chapter 7
Sebastian
I’M A ZOMBIE THE NEXT day, and I’m extremely glad Ashton didn’t trust me to get myself to the airport.
My driver puts a to-go coffee in my hand when I crawl into the SUV, and he gets me where I need to go while I try to keep my eyes open.
I somehow stumble through security and make it into the main part of the airport, where I immediately find a coffee shop. The one cup barely woke me up.
“Large coffee. Oat milk. One pump vanilla,” I tell the barista.
She looks at me a bit more closely, tipping her head to the side.
“You look familiar,” she says as she rings me up. “That’ll be $15.50.”
Fifteen dollars for a coffee? Vegas is such a fucking rip-off.
I hand her a twenty-dollar bill.
“Do I know you?” she asks, not looking while gathering my change.
“I don’t think so,” I say, avoiding eye contact. Typically, Dex and Lucas are the ones who get noticed. I’m just the big sweaty guy on the drum kit. She keeps staring, and I try to distract her by putting the change she gives me into the tip jar.
Finally, she seems to give up, probably because there are about thirty grumpy people waiting in the line behind me. “Pick up your order there when it’s ready.” She points, then turns her attention to the next customer.
“Thanks.” I move to the waiting area, which is crammed with people. Maybe we’re all weekenders trying to get the hell out of the desert and back to someplace with actual moisture in the air.
When my coffee’s ready, I grab it and immediately go find a secluded place to sit down, with my sunglasses on and my hood pulled up over my ball cap, effectively hiding my face. Thankfully, no one gives me a second glance.
The coffee’s shit, but it’s coffee, and it’s still comforting as I pull my cell out of my back pocket and stare at it.
Still no messages. And after my shower last night, the ink washed off my hand, so there’s no way for me to quadruple-check that I typed Remi’s number in right. For all I know, I sent it off into the void, or to someone else’s phone entirely.
So I might have fucked it all up. Or maybe she’s just ignoring me. Who the hell knows.
Aggravated, I shove my phone back into my pocket and finish my burnt coffee just as they start boarding.
Grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, I glance out the big windows into the desert shimmering in the distance, and in the heat waves rising off the runway, I can almost imagine I see her dancing, long black hair swaying down her back, those sharp blue eyes daring me to try to touch her as she twists her hips just for me.
Tension builds inside my chest. Once I board the plane, that’s it. I’m gone, and whatever happened between me and her will probably be over. But maybe that’s for the best. I’m just kidding myself anyway, like I always do.
“It’s a mirage,” I whisper to the shapes moving in the heat waves in the distance. “It’s not real.”
Then I board the plane and leave Las Vegas behind me.
IT’S A QUICK FLIGHT—JUST over an hour—and one of our regular drivers, Luis, is waiting for me when I land. He takes my bag from me and loads it into the trunk of the SUV as I climb into the back seat.
“Ms. Montgomery has asked that I bring you straight to the studio.” He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Is that okay with you, Mr. Harris?”
The studio? Fuck. I’m exhausted, and I forgot that we’re back in the studio today, working on our new album. Ashton reminded me of that about a million times, but I totally spaced it—and I’d hoped to sleep all day. Guess that won’t be happening.
I drop my head back against the plush headrest and grumble, “That’s fine.”
Luis guides the SUV out of the airport, and I realize my phone is still on airplane mode. When I turn it back on, a few texts ping through: one from Ashton, one from Lucas, and one from—
My breath gets stuck in my lungs. It feels like I just put my finger into an electrical outlet.
Remi.
No. Fucking. Way.
Suddenly wide-awake, I jerk upright in my seat and tap her message.
Back to your palm trees yet?
My heart beats a little faster in my chest, and all the tension I’ve felt since I sent that text last night unravels from my shoulders, like I finally finished my sets at the gym and can put the weights down.
It wasn’t a fake number. And she actually texted me back.
Holy. Fuck.
Without missing a beat, I type out a quick response.
Just landed. Headed to the studio now, but I’m exhausted. f
I send the message before I can think better of it. I’m too excited to fuck around with trying to seem cool and detached, like Dex and Lucas. Granted, they’re in relationships and I’m not, so maybe I’m the one doing something wrong.
As we cruise on the 405, I tap out a rhythm on my knee, wondering what Remi’s doing. It’s not even noon yet. Does she work tonight? What does she do during the day?
There’s this crazy burning desire in me to know everything about her, like where she gets her groceries and what her favorite Christmas movie is.
But I’ve only just learned her name, and—
My phone buzzes. It’s from her.
Why so sleepy?
I bite the corner of my lip, trying and failing not to smile, then type the first thing that comes to mind.
Didn’t sleep much. Kept thinking about you.
There’s the whooshing sound as I send the message. Then I reread it and immediately feel like I might’ve just blown whatever small chance Remi was giving me.
I bet guys tell her shit like that all the time. But it’s true—I tossed and turned until I had to get up to leave for the airport this morning, and every scrap of sleep I got was filled with dreams of her—her bejeweled eyes, her black hair under the desert sun, her weight in my lap.
Three dots appear at the bottom of our text conversation, and my chest goes tight. Fifteen seconds later, the dots disappear, but no message comes through. Those dots are the worst. What the hell kind of developer thought that was a good idea? Talk about emotional abuse.
With a groan, I drop my head back against the headrest.
“Fuck,” I mumble.
“Is everything all right, Mr. Harris?” Luis asks, his dark gaze cutting to me in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah.” I take my ball cap off and scrub a hand over my buzzed hair, then realize I’m starving. And if I’m about to go spend my day in the studio, I’m gonna need grub to power through it. “Can we get food on the way?”
In the rearview mirror, Luis smiles. “Of course, Mr. Harris.”
He shifts lanes, and I turn to look out the window, watching the palm trees glide past on the other side of the glass. And once again, I think of her.
Remi.
The mirage I left back in the desert.