chapter 33
Remi
COMPARED TO VEGAS, THE HEAT in LA is balmy and comfortable, nothing like being under the scorching desert sun.
It’s late Saturday morning, and we just finished eating breakfast on the oceanside patio at Malibu Farm, a beautiful restaurant right on the pier, a quick fifteen-minute drive from Seb’s house.
We ate acai bowls and pumpkin pancakes, and now we’re sipping juice through paper straws as Seb walks me through LA, pointing out some of his favorite spots: a beat-up taco truck, the skatepark he and the guys used to go to, venues in the Arts District where they first started playing music before LGC got big.
In a way, it feels like he’s giving me a scrapbook of his life, and I find myself enjoying every page, lingering on these places that have helped make him who he is.
“Where’s the show tonight?” I ask as we walk, hand in hand, my fingers twined through his. He runs his thumb across my knuckles, and I can feel the calluses left behind by his drumsticks. Every pass of his skin over mine makes tiny butterflies twirl in my stomach.
“In Santa Monica. The fundraiser’s being held at Palisades Park.”
I flick a surprised look up at him. “It’s for a fundraiser?”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t mention it?”
I sip my juice—mango pineapple—and shake my head.
“Yeah, it’s to raise money for Jordan’s dog rescue, Wag. We try to do this every year. It really helps out. Plus, there’re gonna be adoptable dogs there, so we’ll get to play with them. It’s the best.” He grins around his paper straw, brown eyes crinkling in the summer sun, and my heart skips.
I’m still struggling to believe that Seb is real.
We keep walking through the Arts District, our sneakers slapping the pavement as cars cruise by, and we’re about to cross the street when a flash of sunlight on windows catches my eye, making me turn my head. My feet hesitate on the sidewalk.
“What is it?” Seb asks, turning to look back at me and follow my gaze.
On the corner stands a two-story black brick building with enormous windows wrapping around both sides, tinted dark enough that I’m not immediately able to see inside.
The glass reflects the late-morning sunlight, making it appear to glow gold.
A For Rent sign is wedged into one of the windows, and it draws me closer.
I tug Seb along behind me, then release his hand to peer through one of the tinted windows.
The space has exposed brick painted white, high ceilings, and beautiful hardwood floors, though they look a little dusty.
Without meaning to, I start picturing poles dotted about the space, with aerial silks tucked alongside the walls.
Maybe a speaker system in the back corner, with pink lighting and gauzy curtains over the windows.
Holy shit.
I’m picturing a pole studio. My own pole studio.
It’s something I’ve considered: teaching classes once I decide to leave stripping. But it feels like I’m still a long way out from that, and Riley’s school tuition isn’t yet paid. So even though this is a gorgeous space, it makes no sense right now.
Not to mention the fact that it’s in LA, and I live in Vegas.
The thought makes me feel . . . conflicted. I love Vegas. It’s home to me.
But as I turn my head slightly to glance up at Seb, who now has his face close to the window, using one hand to shield his eyes to see through the glass, I get the feeling that I’m starting to be pulled in two directions, and maybe home can be more than a place.
Maybe it can be a person.
“Cool building,” he says, leaning away from the window, his gaze meeting mine. “What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.” I take one step back and shrug, waving the dreamy idea away as if it’s dust in the desert air. “It’d just make a cool pole studio. But rental space here is probably astronomical . . . and it’s not like I live here.”
His expression flickers. He looks at me, then the space, then me again. I don’t know what’s going through his head, but I can see his mind working.
Would he want me to move to California?
The thought is kind of ridiculous. We’re still getting to know each other; I’m not sure if we’re even actually a couple or not. And my life is in Vegas. Though I’m not sure why I keep needing to remind myself of that.
I sip more of my mango-pineapple juice and cast my gaze across the street, where there’s a little stand set up, selling something that smells really good, like carbs and salt and oil.
“Come on,” I say, wiggling my fingers for Seb to take my hand.
“All this walking made me hungry again. Let’s eat something. ”
There’s some reluctance in his movement, and he glances once more back at the rental space. Then, with a small smile, he takes my hand, and we leave the black brick building behind.