Page 104 of After Midnight

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.”