The drive to Westlake Recording Studios felt like a fever dream unfolding at eighty miles per hour. Dave sat deep in the butter-soft leather of the SUV's rear seat, his hands—larger, darker, and decorated with tattoos he didn't remember getting—resting on his knees. The interior was a haze of expensive smoke as Hood passed a blunt back and forth with a guy Dave didn't recognize. The bass from the speakers was so heavy it made his teeth ache, a rhythmic thumping that seemed to mock the frantic pitter-patter of his own heart.
He was trying to play it cool, leaning his head back and closing his eyes as if he were deep in thought, but every muscle in this new, powerful body was coiled tight. He was David Burd, a man who worried about the sodium content of his salad dressing. Now, he was wrapped in the skin of a man who lived for the chaos.
"You good, Breezy?" Hood asked, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "You been quiet since we left the crib. That crash still got your head spinning?"
Dave cleared his throat, the sound emerging as a rich, effortless baritone that still startled him. "Yeah," he muttered, trying to find that specific Virginia-to-LA drawl Chris used. "Just... processing. Everything looks a little different today, you know?"
"I bet. You cheated the Reaper, man. Take your time," Hood said, slapping him on the shoulder with enough force to bruise Dave's old frame, but in this body, he barely felt it.
When they arrived, the studio was already crawling with people. It wasn't just the engineers; it was a curated crowd of "friends," models, and hangers-on who made up the ecosystem of a superstar. Dave stepped out, his boots hitting the pavement with a solid thud. He felt the weight of the diamond chains around his neck—millions of dollars of insurance-verified vanity—clinking against his chest.
Inside, the lights were dimmed to a deep, moody purple. In the corner of the lounge, sitting on a velvet sofa with a glass of champagne in her hand, was Amara. She wasn't a world-famous pop star, but she was a regular in Chris's world—a high-fashion model with eyes like a predator and a reputation for being the only person who could handle Chris when he was in a mood.
She stood up as soon as she saw him, her gaze scanning him with an intensity that made Dave want to tuck his shirt in. "Look who's back," she said, her voice a low, dangerous purr.
She walked over and draped her arms around his neck. Dave stood frozen for a split second, his Dave-brain screaming social distancing, before he remembered he was supposed to be the aggressor here. He awkwardly placed his hands on her waist.
"I missed you," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. She didn't wait for a reply. She grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the private lounge at the back of the studio, past the control room where the engineers were already pulling up the vocal tracks.
The door clicked shut, sealing them in a room that smelled of jasmine and expensive cognac. Amara didn't waste time. She pushed him back against the door, her hands immediately going to the waistband of his jeans.
"I thought I lost you," she breathed, her eyes dark with a hunger that terrified and exhilarated him. "I saw the car on the news. I thought... I thought it was over."
She started to work, her movements practiced and demanding. She pushed his hoodie up over his chest, her tongue tracing the lines of his tattoos, biting at the skin of his shoulder. Dave felt a surge of pure, biological electricity. This body responded to her in a way his old one never could. He felt his pulse thrumming in his neck, his breath hitching.
She dropped to her knees, her fingers nimble as she unbuttoned his pants. Dave leaned his head back against the wood of the door, his eyes fluttering shut. This was the "perks" he had seen in the music videos, but the reality was far more visceral. She was taking charge, her mouth hot and demanding as she teased him, her tongue circling him with a precision that made his toes curl. She reached back, her nails lightly scratching against his thighs before her hand moved lower, gently cupping and kneading his balls. The sensation was overwhelming; Dave felt like he was losing his grip on who he was.
"You're... you're really good at this," he gasped, his voice breaking.
Amara paused, looking up at him with a frown, her lips wet. "What did you just say?"
Dave's heart skipped. Shit. Chris wouldn't say that. "I mean... I missed this. I missed you doing that," he recovered, his voice dropping into a deeper, more arrogant tone.
She didn't seem entirely convinced, but she didn't stop. She stood up, her eyes never leaving his, and stripped off her dress in one fluid motion. She pushed him toward the sofa, climbing onto his lap, her hands pinning his wrists down. She was a silhouette of curves in the purple light.
As she lowered herself onto him, Dave felt a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure. It was different than anything he'd ever felt. It wasn't just the physical act; it was the power of it. He felt like he could do this for hours. But as she moved, her rhythm becoming more frantic, she leaned down, her hair brushing against his face.
"You're moving different," she whispered, her voice suspicious. "Usually you're more... aggressive. You're just laying there like you're scared of me."
Dave panicked, his mind racing for an excuse. He reached up, grabbing her hips and pulling her closer, trying to match her energy with a sudden, desperate burst of movement. "I told you... the crash. My back is a little stiff, Amara. I'm trying not to snap something."
She laughed, a sharp, throaty sound, and bit down on his lower lip until he tasted copper. "Fine. I'll do the work tonight. Just stay still and enjoy being alive."
She took control again, her body a blur of motion. She leaned forward, her breasts pressing against his chest, her hands moving all over him, licking his neck and biting at his earlobes. Dave felt himself slipping away, the identity of David Burd drowning in a sea of dopamine and silk. By the time they finished, he was shaking, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.
They lay there in the dark for a long time, the only sound the distant thump of the bass from the studio next door. Amara traced the tattoo on his hand, her expression thoughtful. "You really did change, didn't you? There's something... soft in your eyes. I don't hate it. But don't let the guys see it. They'll think you lost your edge."
Dave nodded, unable to speak. He stood up, his legs feeling like jelly, and began to get dressed. He felt a strange sense of shame mixed with the euphoria. He had just lived a dream, but it wasn't his dream.
He walked back out into the studio, his head down, trying to avoid the knowing smirks of the entourage. He stepped into the vocal booth, the heavy door clicking shut, and looked through the glass at Tone.
"You ready now?" Tone asked, grinning. "Or you need another hour?"
"I'm ready," Dave said, his voice cold and focused.
The beat started, and for the first time, Dave didn't think about being Chris. He didn't think about being Dave. He just thought about the sensation of the girl, the smell of the room, and the terrifying realization that he was starting to like this. He opened his mouth and the song poured out of him—not as a rapper, but as a man who had just tasted a life he was never meant to have.
The session lasted until 5:00 AM. By the time they left, the sun was a pale sliver on the horizon. Dave sat in the back of the SUV, the gold iPhone in his hand. He scrolled past the news about "David Burd" in the coma. He didn't want to think about the hospital. He didn't want to think about the thin, pale man hooked up to machines.
He looked at his reflection in the tinted window. He looked like a king. And as the gates of the mansion opened to welcome him home, he realized with a jolt of pure terror that he didn't want to leave.