Page 105 of After Midnight

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.