Page 2 of After Midnight

I touch up my hair and makeup in the big mirror, wipe a smudge of mascara from under one eye, then switch into a new outfit: a lacy bodystocking in forest green with matching heels. James likes this color; he compliments it every time I wear it.

Back out on the floor, I take my time making my way over to James’s booth. I feel his eyes on me, but I don’t give him any attention, instead stopping along the way to flirt with the other men and women in the club.

When I do finally get to his booth, sometime after two thirty, he’s already on his second glass of gin, and the muscle in his jaw is taut.

Good. That means I made him wait just long enough.

I ease myself into the booth across from him and push my long hair over my shoulder. My lips lift into an easy smile. “Miss me?”

He swirls the gin in his glass, then glances at the bachelor party, where they’re now watching Fantasique dance. But they already spent all their money on me, so she’s paying very little attention to them, focused on two women next to the stage instead.

“Did you save any energy for me?” he asks.

I love when men get pouty and jealous like this. It makes them much more easily moldable.

Reaching across the table, I trail a fingertip along the rim of his glass, then lift it to my lips, taking a sip and tasting the bitter bite of gin on my tongue. “I always do.”

As I lower the glass, his chest rises and falls with a sharp breath. Then he finishes his gin, and we head to a VIP room.

This is where the real money is made. Every girl in the club sets her own price, and mine doesn’t come cheap: one hundred an hour. And tonight, like I hoped, James wants a two-hour window of time with me.

The VIP room has a door for privacy, soft lighting, a velvet couch, and a small, intimate stage. James takes a seat, and I start our time together the way I always do: with a slow, sexy stage dance. With him, it’s all about the buildup. He doesn’t like to be rushed. And I’m fine with taking my time.

After the stage dance, I move to his lap. He watches me with restraint, never touching more than to lay his hands on my hips. Just like with prices, every dancer sets her own boundaries. Some girls will offer extras in the VIP rooms: hand jobs, blow jobs, a full fuck. But my lines are clear, and James knows this by now. Every so often, though, he likes to press me, just to see how far I’ll let him go.

I’m perched in his lap, knees on either side of his hips. His hands are on my waist, where they’re allowed to be. Then they slowly slip lower, inching toward my ass.

Arching a brow, I take his wrists and guide his hands back to my hips without breaking eye contact.

“Hands stay here,” I say.

A small smirk pulls on the corner of his mouth, but he obeys.

Two hours later, I leave the VIP room with two hundred-dollar bills tucked into my bodystocking. The bachelor party boys are nowhere to be seen, and the night is starting to slow down. There aren’t any clocks in here—losing track of time is part of the fantasy—but I know it must be close to five in the morning. Which means my shift is over and the club will be closing soon.

Back in the dressing room, I organize all my money, setting aside what I owe the club and the DJ. Then I zip my cash into a bag, get changed, and head out the back door to the private parking lot, lifting a hand to wave goodbye to one of our security guys as I go.

By the time I get through the city and back to my condo in Summerlin, the sky is already lightening with the coming dawn.

I park in my one-car garage, then head inside, feet aching with every step. The air is cool and quiet, with only the low hum of the AC to disrupt the silence. My ears buzz from the loud music in the club.

After dropping my heels and dance bag by the door, I head straight to the bathroom to wash off the night. In the shower, I let the hot water run over my head, rinsing eye liner and mascara and body glitter down the drain. When I step out and look at myself in the mirror, I’m no longer Mirage.

I’m Remi.

Blue eyes. Black hair. A scar on my hairline from a bad fall back when I was learning how to skateboard.

Just me, without the armor of fantasy to cover everything up.

I get changed into a pair of soft sleep shorts and a tank top, then grab a glass of water before sitting down at the kitchen table with my money and my cash counter.

This is my favorite part of the night.

The steady whir as the machine counts my bills is comforting, and the number on the screen continues to climb. When I’m done, it blinks up at me with happy little digits: $524.

I type the number into the spreadsheet on my laptop, then pull up the second spreadsheet, the one for Riley’s college tuition. She graduated from high school this past spring and got accepted into Caltech—she’s fucking brilliant. She was born with book smarts, and I’m determined to make sure she’s able to make something of her big, beautiful brain.

But Mom and Dad can’t afford college in California, and they definitely can’t afford Caltech—especially not now that Gram moved in with them and they’re focusing on caretaking for her.