Page 95 of After Midnight

Another hour passes, then one more. It’s four a.m., which means the club is closing soon and my shift is over. But James never showed up. Part of me is glad for it. After that conversation we had last time he was in, when he hinted at knowing more about my personal life than he should, I was a bit nervous to see him today.

But the other part of me can’t help but to feel something is wrong. I’ve learned that James is a man of routine, and I don’t like that he broke it.

Leaving the club, I tell the security guard good night, and my gaze sweeps the parking lot, but I don’t see anyone in the dark. I remind myself that I’m probably being overcautious. Maybe James just decided he’s done with the club. For all I know, his wife could’ve caught him and put a swift end to his Friday-night activities. And even though that means I’ll miss out on the extra cash, I find the thought more comforting than concerning. There will always be more guys, more lap dances, more ways to make the money I need.

My drive home is quiet. Seb had LGC commitments today, so we barely texted, and it’s way too late now for me to FaceTime him, so I coast back to my condo complex in relative silence, with only the desert air coming through the windows and the sound of tires on asphalt to keep me company.

The complex is still and quiet when I arrive. The buildings are mostly dark, with only a few windows still illuminated with light. As I pull into my driveway, my headlights catch on something on my porch, waiting by my front door.

For a moment, my heart jumps into my throat.

But it’s not a person; it looks like a bouquet. Immediately, the tension unfurls from my shoulders.

Smiling to myself, I pull into the garage and park, then take my dance bag inside before going around to the front door to retrieve the flowers from my porch. They’re still fresh, so they must’ve been delivered late tonight, after the sun went down.

I close and lock my door, then carry the bouquet into the kitchen. After setting it down on the counter, I take a moment to appreciate the flowers. They’re white orchids, I believe. And there must be twenty or thirty of them in the bouquet; it’s massive.

Being careful not to damage the flowers, I begin to sort through them, looking for a card of some sort. I find it tucked deep between the creamy white petals and pluck it out, then flip it open, eyes scanning the short message.

My stomach drops, a burst of cold going through me.

Welcome home, Mirage.

Mirage. Not Remi. And Seb never calls me by my stage name.

Seb . . . Seb didn’t send these.

Looking back at the orchids, they suddenly seem less romantic. Before my eyes, they become something that feels threatening rather than thoughtful.

If Seb didn’t send them, who did?

My gaze goes to the card still held in my hands. Whoever sent these, they know me from the club, and they also know that I was gone, or they wouldn’t be welcoming me home.

Nausea churns inside me. Because there’s only one person I can think of who would send flowers like this, in a way that’s certainly meant to unsettle me.

James.

With a burst of hot anger, I grab the entire bouquet and sling it into my trash can, fingers curling into tight fists as I glare at the silky white petals staring up at me.

James knows about me and Sebastian, and my guess is that he’s one of those new followers I got on Tribe after the nail salon photo went viral. I grab my cell phone out of the pocket of the sweats I have on and navigate to my Tribe app. My profile is set to private now, so no one can tag me without my approval. But sure enough, I have a new tag request, this one on a photo of me and Seb at the airport, locked in a kiss. I’m glad I have my notifications turned off, because the image has hundreds of comments and likes and engagement, and seeing everyone talking about us—about me—makes my stomach turn again.

So, James likely saw this. Maybe he’s following Seb now, or stalking LGC news for snippets of us. And the photo was posted last Friday, which might be why he didn’t show up at the club while I was gone.

But it doesn’t explain how he knows where I live. Or that I’m home from my trip to Cali.

Is he watching my house?

My heart thumps a bit too hard in my chest. Goose bumps dance across my arms in the cool air circulating through my condo. Within the next breath, I find myself moving from room to room, turning on lights, checking closets, ensuring every inch of space has been searched. Then I go back to my door and double-check that I’ve locked it.

James knows my address. And he’s using it to get to me, to taunt me.

Inside, I’m a mix of rage and terror.

Caliber isn’t supposed to come home with me—ever. But now I feel like it’s lurking right outside my windows, trying to stare into my house in the dark.

My fingers tighten around my cell phone. I consider calling Seb and telling him about it, but I hesitate. It’s nearly five o’clock in the morning now, and besides, it’s not like he can do anything about it, especially from Cali. If I tell him, it’s just going to make him worry, and he’s got enough going on with the band right now.

No. I have to handle this on my own—the way I handle most things.