Page 92 of After Midnight

But does that mean putting my life on pause? Spending the next four years dancing at Caliber to make sure she doesn’t get crushed by student loan debt?

I’m chewing my lip when Riley glances up at me, the bowl of popcorn held in her hand. She pushes to her feet, and as she pads back into my kitchen, she says softly over her shoulder, “And I’d be in Cali too. Maybe we could move there together . . .” There’s a softness to her tone, like she’s voicing something she’s thought of but hasn’t dared say aloud. “At least then I wouldn’t be so nervous.”

The two of us, in California together, her at Caltech, me with Seb. Suddenly, I’m remembering that space for rent, the spot on the corner that would’ve made such an amazing pole studio.

I see the lighting, the gauzy curtains, the way the poles would gleam as they spin. Music. Students smiling. Maybe even my own personal supply of that mango-pineapple juice Seb bought for me.

But what if things don’t work out with Seb? What if I throw away everything I’ve worked so hard for just to chase a dream that might never come true?

That would crush me.

So I smother the little ember of excitement, push it down, then walk to the bathroom to rinse the sticky green mask from my face. And I try not to wonder what Seb’s doing right now, because it only serves to make me miss him—and Cali—even more.

chapter 42

Sebastian

I PARK THE RAPTOR, THEN hop out and grab my bag from the back seat. It’s a cooler day, and the thick clouds overhead spit light summer rain as I make my way across the parking lot to Cassidy Combat, the MMA gym where Lucas likes to work out and train. When I pull open the door, a burst of cool air rushes out, smelling of rubber and AC.

Lucas’s E30 was in the parking lot when I arrived, so I know he’s here already. And though the gym is busy, he’s not hard to find.

Shirt off, hands wrapped, he’s laying into a punching bag in the far back corner of the gym. It looks like the other people here are giving him a wide berth based on all the empty bags around him. I head in that direction, lifting a hand to the guy who owns the place. He gives me a look before flicking his gaze to Lucas, and I nod once.

I’m not sure Lucas realizes how many people he has in his life who care about him. And right now, I think we’re all a bit on edge, worried about the precipice he seems to be tiptoeing toward. And I really don’t want him to fall into that abyss again. It feels like we barely pulled him out the last time.

I take a steadying breath as I weave through the gym toward him. When I get there, I sling my bag onto a low bench next to his, then unzip it and reach inside, fishing around for my hand wraps. I’m not as into punching things as Lucas is, but over the years of coming here with him, I’ve picked up on a thing or two.

He hasn’t said anything yet. His strikes hit the bag with sharp precision, his breath coming in short bursts as he expels his energy. And these days, I’m just glad it’s an inanimate object he takes his frustrations out on and not people who like to hit back.

I finish wrapping my hands, then start to warm up my muscles, stretching out my arms and loosening up my shoulders. I’ve still got a twinge in one from that night Remi tried to teach me a few pole moves. And even though the pain nags at me, I almost enjoy it, because it always reminds me of her, of the freedom in her movements as she danced that night, of her laughter as she watched me attempt the simple moves she’d shown me.

“Hey,” Lucas finally says, his green eyes meeting mine. His floppy dirty-blond hair is damp with sweat, and his chest rises and falls with heavy breaths. Seeing him with his shirt off, I notice a few new tattoos painting his skin, the ink vibrant and glossy in comparison to the older tattoos.

Even that makes my stomach sink. When he’s in a dark place, he uses tattoos as one of his outlets, so I’m not happy to see all the fresh ink on his body, including that newer snake tat that curls up and over his jaw, looking like a viper ready to strike.

But I flash him a smile, hoping it’ll get him to smile back. “Hey, man.”

No luck. He just goes to the bench and takes a swig of water, then turns back to the punching bag. I go around the other side of it, holding it steady for him as he launches into another barrage of strikes. His punches land true and hard, his eyes narrowing in focus. I have to tighten my grip on the bag to hold it still under his assault. With each strike, the metal guitar pick he wears on a chain around his neck thumps against his chest.

After a couple minutes, Lucas steps back from the bag, sweat dripping down his temples.

“My turn,” I say, giving the bag a little push so it sways toward him.

With a nod, he takes hold of it, and I flex my fingers into fists, thumbs on the outside—I learned that one the hard way, nearly breaking my thumb the first time I went to a gym with Lucas. That joint still aches sometimes.

Controlling my breath and engaging my core, I start to warm up, striking the bag with smooth movements, feeling the heat building in my muscles. Lucas watches me with that same focused attention, his jaw tight, lips pulled into a firm line. When I’m done, I shake my hands and arms out and bounce on the balls of my feet, rolling out my neck.

It feels good to move, to get some of my energy flowing. Since Remi left, I’ve been about as gray and moody as the weather outside right now.

“So,” I finally say, “what’s up?”

Lucas doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks across the gym, to where two guys are sparring in the practice ring. Jaw flexing, he says without meeting my eyes, “Nothing.”

I almost sigh. Lucas’s whole suffer-in-silence thing has always been a pain in the ass. Sometimes I wish I could just shake him until he sees that we’re all here for him, that we want to help him. But I know from experience that that approach never works with him.

Despite that snake tattooed on his neck and jaw, he sometimes reminds me more of a rabbit, and he can take off running at the slightest hint of a threat.

So, I approach him from a more careful place, treading mindfully. “New tats?”