn’t survive without them both. I’d bought two rings. Tonight after work, I would ask them to marry me.

_______________

Our Roll into Classes Rave had been a blowout last year. Students had stayed up and gone to class still rolling.

We were hosting this year’s version—“Haunted Asylum”—in the basement of an abandoned mental ward outside of town, and expected an even larger turnout. As Joe had said, “Dude, the acoustics down here are sick.” After a few hiccups, he was turning into an excellent DJ.

For hours, we worked our asses off to prep the place. Sundown found us sweating, grimy, and sore, but in good spirits. By the light of our staging lamps, Joe was stacking a huge bank of speakers, while Bea organized the cash till and wristbands. I was securing one of the last lighting units to my effects truss.

During setup, Joe and Bea took care of the “guts,” and I perfected the “skin.” I was in charge of all the design effects, but rave lighting was my passion. From my console, I could control the focus, color, and intensity of the moving beams to amplify the energy of the music and manipulate the attendees’ emotions. Joe and Bea made fun of me, saying I got high on the power.

Now Joe rolled his head on his neck. “I’m finished with my rig.”

Bea said, “Other than trash cleanup, I’m set too.”

Joe squeezed my shoulder. “You need help, Spaniard?”

“I can fit two more light sets along this truss.” It would direct the focus to him. “Could you guys go grab them from the van?”

“We’re on it,” Joe said. He took Bea’s hand, and they headed up the stairs.

The three of us worked together seamlessly. Though I always forgot the cordless drill battery, Bea never failed to bring a backup. Joe made sure we drank enough Gatorade to stay hydrated for the long night ahead. I kept everyone on an even keel whenever something went sideways.

Bea was right; it always did.

I took off my shirt and wiped my face, surveying the area. We’d transformed the basement into a spooky rave paradise.

Drawing on first-hand accounts and grainy pics—I’d eagerly researched the gruesome history of this place—I’d painted rusted cell doors and bloody examination curtains. I’d dressed mannequins in gore-stained straightjackets (thanks, eBay). Bea, Joe, and I had spattered lab coats to wear as well.

In the promotion biz, presentation was everything.

I was beaming I was so proud of them. Of us.

Suddenly, a breeze gusted inside the area, scattering our trash pile of boxes and wrappers. I scratched my head. No way a wind could reach this basement, and it was too strong to be a draft.

Before I could determine the source of the wind, vertigo seized me. The room seemed to be spinning. No, I was spinning! Yet at the same time some kind of weight pressed down on my body.

What the hell is happening to me?

I felt like gravity affected me more than ever before! Pressure made my legs buckle. I went to my knees, my panicked gaze darting. That wind increased and grew hot, spiraling around me. The spinning sensation intensified. Any more, and I’d lose consciousness.

I tried to call for Joe and Bea. They were still outside, would never hear me down here. What was taking them so long?

Spinning, spinning. Blackness was about to overwhelm me! My eyes slid closed, and gravity made my body collapse. . . .