chapter 48
Remi
WHEN I ASKED SEB WHEN he was going back to LA, he told me he’d be here for me as long as I need. I almost told him I don’t need him here, but I didn’t. Because I do want him here. And I’ll take as much time as he’ll give me.
On Tuesday, I invite Riley over for dinner and surprise her with meeting Seb.
I swear she almost faints when he’s the one who opens the door.
After she recovers from her shock, the two get on as if they’ve known each other for a lifetime.
Watching them play Monopoly at my kitchen table, laughing and bantering like siblings, makes me feel completely full inside, like everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
But that feeling slowly dims on Wednesday evening. Seb sits on my bed, watching me in the mirror as I get ready for my shift at the club.
“Are you sure you want to go tonight?” he asks.
I finish with a sweep of liquid eyeliner on my top lid, then meet his gaze in the mirror and nod. “I’m sure.” I take a breath and sit up straighter at my vanity. “I can’t let him make me scared in my own workplace. And besides, he’s only in the club on Fridays.”
Assuming he’s going to keep coming, which he might not, seeing as he wasn’t there last Friday when I was working. Maybe the flowers will be the end of it and I’ll never see him again.
Seb looks concerned, his brow furrowed and dark eyes narrowed as he watches me put on my false eyelashes. But he doesn’t try to push back against me. Instead, all he says is, “Can I drive you tonight?”
My lips quirk up on one side. “I thought you were terrible with finding your way around new cities.”
One of his shoulders lifts in a shrug. “I am. But I’ve got GPS; I can figure it out. And I want to take you.”
I stare at him for a moment longer, a refusal resting at the tip of my tongue. But instead of letting it out, I nod once. Because the idea of him dropping me off helps to calm some of the discomfort lingering inside me. “I’d like that.”
Back in the club, under the swirling neon lights, I try to find my stride. I’ve danced here for years, yet something about the stage feels different as I move across it tonight.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s changed.
It’s a Wednesday, so the club is quieter than it is on the weekends. People still sit at the bar and around the main stage, and customers are sprinkled through the tables and couches and booths, but otherwise, it’s a tame evening.
I’m onstage, top off, twirling around the chrome pole beneath the swirling lights, when I catch a glimpse of someone sitting in one of the VIP booths. And when I look again, I get a sudden rushing in my ears, my heart beating a bit faster.
He’s here.
James is here, in his regular booth, watching me.
But he’s not supposed to be here. He only ever comes to the club on Fridays, between two and four a.m. So . . . why is he here now?
Trying to refocus on my dance, I grip the pole and do a reverse stag spin, lowering all the way to the stage. A bill flutters down from one of the customers close to the stage, but I’m so distracted by James being here that I have to remember to smile.
I don’t like that his routine has changed. It makes something turn in my stomach, and my hands are clammy on the pole.
I can feel his eyes on me as I finish my dance, and it takes all my focus not to look over at him while I collect my top and bills from the stage, then slip through the curtain and into the dim light backstage.
Immediately, I head to the dressing room, trying to control my urge to run.
Once the door is closed firmly behind me, I let out the breath I was holding.
My chest feels tight, my heart beating too fast. I walk to my locker on five-inch heels, noticing as I turn the lock that my fingers are trembling.
He shouldn’t be here, I think. He’s not supposed to be here.
When Seb was dropping me off tonight, I told him everything would be fine and reassured him that James is never here on Wednesdays.
He looked concerned, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed, but I just leaned in and kissed him before getting out of the Jeep, then reminded him to pick me up in the employee lot at four thirty.
Maybe James is here to throw me off, to make me uncomfortable, try to rattle me. That seems like something he’d get off on.
I catch my reflection in the small mirror on the inside door of my locker. My eyes are rimmed in liquid eyeliner, fake lashes so long and lush that they brush my cheeks when I blink. And seeing my own gaze in the mirror reminds me of something.
This is my domain. Always. I’m the mirage, the illusion, the one who controls the fantasy. And this guy doesn’t get to come in here and make me feel unwelcome.
I flex my jaw and draw a deep breath through my nose, mind made up.
And he doesn’t even get the chance to request a private dance before I’m standing at his booth, looking down at him, eyes narrowed in the club’s neon lights. This isn’t a game anymore.
“Mirage,” he says slowly, as if he’s surprised to see me. “Didn’t know you still danced here.”
My lips lift in a slow smile. “That’s because you don’t know anything about me.”
Except where I live.
One of his sandy brows arches slightly in one corner, though whether he’s the least bit deterred by my sharp tone, I can’t tell.
He swirls the gin in his glass and takes a slow sip.
I notice he’s not wearing his wedding ring; there’s a band of pale skin where it used to sit, the skin around it turned darker by the sun.
“Well?” he asks. His gaze flicks toward the hallway that leads to the private rooms.
For a moment, I consider saying no, refusing to go anywhere with him. But now that I’m standing here, looking down at him, he’s somehow less frightening than the man I’ve built up in my mind, the one who follows me through grocery stores and stands outside my windows at night.
This man in front of me is real. And I can handle real.
I turn from his table, waving my fingers at him to follow me—and he does. Though his presence at my back as he trails behind me to the private room makes the hair on my arms stand on end.
When we’re in the private room, I push the door almost closed, leaving it open just a crack. He sees me do it, but his face remains expressionless as he sits on the couch and looks up at me.
I don’t turn on any music. I don’t dance. I don’t even move from where I’m still standing near the door. What I do is look at him, assess him, try to understand who this man is and what the hell he wants with me.
James lifts a hand, pushing it through his blond hair, which I realize has grown slightly longer than he typically keeps it. And there are circles under his eyes, a heaviness to him now that he usually doesn’t carry.
Whatever’s going on in his life, he’s visibly cracking.
And I don’t want to be anywhere around when this guy finally explodes.
“You’re not welcome here anymore,” I say, voice firm.
He turns his head, just a bit, as if he heard me wrong. But then he says, “And why is that?”
“Because you’ve crossed the line, and you know it.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Sending flowers to my house? Following me on Tribe? It’s completely inappropriate. You need to find another club to go to. Maybe try Kitty.”
He lets out one rough laugh and gives a small shake of his head. “I don’t like Kitty. I like Caliber.” Slowly, he rises to his feet, now taller than me even in my five-inch heels. “And I like you, Remi.”
Hearing my real name on his lips makes a shiver go down the length of my spine. And suddenly, it feels too cold in here. I wish I had more clothes on, wish I were bundled up in Seb’s hoodie, the one I found in my bed that day and wore every day after.
James takes a step closer to me. “You’re being ungrateful.
” The mask of indifference he wears starts to slip as he raises a finger and points it at me.
“You should consider yourself lucky I even took an interest in you. And I’ve paid you thousands of dollars.
You should be thanking me, not acting like a spoiled bitch. ”
His words are edged with venom, and his hands shake. Under the dim red lighting in the private room, I see that his facial hair is grown out a bit, just enough to give him a heavy shadow. And he’s usually perfectly clean-shaven when he comes in.
This man is unraveling. And I need him the hell out of here.
“You need to leave.”
He lowers his trembling hand to his side, curling it into a fist as he glares down at me. A muscle in his jaw works. Then, softly, he says, “No.”
I cross my arms. “Don’t make a scene. I can have security throw you out.”
“After everything I’ve done for you . . .” He takes another step forward, and I almost reach to pull the door open, grateful it’s still cracked. “This is how you repay me?”
“I don’t need to repay you. This”—I gesture between us—“is transactional. It’s business. And we’re done.”
Now I do turn for the door, reaching for the door handle. But before I can get my fingers around it, a weight slams against me, knocking the air from my chest as I’m crushed against the door. The impact makes the door slam shut, and James’s voice in my ear says, “We’re done when I say we’re done.”
He has me pinned to the door, his weight against me. I try to move, but it’s useless. Then he spins me around so my back is against the door, and he looms above me, teeth gritted, eyes narrowed into a sharp glare.
“Am I not good enough for you now?”
My breath is coming quick. Each private dance room is equipped with a discreet panic button, built in right alongside the panel where we choose our music, but I can’t reach it from here.
“You think he cares about you?”
For a second, I’m too rattled to realize what he means, what he’s saying. Then Seb’s face is in my mind: his smiling dimples, that photo of him with the burrito, the way we skated together on the roof in the summer heat.
Of course he cares about me. He loves me.
And I love him.
James must see something cross my face, because his glower deepens.
Trying to keep calm, I say, “Get off of me.”
He doesn’t move. Instead, he lets his eyes graze over me, whispering, “I’ve been here for you, Remi. Don’t you see that?”
I hate my name on his lips. I want him to stop saying it.
“You need to get off,” I repeat, trying to push him away. But he’s firm, unbudging. And in his chest, beneath my hands, I feel his heart beating fast.
“I’ll take care of you,” he says. “You won’t have to dance anymore.”
“I like dancing. And I don’t need you or anyone to take care of me.” I push at him again, but he resists, giving me no room to reach for the button or try to yank at the door. “What I need is for you to move.”
One of his hands snaps up, and he has my face in his grip, his fingers crushing my cheeks against my teeth. “You’re just a slut, aren’t you?” His eyes glare into mine. “You led me on, acted like you cared.”
I try to rip my face away, but he just tightens his grip, bringing a few traitorous tears to my eyes.
“You don’t get to treat me like this,” he growls. “You’re not better than me!”
With his free hand, he punches the door right beside my head, making me gasp and sending fresh fear shooting through my veins like icy fire.
He’s going to hurt me. I know it. If I don’t get the fuck out of here, he’s going to do more than call me names.
His knuckles come away bloody, and he looks down at his hand, as if only now realizing what he just did.
I use his brief moment of distraction to wrench my face out of his crushing grip and scream.
I scream so loud that it makes my own ears ring, makes my throat feel raw. At the same time, I bring a knee up hard, smashing it into his balls. Immediately, he draws a pained breath, and he stumbles back from me, clutching himself as he moans.
Now free from him, I scrabble for the door, trying to get it open with shaking hands. When I do finally pull it open, music rushes in, along with footsteps pounding down the hallway.
It’s Logan, one of our security guys.
The moment he sees me, his eyes narrow, his posture tightening. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
“He . . . He . . .” I can’t seem to get the words out, and as I point into the private room, where James is now curled up on the floor, face still scrunched in pain, my hand shakes.
“Him,” I’m able to whisper as Logan pushes through the open doorway, hand already going to his hip, reaching for the phone there.
A couple other girls step into the hallway, undoubtedly having heard me scream, and when they see me, they rush toward me, wrapping me in their bare arms and leading me away, shielding me from the other customers in the club.
My knees tremble, to the point where I can barely balance on my stilettos.
And when they get me into the dressing room, telling me that the cops are on their way, there’s only one thing I can say.
I look up at Fantasique, who’s standing over me, one hand on the back of my chair, like she’ll wreck anyone who tries to get close to me. And when she meets my eyes, I whisper, “Call Seb. Please.”