Page 41 of After Midnight

A small voice in my head says, Sebastian would never do this.

But maybe that’s just the part of me that likes the idea of a fairy tale—even if fairy tales aren’t real. I’m living, breathing proof of that.

James swallows more gin, then gestures at me with a lazy hand. “Let’s go.”

I try to push Sebastian from my mind, giving James a small smile as I grab his bottle of gin and his free hand and lead him down the dimly lit hallway to a private room. Usually, I take him into my favorite one, but that’s the one I took Sebastian to, and tonight, I don’t want James in it, don’t want him sitting where Sebastian sat. So, at the last moment, I swerve and lead James into a different room instead.

He arches a brow as he steps inside. “This is different,” he says.

I close the door and toss a smile at him over my bare shoulder. “It’s good to change things up. Don’t you think?”

Slowly, he sinks onto the couch, then puts his glass of gin on the low table beside him. With a long sigh, he says, “I like routine.” Then he worries at his wedding band again, spinning it once around his finger.

“Well, I think a little excitement would be good for you.” I give him a playful smile.

Finally, this draws a small breath of low laughter from him. Maybe he really did have a long day at work; he feels uptight tonight, more on edge than he usually is.

I move to the panel on the wall and select a song, then put the bottle of gin down before easing myself onto the small platform in the corner. There’s no pole, just an elevated stage area, big enough for one dancer.

James watches me through narrowed eyes as I start to dance. He likes slow movements, lots of teasing, with a long buildup. And that’s fine with me; for some reason, I’ve felt a bit off the last couple nights, not totally in my body, stuck in my head.

And that reason has brown eyes and a dimpled smile.

I run my hands down my body, trying to ground myself in this moment as James watches me dance. But no matter what I do, Sebastian keeps creeping back into my head.

Tonight’s Friday, which means three nights from now, I’ll see him again. Part of me is nervous, which is unusual, but the other part of me is giddy with excitement, like I’m a little girl again, counting down to Christmas morning with Riley, begging our parents to please let us open presents early.

“Come here.” James lifts a hand, beckoning to me. I’ve barely finished one dance, but his impatience is clear on his face, and he keeps curling and uncurling his fingers where they rest on his thigh.

I step slowly down from the platform, then grab the bottle of gin before striding across the room to him, letting him watch me as I walk. His glass is empty, so I add another two fingers from the bottle, then set it aside and ease into his lap.

I’ve been giving lap dances for years, and I’ve given more to James than I can count. But tonight, when one of his hands finds my waist, it makes a brief sensation of wrongness flutter through me.

I flinch away from his touch without meaning to, and his brow furrows just a fraction.

“Your hand is cold,” I say, trying to disguise my reaction with a smile and a small laugh.

But it isn’t, and given the way his eyes narrow just a bit, I think he knows it. Trying to make up for my moment of vulnerability, I take both his hands and place them on the dip of my waist, then try to lose myself in the moment: my body moving, the low red light glowing down over me, the music drifting from the speakers.

Usually, I don’t need to lose myself when I’m working. But things feel different this week, and I’m still desperately trying to convince myself that it has nothing to do with him.

We’re halfway through our first hour together, and my top is already off, when James sighs and says, “You’re distracted tonight.”

I’m perched on his knees, facing away from him, grinding my ass against his lap, so thankfully, he doesn’t see the expression that crosses my face. Whatever it is, I’m sure it would’ve just given me away, confirmed that his suspicions are right.

“You’re right,” I say, tossing my hair, then twisting around, letting him watch as I run my fingertips across my nipple piercings. I crawl into his lap again, then whisper into his ear, “There’s pizza backstage, and I’m starving.”

He makes a small sound, kind of like a laugh, and when I pull back to look into his eyes, they seem softer.

It’s the truth: There is pizza waiting, and I really am hungry. But that’s not what has me distracted. And I really can’t let my clients see me like this.

I have to get it together. Now.

“I haven’t had pizza in . . . a long time,” he says, and his tiny confession surprises me. When he does speak during our time together, it’s never to reveal anything about himself.

“Why not?” I ask, running my hands up his chest to his already-loose tie and loosening it just a bit more. “You private equity guys too good for a slice?”

That warrants another small laugh, but he averts his eyes, quietly saying, “Yeah, something like that.”