chapter 6
Sebastian
AS SOON AS I STEP out of Club Caliber, the heat hits me, dry and stifling enough to make me cough. My clothes cling to my skin, and I wonder—not for the first time this weekend—how anyone can stand to live here. I’m not a desert creature; I’m built for salt and surf and perfect summer days.
But she’s a desert creature. She looks born for the sand, like a goddess of cracked earth and scorched land.
Would she like it in California?
She. Remi.
I like her real name much more than Mirage.
And when she said it, her eyes changed, just for a moment, like she was letting me peek through the curtain before she quickly drew it closed again.
I’m not sure why she changed her mind, but I’m glad she did.
Knowing her name makes me feel like I know her, even a little, even if I really don’t.
Standing outside the club, I look down at my palm, where ten digits are scrawled onto my skin. But I’m already getting hot, sweating in the sweltering air, and that ink isn’t going to last long.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my cell. A couple guys step out of the club behind me, and I curl my fingers around the ink, as if it’s a piece of paper that might flutter away in the desert breeze.
My phone lights up, and before calling my driver, I punch Remi’s number into a new contact, then double-check that I got the number right.
Then triple-check, just to be sure.
Only when I know it’s safe do I finally call my driver.
Ashton was kind enough to leave me with one—though I think that’s mostly because she’s afraid I’d get lost or into some sort of trouble if she didn’t.
Which, to be fair, is probably likely. I’ve got the navigational skills of a kid fresh off the spinny thing at a playground, stumbling around with no sense of up and down.
I’d probably be halfway to Colorado before I even realized I was going east instead of west.
The glossy black SUV pulls up at the curb, windows tinted dark enough that I can’t see inside. I open the back door and slide in, then immediately crank up the AC.
“Where are we headed?” my driver asks.
“Hotel, please.”
“Of course, Mr. Harris.”
As the SUV pulls away from the curb, I look back one last time, as if Remi might be standing on the sidewalk waiting for me.
But she’s not. The neon-lit sidewalk is empty save for a few playing cards with naked women on them skittering across the concrete in the breeze. Somehow, I’m disappointed, even though I know I shouldn’t be.
“Actually,” I say, leaning forward to talk to the driver. “Can we get milkshakes and fries first?”
BACK AT THE HOTEL, I eat greasy fries and slurp down a vanilla milkshake while staring at Remi’s number on my phone. If the guys were here, they’d probably tell me not to text her yet, and Lucas would tell me not to be a pussy.
I collapse backward onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling.
Should I text her?
Probably not.
Do I want to?
Hell yes.
I grab my phone and hold it up over my face, a blank text staring back at me.
“Remi,” I say out loud, just to myself. I like the sound of it, and I can’t remember ever meeting a Remi before.
I toss the phone down, then eat another fry.
“Am I a pussy?” I ask myself. Then I eat some more fries and wash them down with vanilla milkshake. I decide I probably am, but I don’t care. And I’m going to text her.
Pushing myself up, I grab the phone and stare down at the still-empty text.
I type, Hey, it’s me, Sebastian. Then I stare at it. I delete it and start over. It’s Sebastian. Here’s my number. I delete that one too, then eat another fry. I should’ve gotten a third bag at the drive-thru.
Why is this so hard?
Narrowing my eyes, I type a third message, and this time, I hit send before I can talk myself out of it.
Hey, Remi. It’s Sebastian.
My phone makes that little whooshing sound, and the message is officially out of my control. And as soon as it’s gone and I’m sitting in the silent hotel room, doubt starts to creep in.
Was that even the right number? Is Remi even her name? Maybe she was just trying to get me out of there. But I didn’t ask for her number, so why give me a fake one?
Maybe she just felt bad for me, the dude whose dad is deeply disappointed in him and thinks his career is a fucking joke. I didn’t mean to make myself sound pitiful when I told her that stuff about him though.
I look down at my phone again. No reply yet.
She’s probably still working, idiot, I tell myself. I’m not sure what time she gets off, but it’s probably late. Or early?
I reach for another fry, but the bag’s empty.
With a sigh, I crumple up the greasy paper bag and lob it across the room. It lands in the trash with a satisfying crinkle. I wish one of the guys were here to see my perfect shot.
After finishing my milkshake, I hop into the shower, and when I get out, I check my phone again. Still nothing. And I have to be up in three hours for the driver to take me to the airport to fly home.
I flop into bed, turn off the lights, and try to fall asleep.
But I keep thinking of her, keep replaying our conversation in the private room, keep feeling her weight in my lap.
I definitely should’ve jerked off in the shower; the release might’ve helped me sleep.
But now I’m clean and don’t want to get dirty again.
With a grumble, I turn onto my other side, then back again, reaching for my cell on the nightstand.
No texts. Now I have to be up in two hours to leave for the airport.
But I get the feeling this is going to be a shitty sleepless night.