Page 34 of After Midnight

I drag a hand down my face, feel the stubble along my cheeks and chin.

And then I laugh at myself.

Because I think I’m truly fucked. I’m already falling for a woman I’ve only been on one date with, and that woman has blue eyes and black hair and the desert in her blood.

chapter 16

Remi

I DRIVE HOME IN THE silence, with only the wind coming through the windows and the sound of tires racing over asphalt. And I keep glancing toward the passenger’s seat, as if he’ll still be there, smiling that sideways smile, one hand hanging out the window, drifting on the summer air.

But it’s empty. And I’m torn inside.

My lips still tingle from our kiss, and my fingers crave the feel of him.

But he didn’t ask me up to his hotel room. He just kissed me and got out, and then he was gone, and I was driving away, leaving him standing there under the bright lights.

I wanted to go up. If he’d asked me to, maybe I would have. But it’s better this way.

I’m not shy about sex; sometimes I go on dates just to get fucked, even if I know I’ll never see the guy again. So the fact that I was unsure about going up with Sebastian, even if I wanted to, is bad news.

The feelings inside me are dangerous.

So, when I get back to my condo, I do what I always do when I can’t make sense of my emotions.

I dance.

As soon as I’m through the door, with it closed and locked behind me, I move through the familiar semidarkness to the guest bedroom, not bothering to turn lights on as I go. In the middle of the room is my pole, the chrome gleaming in the light coming through the floor-to-ceiling window along one wall. I go to my speaker system in the corner, turn on “Waiting Game” by BANKS, and then light the candles on the side table. They cast a warm flickering glow through the room as I draw the curtains closed over the window.

BANKS’s voice drifts through the room, low and deep, and I kick off my sneakers, letting them thump onto the plush pink rug in front of the cream couch. Then I reach for my jeans, popping the button and sliding them off over my hips. As soon as the fabric falls away, leaving me in my black thong and tank top, I breathe a sigh of relief.

In many ways, I feel more comfortable like this, with my body able to move freely, unencumbered by fabric and buttons and zippers. Able to just be.

My hands find the pole, its gleaming surface cool against my palms. I rise onto my tiptoes, and I start to dance.

Immediately, comfort and relief wash over me. This is my safe place, my center.

There’s something so vulnerable about pole dancing, about stripping everything away until it’s just me and the movement and the feel of metal against my skin. I tip my head back and lift my feet from the floor, letting my momentum carry me around the pole in a slow rotation.

And as I move, I think of him.

His mouth. His hands. His knee between my thighs.

I twirl once around the pole, changing direction, one hand pressing through my hair, which is tangled from the night—from the wind coming through the open windows, the breeze on the rooftop, Sebastian’s fingers at the nape of my neck.

The song ends, and the next one starts: “Crash” by DeathbyRomy. The sirens start in the distance, quiet and creeping, and a tingle goes across my skin as the song builds. My body moves on its own, whirling, dipping, skin clinging to metal as I spin in circles, the candlelight blurring in the partial darkness.

Legs wrapped around the pole, holding me high in the air, I lean back, upside down, hair and fingertips brushing along the floor as I spin. And still, even in this moment of suspension, I’m thinking of him.

The easy way he rode in my passenger’s seat, his commitment to landing that kickflip even if it killed him, the boyish laughter that rumbled through the heat of the night after he ate shit doing an ollie and held up his bleeding palm for me to see.

I grit my teeth against the desire that builds inside me.

Desire for his body. For his brown eyes looking at me. For the feel of him in my orbit, near enough to feel as he moves through space.

I plant my hands flat on the floor and release my legs from the pole, doing a backbend and bringing my bare feet to the cool hardwood. I toss my hair and spin, hands on my body, in my hair, on the now-warm pole, the chrome heated from my skin clinging to it. I twirl until I’m breathless, until I can barely tell up from down.

Then I sink slowly to the floor, coming to rest on my knees, hands curled into fists on my thighs. Romy’s voice wraps around me as I breathe hard.