chapter 4
Sebastian
BACK IN THE CLUB, I look for Lucas in our booth, but I don’t find him there. I turn, scanning the crowd, searching the mass of bodies for a flash of floppy pale hair. And I eventually find him at the bar, but he’s with a different girl now.
And he’s still drinking.
Shit.
Before Lucas and I left the hotel, Michael warned me not to let Lucas get shit-faced, and I got so distracted by Mirage that I’m pretty sure I’ve failed at my job.
But how could I not get distracted by her?
When she first stepped onto the stage, my eyes were immediately drawn to her, like everything in my periphery went dark and she was all I could see.
Even now, I find myself wanting to glance back, to get my eyes on her just one more time.
She seemed in a hurry to leave though. Maybe my dick made her uncomfortable.
I didn’t mean to get hard on her like that, but I couldn’t control myself. Even now, I’m still partially hard.
“Idiot,” I grumble as I cross the floor, weaving through drunk men and half-naked women. I step up to Lucas before he even realizes I’m there, one hand clapping down on his shoulder. “I think it’s time to go,” I say.
He looks up at me, eyes glazed in that way they get when he’s had too much to drink. The girl he’s with tips her head and pouts, popping one hip.
“Already?” she asks. “It was just about to get interesting.”
“You go,” Lucas says. “But I’m staying.”
He turns back to the woman, one hand on her waist, the other clutching a bottle of beer.
But I don’t give up. Instead, I wrap my arm around Lucas’s shoulders, giving him a hug that obviously makes him annoyed, given the irritable grumble that slips out of him.
“We,” I say, “have a plane to catch. And you’re always grumpy when you don’t get your sleep.” I look at the woman. “He’s kind of a man baby like that.”
Her lips flick up in a smile.
Lucas shakes me off, and when I look down at him, he flexes his jaw, anger flickering across his face.
Lucas is smaller than me, but he’s no joke in a brawl.
He used to fight when we were younger, before he found purpose in music instead of senseless violence.
I can’t count the number of times he came back to our shitty apartment with a busted lip and bloody knuckles.
And tonight, under the neon lights, it looks like he’s drifting, forgetting who he is now in favor of who he used to be.
It makes concern thread through me.
So I soften my tone, shift my tactics. Pushing Lucas too hard never results in anything but a mess, like shaking a beer bottle before popping the top. “Come on, man. I’m exhausted. I need food and sleep. Let’s get pizza.”
He holds my gaze for a long moment, the club’s lights flashing across his face and the piercings running the length of one ear. Then he draws a breath, sets his beer on the bar, and takes his hand off the girl’s waist.
“Fuck. All right.”
With a sigh, the dancer flicks her hair and walks away, leaving the two of us alone.
“You call the car?” Lucas asks. He slumps a bit, and I can tell he’s tired, even if he won’t admit it.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell, then send a text to our driver. “Yeah. He’ll be out front in five.”
“I’m gonna piss. Meet you out there.”
“Okay.”
Lucas walks away, and I watch him go. He’s not stumbling, so I caught him before he drank too much. Thankfully. Now Dex and Michael won’t be pissed at us in the morning.
I head for the front door, my exhaustion from the Vegas heat and our show finally starting to catch up to me. But before I can step into the entryway, I catch sight of her again.
Mirage.
She’s standing across the club, talking to another man, her sparkly top shimmering in the lights. He must be funny—probably funnier than me—because she tips her head back and laughs.
Then her gaze flicks in my direction, and she meets my eyes.
For a brief moment, the smile she wears falters.
And in that spark of a second, I know the truth.
She’s not a mirage.
She’s real.
And I have to see her again.
THE FOUR OF US WERE supposed to leave this morning, but I told the guys I wasn’t going with them.
Our agent and go-to woman, Ashton Montgomery, almost had a conniption when I told her.
She was not happy about having to figure out a new flight and travel plans for me.
But I buttered her up the best way I know how: a big breakfast, complete with pancakes and a lavender mimosa.
And after that, she was much more sympathetic to my plight, even though I refused to tell her why I wanted to stay in Vegas another day.
Now it’s Sunday night, and I’m back in the club, but I’m not in the VIP booth this time.
I’m wearing a ball cap pulled low over my eyes, and no one has recognized me.
Of everyone in the band, Dex and Lucas get recognized the most, with me and Michael being somewhat forgettable.
But that works in my favor most of the time.
Like now, while I sit at the bar and try not to look like a total fucking creep as I scan the club for her.
For Mirage.
I haven’t seen her yet. It was probably stupid to postpone going back to LA without even confirming that she’s working tonight. I may have given Ashton a stress attack for nothing.
I’ll have to apologize when I get back home.
Slowly, I lift my water glass and take a sip. There’s a two-drink minimum to get in here, which I paid, but tonight, I’m sticking to drinking water. The desert and alcohol aren’t a great mix, and I’m running on way less sleep than I need to function like a normal human being.
But I couldn’t leave without seeing her again. Or without at least trying to.
Last night, I dreamt of her. She was holding my hand, leading me through Death Valley, dressed in nothing but a sheer blue robe.
I was barefoot, skin burning, stumbling after her, but she moved through the sand like a sidewinder, like the desert is where she belongs.
And just before the dream ended, she looked back at me over her shoulder, wisps of black hair blowing across her face, and said, “I’m not real, Sebastian. I’m just a mirage.”
My fingers tighten around my water glass.
I know how it goes with strippers. They’re the best actresses in the world. So it’s even more stupid for me to be sitting here, hoping to see her, hoping that maybe she might want to see me again.
Even if it’s just for the cash waiting in my wallet.
Another dancer gets introduced on the main stage, but I’m barely watching the show.
I should probably just leave, head back to the hotel and—
“Miss me?” a voice says to my right.
And I know that voice. It sends a burst of nervous excitement through me.
I turn, and she’s on the barstool next to me, chin propped in her hand, long dark eyelashes brushing her cheeks every time she blinks.
She’s wearing a lacy skin-tight one-piece, and it makes her skin look even darker bronze in this light.
Her legs are crossed, and she bounces her high-heeled foot as she stares at me, waiting.
For an embarrassingly long moment, I’m at a loss for words. It’s like her beauty chases all my brain cells away. Finally, I’m able to say, “How’d you know it was me?”
Mirage reaches out and squeezes my bicep through my T-shirt, then arches a brow. “I’d know these guns anywhere.”
My lips inch into a smile. “You probably tell all the guys that.”
She shrugs. “Yeah. But with you, it’s actually true.” Her gaze shifts to my water glass and two untouched bottles of beer. “Going hard tonight, hmm?”
I run a thumb along my glass, which is cool and wet against my palm. “Yeah. Real rager.”
Her lips turn up in the corners—not a full smile, but at least looking like they might want to shape one.
Then she asks me the question I’ve been tossing around in my head since I sat down.
“What are you doing here?”
Her blue eyes are rimmed in dark eyeliner and mascara, and there’s a gem at the outside corner of each. Staring into her eyes, I get the feeling she could probably hypnotize me with her gaze.
“I . . . couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
There’s a flicker of something across her face, but it’s there and gone before I can place it. And besides, I’ve never been very good at reading women’s expressions. Maybe it’s one of the reasons I get dumped so often.
I’m so fucking lame, and I’m certain she knows it.
“If that’s the case . . .” She eases off her barstool and holds out a hand. “How about we go back to our room?”
Our room. Probably another thing she says to all her regulars. But it works, because I’m sliding off my stool before I can stop myself, taking her hand, and following her back down that same hallway as last night.
As she walks ahead of me, I notice just how small she is. Even in those crazy heels she’s got on, she’s still shorter than me. Without the heels, she must be a tiny little thing.
Tiny enough for me to wrap in my arms. For me to—
“After you.” Mirage waves me through the open door and into the same room as last night.
This time, though, after she closes the door and goes to the little glowing panel on the wall to select her music, I say, “Can we just . . . talk?”
Her finger goes still on the panel.
Before she can walk out, I quickly say, “I’ll still pay. I just . . .” I reach up and adjust my ball cap, feeling more pathetic by the second. “I don’t know. I’m an idiot. I just wanted to get to know you, I guess.”
She still hasn’t turned to face me. Maybe she’s completely creeped out by this right now. I probably would be if I were in her position.
Without saying anything, she selects a song, and as it starts to bleed through the speakers, she turns to face me.
Her lips are pressed together, blue eyes slightly narrowed.
But she doesn’t look afraid of me, or like she’s going to call those two big security guards I saw near the main stage to throw me out.
Instead, she crosses the room and eases onto the couch next to me.
Overhead, the song is a Nirvana cover, one I’ve never heard before.
“What song is this?” I ask.