Page 106 of After Midnight

A couple other girls step into the hallway, undoubtedly having heard me scream, and when they see me, they rush toward me, wrapping me in their bare arms and leading me away, shielding me from the other customers in the club. My knees tremble, to the point where I can barely balance on my stilettos. And when they get me into the dressing room, telling me that the cops are on their way, there’s only one thing I can say.

I look up at Fantasique, who’s standing over me, one hand on the back of my chair, like she’ll wreck anyone who tries to get close to me. And when she meets my eyes, I whisper, “Call Seb. Please.”

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.