Off the Record: A Steamy Retro-Futuristic Nightclub Romance PREVIEW

Neo Cracovie looked best from a distance.

Joy leaned her hip against the hood of her car and looked out at the city sprawling along both banks of the Vistula.

From up here, she could almost believe someone had planned it as a coherent whole.

The old rooftops of the historic center basked in the warm light of sunset, with the slender towers of the newer districts rising above them. Glass shimmered pink and gold. Silver elevated trains glided between the buildings, their rounded cars like bullets from a hundred-year-old illustration. On one high-rise, an enormous illuminated ad shifted from turquoise to peach, and geometric flowers unfurled across the facade to advertise some perfume.

Below, the river gleamed.

And through it all ran the gentle bustle of a city that apparently never thought it was a good time to slow down. A little absurd. A little beautiful.

A few yards away, a couple set a small recording orb on the stone railing. As the device rose silently into the air, the girl smoothed her flared dress, and fine neon threads lit up the traditional floral embroidery at her collar. The guy slipped an arm around her waist, and they smiled in unison as the orb flashed.

Joy glanced at them, then back at the skyline.

For a photo?

Perfect.

For actually living here?

Less so.

She’d moved here for her career.

Neo Cracovie had recording studios, labels, clubs, producers, and enough people who knew the right people to make her wonder sometimes whether anyone here had ever landed a job without a connection.

It also had rents that made her suspect she ought to be getting an ownership stake in the building, crowds at almost any hour, and residents who took a three-minute express train delay as a personal insult.

If anyone asked Joy where she’d like to grow old in peace someday, her answer probably wouldn’t be Neo Cracovie.

But for now, it worked.

The wind swept her hair over her shoulder, revealing cool violet and muted pink beneath the darker outer layers. The platinum strands framing her face caught the last of the light before she brushed them off her cheek.

Behind her, the car quietly unlocked its doors. She turned toward it.

With its cream body, chrome trim, rounded hood, and taillights shaped like little fins, it looked as though it had driven straight out of a catalog from decades ago. The technology beneath all that retro styling, though, was very much of its time.

It drove itself, parked itself, and, in Joy’s opinion, was sometimes far too eager to decide which route was best for her.

Joy slid behind the wheel, surrounded by the familiar smell of the upholstery and the sweet perfume she’d applied a little too enthusiastically that morning. The pale seats contrasted with the dark dashboard, its smooth, seemingly blank surface lighting up with screens a moment later.

Fine lines spread across the interface in a soft amber glow, revealing touch controls exactly where they should be. Joy swiped a finger across the panel.

“Heading home?” the system asked.

Joy looked through the windshield at the city.

“Not yet.”

“Where to?”

“I don’t know. Head downtown.”

The car pulled away smoothly.

Joy reclined her seat and opened the first playlist the system suggested. She wasn’t going to put any thought into the music.

A few seconds later, a voice she knew all too well came through the speakers.

Joy slowly shifted her gaze to the screen.

IGO. The album art pulsed gently to the music. No face. No figure. Just abstract ribbons of light and the artist’s name.

Over the past few months, Igo had been practically everywhere. Her music was on the biggest music channels, in private streams, and on club playlists, while short projections circulated online, drawing more reactions from listeners. She was all over the charts, too, and the new-artist lists that seemed to multiply by the day.

Her face and identity were still unknown.

Joy rolled her eyes.

“Skip.”

The song cut off, and the next one kicked in.

It was her day off. She wanted to unwind a little and, for one evening, switch her brain off.

**** ****

By the time she reached downtown, the sun had set.

The car moved slowly through one of the busier neighborhoods, passing restaurants, little shops, and bars squeezed between much older buildings.

Neo Cracovie looked completely different at night.

The warm lighting on the historic buildings mingled with pastel neon. Above a clothing store entrance, a luminous projection of a couple in outfits inspired by traditional Kraków dress slowly revolved. Except the embroidery on the man’s vest moved across the fabric as though it were alive, and the wide sleeves of the woman’s outfit ended in sheer panels.

Several people crossed the street in front of the car, including a woman in a short, flared dress with a high collar. A pattern reminiscent of Łowicz paper cutouts shimmered with every step she took, while the man beside her wore a simple blazer with an asymmetrical fastening and sneakers.

A few blocks later, Joy decided that since she’d come downtown, she might as well get something to eat. She glanced at the car’s screen.

“Find me some food.”

The system brought up suggestions almost immediately, but she lost interest after the first few. Too expensive, too healthy, or closed. Was it really that hard to find something good without having to think about nutritional value?

“Street food, then.”

This time, one glance at the updated list was enough to make her smile.

“Oh, yes.”

A few minutes later, the car stopped on a side street beside a short row of storefronts. Joy stepped out, pleased with her choice. It was pretty nice outside.

The smell of fried batter and spices reached her before she even got to the serving window.

“Two corn dogs.”

The vendor looked at her.

“Classic?”

“Of course.”

She tapped her wrist against the payment terminal and started on the first corn dog almost immediately.

With the second corn dog in hand, she left the little arcade and stepped onto the still-warm street. The air smelled of fried food, sun-warmed stone, and sweet pastries from a nearby bakery. Colorful ads drifted overhead, a little less extravagant than the ones in the heart of downtown. Joy walked at an easy pace, absorbed in her food, until burgundy letters lit up across the street.

OFF THE RECORD

She stopped with the corn dog in her hand. An odd name for a club, though she had to admit the sign looked good. Plain letters sat inside a chrome frame, and every few seconds, a thin line of light beneath them split and slid apart like a visualization of a badly missed note.

“What a cheesy name,” she said with a quiet laugh, swallowing a bite.

A dozen or so people were waiting outside. Not too bad. Some looked as though they’d come straight from work; others had clearly dressed for a long night. Among the short dresses, shimmering fabrics, and blazers inspired by decades-old fashions, one long, kimono-like jacket stood out, decorated with delicate neon flowers.

Joy glanced back toward the car. She really should be heading home, but she didn’t have any plans anyway. One drink couldn’t hurt.

She finished her corn dog and headed for the entrance.

Inside, it was nicer than the name suggested.

Joy had expected somewhere desperate to prove how trendy it was, with mirrored walls, in-your-face projections, and premium tables surrounded by light barriers so no one could possibly forget who’d paid more to get in.

Instead, she found dark wood, brass accents, chrome, and the soft glow of frosted globes suspended from the ceiling. The air was cooler than it had been outside and smelled distinctly of citrus and alcohol.

It was still early. Most of the tables were empty, though the bar was slowly filling up. Music played in the background, loud enough to fill the room without making everyone lip-read whenever they ordered.

Joy’s gaze lingered on a moving pattern of light on one wall, inspired by traditional paper-cut folk art. Flowers scattered into geometric fragments, then came together again.

At least someone here had taste.

Pleased with the discovery, she walked up to the bar.

“A mojito. With rum, I’m begging you.”

The man behind the bar looked up from the glass he was drying and laughed.

Joy held up a hand.

“I’ve had a few made with vodka, unfortunately, and I’m not looking to repeat the experience.”

He set the glass down.

“Sounds traumatic.”

“Deeply.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Joy settled onto a tall stool and studied him as he reached for the rum on the top shelf. He looked a little older than her, though he could have been thirty-five or well past it. She’d never been particularly good at guessing ages, and this guy wasn’t making it easy.

Dark blond hair, a short beard, and the face of a man who’d spent enough years working nights to have seen every variety of human stupidity. He wore a black T-shirt that looked ordinary enough until he raised his arm and the fabric pulled tight around it. Joy would happily have kept looking right there, but the tattoo running along his forearm proved a very effective distraction.

She stared at it a little too long. When she looked up, he was already looking straight at her, so she tucked a platinum strand behind her ear and turned her attention to the drink he was making.

That was the plan, anyway. The mint, lime, ice, and rum soon lost their appeal. His hands, on the other hand, did not. He moved easily, clearly well past the point of having to think about mixing a cocktail, and when he turned to get another ingredient, Joy felt no particular guilt about checking out the rest of him, too.

Only when he looked at her again did she swivel on her stool and notice the stage. It was bigger than the usual DJ setup, with microphones, instruments, and a proper sound system. There was even a grand piano against the side wall, though a small control panel suggested its age had more to do with the design than the technology.

A man was fussing with one of the microphones, adjusting its height. Joy gestured toward him.

“You have live music here?”

The bartender nodded.

“The boss lets anyone who wants to sing use the stage. Most of them are terrible.” He smiled. “Gets worse as the night goes on.”

Joy laughed.

“Right. Is that where the name comes from?”

He nodded and slid the mojito toward her.

Joy took a sip.

Rum. Good.

The mint was fresh, the lime sharper than she’d expected, and the rum left a pleasant warmth on her tongue.

“Something wrong with the name?” he asked.

His gaze stayed on her. Joy caught her lower lip lightly between her teeth.

“Not at all. I think it fits.”

She ran her fingers over the cool glass.

He watched her for another moment before moving off to serve a couple who’d just taken seats a few stools down. Joy stayed with her drink, happy to have nowhere she needed to be. The club was slowly filling up, conversations at the tables were getting louder, and every so often she glanced toward the bar.

He didn’t look like a man who made much effort to impress anyone. Which made it all the more irritating that he apparently didn’t have to. Joy also suspected she’d caught him stealing a few equally discreet looks.

Before she could come up with another excuse to talk to him, the first singer appeared onstage. He walked on with little introduction and caught her attention right away.

He wasn’t bad. He had a pleasant voice, stayed in key, and clearly wasn’t new to performing in front of an audience. A few people soon gathered near the stage, someone started clapping along, and a couple swayed beside their table.

Joy sipped her mojito. She could listen to this.

After the first performance, another man took the stage. He moved with a confidence Joy found wildly excessive from the very first second.

He grabbed the microphone, and a small projection screen unfurled above his wrist.

“Make sure you follow my channel!”

Joy frowned.

For the next thirty seconds, she had to listen to where she could find him, what she could listen to, and when his new material was dropping.

Then he finally started singing.

The first note was too low. The second was too high. By the third, Joy had closed her eyes. It didn’t help.

“Christ,” she muttered.

The bartender came closer and rested a hand on the bar, his sleeve pulling tight around his bicep. Joy let her gaze travel over it and took a larger sip of her drink, deciding that coming here had definitely been worth it after all.

“And this is just the beginning. They’re still sober,” he said.

She laughed.

“You could always carry them out.”

He raised an eyebrow.

Joy gestured at him with her glass.

“You look more like a bouncer than a bartender.”

A faint smile touched his lips.

Joy smoothed her hair and leaned a little closer.

He looked at his own arm, then back at her.

“I’ve carried out a few unruly customers now and then.”

He could carry her out, too. She cleared her throat.

He leaned in, planting both hands on the bar. Only then did she really register the difference in their height. Even on the tall stool, she had to tip her chin up a little.

“Gets me a few compliments, too.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks.

“Oh, does it?”

In the background, the singer was committing another crime against the melody.

Joy winced.

“Someone’s killing the mood.”

The bartender straightened and folded his arms. She shouldn’t look at them now. She really shouldn’t. She looked anyway. Discreetly.

“The mood?” he repeated. “Can’t decide who’s more out of their depth. The little guy trying to sing or the young woman trying to flirt.”

Joy went still.

“Out of my depth?!” That came out a little too high.

The nerve of this guy.

He just shrugged.

Joy set down her glass, still outraged by his audacity. Handsome or not, the man clearly needed to be taken down a peg.

“I’ll show you.” She drained her mojito and slid off the stool. “Out of my depth. Who said anything about flirting?”

He looked genuinely amused, which only made her more certain she was about to have a lot of fun at his expense. She pointed to the leather jacket hanging on his side of the bar.

“Give me your jacket.”

He studied her in silence for a moment, and Joy used the time to dig a pair of sunglasses out of her bag. Thank God she was wearing a hoodie.

Eventually, he passed the jacket across the bar. It was heavier than she’d expected, made of real leather, an increasingly rare choice in a world dominated by lightweight synthetics. When she slipped her arms into the sleeves, they almost covered her hands. At the collar, she caught the familiar smell of leather and something else, clean and subtle, that had to be his.

She was absolutely not going to examine why she liked it so much right now. She pulled up her hood, put on the sunglasses, and adjusted the jacket on her shoulders. The bartender watched the preparations with obvious interest, but Joy had no intention of giving away her plan before she got onstage.

The man was still singing.

Unfortunately.

Joy made her way through the increasingly crowded room, squeezing between tables and sidestepping a woman whose high collar was edged with glowing thread. She passed the group gathered in front of the stage and climbed the steps just as the singer reached his final notes.

She stopped beside him and held out her hand.

“Jesus. Give it a rest already.”

He looked at her, utterly bewildered.

Joy took the microphone from him. A few people in front of the stage laughed.

“Now let me show you how it’s done.”

She turned toward the bar. Toward him.

He was looking straight at her.

She smiled.

“Let’s see who’s out of their depth,” she said quietly, but the mic picked it up.

A few shouts rose from the crowd. Someone whistled.

Joy turned to the band.

She picked an older song.

The musicians picked it up almost immediately.

The opening notes came through the speakers, a low bass vibrating beneath her feet as warm light flooded the stage. In an instant, everything else stopped mattering, even the irritating man behind the bar. There was only the music.

She raised the microphone and sang the first line, and conversations at the nearest tables began to fade. By the second, several people had turned toward her. By the chorus, almost no one was looking anywhere else.

She didn’t have to think about what she was doing.

The microphone felt right in her hand. The monitors were surprisingly good, and the room’s acoustics were much better than she would have expected from a club called Off the Record.

Someone let out a cheer, and another voice joined in. Joy smiled without missing a lyric. This was what she loved most: the moment a room started responding to the music.

The first phones went up in front of the stage as people started recording her. When she tilted her head, her hood slipped a little lower over her forehead, though the sunglasses still hid much of her face.

By the next chorus, the crowd was louder still. People moved closer to the stage, and one of the hovering cameras drifted sideways, trying to find a better angle.

Joy glanced toward the bar.

The bartender wasn’t smiling anymore. He was just watching her.

Joy held his gaze.

For one line. Then another. She sang the last line of the song straight to him.

The music stopped.

For a split second, the club was silent.

Then the room erupted in applause. Someone shouted something from in front of the stage, but Joy didn’t even catch what it was.

She laughed, handed the microphone back to the bewildered man, and went down the steps.

“And that’s how it’s done.”

She squeezed through the crowd and made her way back to the bar.

The bartender hadn’t moved.

She stopped in front of him and put her hands on her hips.

“Well, Mr. Bartender?” He said nothing for a moment. Joy felt her smile widen. “Who’s out of their depth now?”

She took off her sunglasses and pushed back her hood, then shrugged out of his jacket. The heavy leather slid from her shoulders, exposing the back of her neck to the club’s cooler air. Still pleased with herself, she set it on the stool. Only then did she notice that the audience’s interest hadn’t ended with the song.

Several people were still watching her. Others were talking among themselves, and one girl was replaying the recording on a small screen above her palm. She glanced at Joy, compared her with the image, and went back to watching.

Great. She might have gotten a little too carried away.

Oops. It happens.

Joy fixed her hair and recovered her earlier, carefree smile. She wasn’t going to stick around until someone decided to take a closer look at her face, though.

“Oops. Looks like I livened up your evening.” She gave him a little wave. “Bye, Mr. Bartender.”

Without waiting for an answer, she headed for the exit. Behind her, she could still hear conversations and the music starting up again, and one of the hovering cameras flashed above the crowd. She tugged her hood a little lower and left before anyone could stop her.

**** ****

Justin was still looking toward the entrance.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then he lowered his gaze to the leather jacket she’d left on the stool.

“That… definitely wasn’t off beat,” he said quietly to himself.

“Boss, did you see that?!” One of his employees appeared beside him, clearly still in shock. “That was fucking amazing.”

Justin ran a hand over his chin and looked back at the empty stage. A slow smile spread across his face.

**** **** ****

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