Chapter 10: Sera's POV
The word tea hung in the air like a live wire.
My heart was thrashing against my ribs so violently I was certain the black mesh of my bodysuit was vibrating. He knew. Or he was fishing. Or the universe was playing the cruelest joke in history. I looked at Bash—really looked at him—and the heat in his eyes was different than the boys in the front row. They wanted to see a show; he looked like he wanted to see my soul laid bare on a cold table.
"Tea?" I forced a laugh, the sound brittle and fake, a sharp contrast to the sultry rasp I’d been using. I tucked a strand of the pink wig behind my ear, my fingers trembling. "You college boys have some strange ideas. I’m strictly a black coffee drinker. It’s the only way to survive the night shift."
I didn't wait for him to respond. I turned my dazzling, painted-on smile toward Miller, whose face was a blurry moon of drunken joy.
"Happy birthday again, Miller. Enjoy the bourbon. I have a few more tables to check on before the next set."
"Wait, you're leaving already?" Miller pouted, reaching out a clumsy hand toward my silk robe.
Before his fingers could graze the fabric, Bash’s hand shot out, catching Miller’s wrist with a grip that looked painful. Bash didn't even look at his friend; his eyes were still pinned on me, dark and unblinking.
"Let her go, Miller," Bash said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "The lady has work to do. Don’t want to keep her from her... responsibilities."
"Right. Yeah. Work," Miller grumbled, leaning back.
I practically fled. I didn't walk; I glided with a panicked speed that defied the height of my heels. I spent the next two hours as a ghost. I drifted from the high-rollers' booths to the service bar, taking orders I didn't hear and nodding at jokes I didn't understand.
But no matter where I stood in the Velvet Room, I could feel him.
It was a physical weight on the back of my neck. Every time I turned around, he was there, leaned against that same marble pillar. He wasn't drinking. He wasn't talking to Miller. He was just a dark silhouette in the amber haze, his arms crossed, his gaze tracking every movement of my hips, every tilt of my pink-wigged head.
By the time my final set was over and I’d retreated backstage, I was shivering. I didn't even wait for Amelia to finish her routine. I tore off the wig, the mesh cap, and the mask with frantic, shaking hands. I scrubbed at the matte pink lipstick until my mouth was raw, desperate to find Sera underneath the war paint.
I reached into the back of my locker and grabbed the Montgomery 17 pullover.
As I yanked it over my head, the scent hit me—his sandalwood, his soap, and now, the phantom memory of him leaning into my space and whispering about tea. I felt like I was putting on a set of handcuffs.
I waited until I was sure the club had cleared out, slipping out the stage door into the biting chill of the early morning air. The streets were quiet, the city exhaling after a long night. I walked fast, my head down, my hands buried deep in the front pocket of the hoodie.
I made it to the corner of the library—the shortcut back to the dorms—when I saw the familiar black truck idling at the curb. The headlights flickered once. My heart plummeted. He hadn't gone home. He hadn't gone to sleep.
The passenger side window rolled down with a smooth, mechanical hum. Bash was leaning across the center console, his face illuminated by the dim glow of the dashboard. He looked tired, but his eyes were sharper than ever.
"Need a lift, Cupcake?"
I froze, my fingers digging into the fleece of the pullover. "Bash? What are you doing here? It’s three in the morning."
"Just dropped Miller off. He was trying to pick a fight with a mailbox when I left him," Bash said, his voice casual, almost bored. He nudged the door open from the inside. "Get in. It’s freezing, and I’m not letting you walk across campus this late."
I hesitated, but the cold was biting through my leggings, and my feet were screaming from the stilettos I’d been wearing for hours. I climbed in, the leather seat warm beneath me. The interior of the truck smelled exactly like the hoodie I was wearing. It was suffocating.
"Long shift?" he asked, pulling away from the curb.
"The longest," I whispered, staring out the window at the passing streetlights. I needed to fix the story. I’d told him I cleaned clubs, but that felt too close to the Velvet Room now. I needed to downgrade. "I actually... I think I misspoke earlier. I don't really 'clean' the big clubs. I'm a busser at a dive bar over on the East Side. Sticky floors, broken glass, and drunk old men. It’s not glamorous."
I looked at him, trying to gauge if he bought the lie. "It’s why I’m so tired. Carrying heavy tubs of bottles for eight hours is a workout."
"A busser," Bash repeated slowly, his hand shifting on the steering wheel. He sounded like he was tasting the word and finding it bitter. "At a dive bar."
"Yeah. Why?"
"Nothing," he murmured, his gaze flicking to me for a split second before returning to the road. "Just didn't take you for the type to spend your nights clearing beer cans. I figured you for something more... refined. Something that required a bit more passion."
"Passion doesn't pay the rent, Bash. Tips do."
"True," He agreed, “unless you have the skills to back it up. You know what they say, ‘If you do what you love, you’ll never work a day in your life’ or something like that.” He slowed down for a red light, the cabin falling into a heavy, predatory silence as he turned to me.
I tried to laugh him off “Sure, but haven’t you heard the other part of that saying? ‘You’ll never work a day in your life because they aren’t hiring in that field.’” He laughed low and it did funny things to my insides.
“Fair enough. There are those that do find success. I mean you, for example,” I froze, the air in my lungs turning to ice as I waited for the floor to drop out from under me. “You have a passion for baking, right? Isn’t that why you want to open up your own bakery after you graduate?”
I let out a slow, trembling sigh of relief. He wasn’t talking about Sugar or using my love for dancing to pay my tuition; he meant my little pipe-dream bakery. I let loose my breath.
“O-Of course! I mean if I can make it happen then yes that would be true. I haven’t had much time to bake recently. Now that I think about it, that’s what I am going to do tomorrow before work. My homework is done so it's time to relax.” I released a little of the tension I was holding, leaning back into the heated leather. He didn’t know; I was just being paranoid again. If he knew, he wouldn’t be talking about bakeries and pipe dreams. I shifted in the seat, trying to sound casual. "So... how was Miller’s big night? Did you guys end up at a sports bar or something?"
Bash’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. He looked almost... embarrassed? He cleared his throat, staring straight ahead at the road. "Not exactly. Miller wanted something with a bit more... atmosphere. We went to this… club. High-end place. It’s not really my scene, honestly. A bit too much smoke and posturing for me. I’m more of a quiet-bar-and-a-steak kind of guy."
I felt a hum of satisfaction. He was being evasive. He didn't want the "good library girl" to think he was the kind of guy who spent his Saturday nights in high-end burlesque clubs.
“But,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, “there was one thing. A dancer.”
The air in the truck suddenly felt very thin. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Sugar," he said, the name rolling off his tongue with a dark, familiar weight that made my skin prickle. "She was... incredible, Sera. I’ve never seen anyone move like that. She had this confidence, this raw power. Like she knew exactly what everyone in that room was thinking and she just didn't care."
He flicked his gaze toward me, his eyes hooded. "She was beautiful. In an electric, dangerous sort of way. I haven't been able to get her out of my head. I think... I think I’d like to see her again."
I felt a sharp, hot jab of jealousy pierce through me. It was ridiculous. It was insane. I was jealous of myself. I was sitting right here in his truck, wearing his clothes, and he was dreaming about the girl in the pink wig and the mesh bodysuit. I wanted to scream that Sugar was a lie—that she was just a costume I put on so I could afford to be here—but I just sat there, my nails digging into my palms.
“She sounds… lovely,” I managed to choke out.
“She was electric,” he said, then he cleared his throat, the moment of vulnerability vanishing as he pulled up to the curb of my dorm. "Anyway, about this baking tomorrow. You shouldn't do it in the dorm kitchen, Sera. Those ovens are ancient and half the burners don't work. You’ll just end up burning your 'passion' to a crisp."
I blinked, surprised by the pivot. "I don't really have another option, Bash."
"Come to my place," he said. It wasn't a question; it was an invitation that felt like a challenge. "The football house has got a professional-grade kitchen. Double ovens, marble counters—the works. I’ll get you whatever ingredients you need. Just tell me what you're making."
I hesitated. Going to his house meant being alone with him. It meant being in his space without the barrier of a library table. But the thought of a real kitchen—and the chance to see if I could pull his attention back from "Sugar" to "Sera"—was too tempting. Not to mention there would probably be other guys there. We wouldn’t actually be alone.
“Come on,” he urged, his voice softening. “Those kitchens are a health hazard, and the ovens are calibrated by a blind man. Come to my place tomorrow, Sera. Please?”
Hearing him say my actual name, not Little Bellwether or the new Cupcake moniker he’s given me—not to mention the little ‘please’ at the end—I couldn’t deny him. Or myself.
"Okay," I whispered. "I'll do it. I'll send you a list of what I need tonight."
"Good." He reached over, his thumb grazing my chin as he tucked a stray lock of my real hair behind my ear. It was a lingering touch, one that made the 3:00 AM chill vanish instantly. "I’ll see you tomorrow, Cupcake. 12:30. Don't be late."
As I climbed out of the truck and hurried toward the lobby, I felt like I was walking toward my own funeral. I was going to his house to bake with him, while he was hung up on a dancer in a pink wig that didn’t exist off the stage.
I just didn't know which version of me was going to win.