chapter 49
Sebastian
I’VE GOT A DEATH GRIP on the steering wheel of Remi’s Jeep as I rip into the employee parking lot behind Caliber.
The whole fucking drive over here, I was barely able to keep my heart inside my chest. It races so hard it makes me feel lightheaded, and the burning lights of Vegas are a blur in my periphery.
All I know is that I have to get to her. Now.
I don’t bother to park in a designated spot, instead throwing the Jeep into park right at the bottom of the stairs leading to the employee entrance, where a security guard and two dancers are standing.
There are two police vehicles in the back lot, and the flashing lights make me dizzy as I race up the few stairs to the entrance.
“You can’t—” the security guard starts to say, moving to block me, but one of the dancers puts a hand on his arm.
“He’s okay. He’s Remi’s boyfriend.”
That word makes me feel something, but it’s quickly lost to the panic coursing through me.
“Where is she?” I ask, my voice rough and my chest still heaving, as if I ran the whole way here.
“Come on,” the woman says, waving for me to follow her.
The security guy watches me closely as I push past him, but he makes no move to stop me.
Inside, the air is thick, and music thumps through the walls. We’re in some sort of backstage area, and dancers linger in the hallway, looking through an open doorway. When they see me coming, they all slowly step out of the way, gazes following me as I look around the corner and into the room.
Remi is sitting in a chair, a jacket draped over her shoulders, a few dancers standing around her, offering her sips of water from a Styrofoam cup. In the back of the room, an officer talks to someone who looks to be the owner or manager of the club.
I step into the room, and Remi looks up at me. Her blue eyes are wide, and when she meets my gaze, they flood with tears. I’m across the room in a second, and the women gathered around Remi all back up to make space for me.
“Rem,” I whisper, going down on one knee next to the chair she’s huddled in. Her eyeliner is smudged, and her cheeks have bands of red on them, the skin swollen and starting to bruise.
Anger spikes through me, but I control it, push it down. She doesn’t need my anger right now.
Immediately, she starts to cry, and she leans forward in the chair to drop her weight against my shoulder.
She feels so incredibly small, so breakable.
The woman I love—the woman who’s composed, self-sufficient, and always has her shit together—is shaking and sniffling, and it tears something open inside me.
I hate the man that did this to her. I want to put him in a room with Lucas and watch my best friend paint the floor red.
But more than that, I hate that Remi feels this way, that she’s scared and sobbing and shaking as my arms come around her.
One of my hands finds the back of her head, and I stroke her tangled hair slowly, feeling the gazes of everyone in the room but not caring about anything but her.
My Remi.
I look up at one of the women and say, “Where’s her stuff?”
“I’ll get it.” The woman walks away, then returns to us a minute later with Remi’s bag, the one she had slung over her shoulder when I dropped her off tonight. “Here, honey. Why don’t you put these on?” She pulls Remi’s sweatpants and zip-up sweatshirt from the bag, offering them to her.
I take them from her, then ease Remi back off my shoulder.
She’s sniffling, shoulders still shaking, as I slip the random jacket off her shoulders and guide her arms into the sleeves of her own jacket, covering up the lingerie she’s wearing.
I push her hair back, then zip the sweatshirt up.
Then I take her heels off, scrunch the sweatpants over her bare feet, and help her wiggle the material up her hips.
The cop who was speaking to the management comes over to us, and I push to my feet.
“We have everything we need for now, Ms. Marino,” he tells Remi. “But if you think of anything else or need anything, please call. This is my personal line.” He offers her a card with his name and number on it, but she doesn’t reach out to take it, doesn’t even look up to meet his eyes.
I take the card from him and slide it into my back pocket. “Can she go?”
The officer nods. “Of course. And we have victim resources and support services if she needs it.”
Victim.
That word makes me want to rage and cry at the same time.
“Thanks,” I say. But right now, all I’m interested in is getting Remi the fuck out of here. We can talk about how to help her when she’s not crying and trembling anymore.
Grabbing Remi’s bag, I sling it over my shoulders.
Then, stooping, I wrap one of my arms around Remi’s back and the other under her knees and lift her gently into my arms. She curls against my chest, small and shaking, and everyone in the room parts for me as I carry her through the doorway and back down the hallway, the rumble of music vibrating in my chest.
Someone opens the door for me, and the security guard gets the passenger’s door on the Jeep so I can ease Remi in. She sniffles as I wrap the seat belt around her and click it into place. And when I go around the other side and get in, closing the door, quiet finally comes over us.
But inside, I’m anything but quiet. My heart still races, and I try not to let Remi see how my hands shake. I reach over slowly, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear, and she leans against my hand, closing her eyes as she takes a shuddering breath.
“I’m right here, Rem,” I whisper to her. “Okay?”
She finally looks up at me, eyelashes still speckled with tears under the dim streetlights. And she whispers, “Seb . . .”
I lean over the center console to press a delicate kiss to her forehead.
And then I drive us home.
BACK AT REMI’S CONDO, I sit on the floor in the bathroom, leaning against the wall, eyes trained on the shower, where steam rises over the shower curtain to make the overhead light look hazy.
I can hear Remi moving under the stream of water, but she doesn’t speak.
I rest my head back against the wall and close my eyes, flexing my jaw and curling my fingers into fists.
And I feel like this is my fault. Like I should never have let her go back to that place. To that man. If only I’d pushed harder, tried to convince her not to go, maybe this wouldn’t have happened.
I wanted to protect her. But I failed.
My chest feels tight, overfull with emotions, and I open my eyes as the water turns off. Slowly, I push to my feet, and I already have a towel in my hands, open and ready, when Remi slides the shower curtain open.
Her makeup has all been washed away, no hint of Mirage left on her face. But the marks are still there, her cheeks swollen and bruised, and the sight of them makes me wish I could pummel that asshole into the fucking dirt.
She steps out of the shower and lets me wrap the fluffy towel around her shoulders.
Her body is warm now, and she’s no longer shaking as I walk with her to her bedroom and help her dress in cotton shorts, a tank, and a baggie hoodie—my hoodie, which I now realize she didn’t bring with her when she came to visit me in Cali.
It drowns her, hanging to the middle of her thighs, but it seems to bring her some comfort, given the way she pulls the hood up and curls into it when I help her into her bed.
I drop to my knees next to the bed, one hand stroking the mark left on her cheek. “Are you hungry?” I whisper. But she just shakes her head. “What can I do for you, Rem? What do you need?” I feel like a fool for asking, feel so incompetent in this situation.
But Remi just blinks at me and whispers, “Will you hold me?”
Rising from the floor, I get into bed beside her, and she immediately scoots over to huddle against my chest. I hold her close to me, stroking my hand over her head, just feeling the heat of her against me.
After a few moments, voice quiet, she says, “I don’t want to go back there.” Pressing her face to my chest, she whispers, “He ruined it.”
My jaw clenches, and I try to keep my emotions in check. Right now, this isn’t about him. It isn’t even about me. This is about her.
Wrapping my arms around her, I whisper, “You don’t have to, Rem. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
She starts to cry again, and I rub her back, trying to keep my breathing deep and easy, wanting to be a safe place for her, even when the outside world feels dangerous.
“I’m here,” I whisper. Even if I’ve said it a million times, I want her to know it. I want her to know that I’m here tonight, and when she wakes up tomorrow, I’m still going to be here.
Her fingers grip my T-shirt, and I hold her in bed even after her breathing has slowed and deepened, and I’m still awake when the morning sun starts to paint the sky.