Page 5 of After Midnight

Phone in hand and the damp towel wrapped around my neck, I step out of the tent and into the dry Vegas air. My thumb hesitates over the screen—my dad is always such a buzzkill—but I know he’ll just be more pissed off at me tomorrow if I don’t talk to him tonight.

I take a steadying breath, then tap the screen and lift the phone to my ear.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Sebastian.”

There’s no warmth in his tone. You’d think I’m his accountant or something.

Actually, he probably likes that dude more than he likes me.

In the background, I hear glass clink against a tabletop, and a television is playing low, so I can only hear the gentle buzz of voices. “You play yet?”

One of my brows arches up in surprise. So, he did remember. One point to the old man.

“Uh, yeah.” A couple sound techs walk by me, glancing in my direction, and I move around the far side of the tent, where I take a seat on some big rolling box with wheels. “Just finished.”

“You boys doing okay?”

Ah.

Immediately, I know what’s coming. Dad never asks about me or anything in my life unless he needs something. Hell, it’s one of the only reasons he calls.

But for some reason—some stupid reason—I keep picking up, like I expect something to change. Turns out, it never does.

“Yeah, we’re good,” I say, not letting my disappointment bleed into my voice.

“Good.”

I nod in the darkness. I could probably have a less stilted conversation with my skateboard.

“What about you?” I ask. Then I wait to hear his excuse. He always has one.

“Not too good.” He takes a sip of something, then clinks the glass down again. “Truck’s actin’ up. Took it to the mechanic. Transmisson’s goin’ out. It’s gonna cost an arm and a leg to get it fixed.”

Of course it is.

My stomach squeezes as I tip my head back to look at the sky. Out in the desert, you’d think the sky would be a blanket of stars, but Vegas’s lights drown it all out. I still know they’re up there, though, even if I can’t see them.

“How much to fix it?” I ask, barely resisting the urge to sigh.

He tells me. And it’s not that it’ll inconvenience me; it’s that I feel more like an ATM to him than his only son.

“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it,” he says, using that voice that he’s used since I first came into money, the one that invites me to pity him, even if I know he doesn’t deserve it.

Pulling my gaze from the starless sky, I swallow hard. Infusing my tone with a lightness I don’t feel, I say, “I’ll take care of it.”

“That’s my boy.”

I’m not sure if that makes other sons feel good; it just makes me feel used.

After that, he ends the conversation quickly. When we hang up, I’m left sitting there alone, listening to the distant rumble of the crowd leaving the grounds and the crew scurrying to start packing shit up.

With a sigh, I pull up my banking app and make the transfer into Dad’s account. I get confirmation that it’s being processed, then slip the phone into my pocket and scrub a hand down my face.

“Yo, Sebastian.”

I glance to the left, and Lucas is standing around the corner of the tent, his figure silhouetted against the bright lights still illuminating the concert grounds.