It’s getting close to opening, and I still haven’t stocked the backup for my well liquor. Grabbing the key, I head to the stock room to grab the bottles when the back door swings open. My feet are stuck in place, pulse racing, as my eyes adjust to the familiar face. Talon, Ataxia’s drummer, smiles as he walks past me to the stage.

Holy shit. I put my hand to my chest. Calm down. I drop my gaze to the floor and scurry to the back room. Rex could walk in at any minute, and the last place I want to be is welded to the floor in the hallway. My hand shakes as I slide the key in. A few male voices murmur behind me and get louder as if they’re headed my way. My heart kicks behind my ribs.

Thankfully the door opens just before they round the corner, and I rush in the tiny room, shutting the door behind me. I flick on the light and lean my back against the brick wall.

“Pull it together. You’re going to have to face him sooner or later.” I take a few deep breaths and move through the tiny room, loading bottles and supplies on the small cart that’s there.

What if he hates me? I could take his indifference, but his dislike I couldn’t bear. The morning after we were together I’d have sworn there was nothing that could stop me from confronting him. But tonight, at the club together in front of prying eyes, insecurity has dissolved my courage.

“Okay. Breathe. Focus. I can do this.” I grip my hands on the cool metal bar of the cart, preparing to leave the shelter of the supply room. What if I run into him on my way back to the bar? “Hey, Rex, sorry about that kiss. You made it clear you find me repulsive and I pushed myself on you anyway. Ugh . . . this is humiliating.”

Pressing my ear against the door, I hear only the faint sound of a few of the cocktail servers talking. No deep male voices. Perfect. If I can just avoid him until I get behind the bar, I should be good for the night. That’ll give me plenty of time to go over the speech I’d planned all week in my head. Yeah, then I can pull him aside after his show and apologize. Head down, beeline to the bar. I’ve got an entire shift to work out the rest.

I twist the handle and push the door, but it doesn’t move. What? I wiggle it and push again. It doesn’t budge.

“Stuck.” A flicker of panic ticks in my chest. I try a few different combinations of pushing and wiggling, but to no avail.

Dammit. A weight settles in my chest and chills race over my body. The walls seem to twist and shrink all around me. Breathe and relax. This isn’t the same. This is not the same.

I blow out a long breath and shove back my anxiety to pull up my rational thinking.

There’s no lock on the inside, so somehow it’s locked me in from the outside. Right, just like when I was a kid. Locked in the closet for days. No light. Cramped space. Little air. Fuck!

The panic ignites and floods my system. My stomach rolls, and dizziness has me bracing my weight against the door.

“Oh God, please. Not here. I can’t freak out here.” The familiar feeling of my racing heart and sweat-dampened skin mainlines adrenaline through my veins.

Let me out. I’ve got to get out!

My fist slams against the wooden door. Once, twice, and a third.

“Hello!” My one spoken word cracks with emotion. “Anyone out there?”

I press my ear to the door again. Silence. Shit!

A small whimper escapes my lips. The memories wash over me in waves. Stuck. Alone. Scared. Knowing that no one was coming to rescue me.

I knock again, this time with the driving force of my desperation.

“Help! I’m stuck. Anyone there?”

No one’s there. They never were.

“Help!” I bang some more, louder, harder. “Someone help me!” My forehead beads with sweat.

I’m breathing too hard. Can’t get enough air. Darkness threatens my vision. “Don’t pass out. Breathe.” I count each breath, trying to make them slow. One-two-three-in. One-two-three-out. It’s not working. My muscles spasm.

“Please help me!” I slap with the heel of my palm. Nothing.

Helpless. Useless. God, I couldn’t save him. Protect him.

I bang again, but I’m emotionally drained and my hand slides down the wood to my side. “God, please—”

“Hey.” The voice comes from the other side of the door. “You okay in there?”

“Hello? Yes, please! I’m okay, but . . . I’m locked in.” I try to school my voice, but the terror is unmistakable even to my own ears.

“Shhh, it’s okay. You’ll be okay. I’ll get you out.”

My body turns to stone. Rex.

The handle wiggles but doesn’t budge. “Um, shit. Let me grab Mario.”

“No!” I press my palms to the door and lean my forehead against it. The thought of being left alone in here for another second . . . I can’t. “Don’t go.”

Silence . . . Shit. Did he leave? My scalp tingles and my palms sweat.

“Mac?” His voice is soft and close, as if he’s pressed up to the other side of the door as I am.

Just the sound of his voice calms me. I take a deep breath. “Yeah.”

More silence.

“It’s okay. I won’t leave you.” His voice is firm and soothing.

My heart seizes at his words. How familiar this is, being separated by a door and whispering words to console the fears. Does he remember? Is he riding the same déjà vu?

“Mac, do you have a key in there with you?” His voice is still soft, but now determined.

“Yes.”

“Can you slide it to me under the door?”

I don’t answer him with words but instead glide down the door to the crack at the bottom. And just like when we were kids, I press my cheek to the floor, looking through the crack. I see the white toes of his Chuck Taylors, and I feel the loss at not seeing his eyes. I push the key through the crack of the door, and his feet step back.

Time slows to a crawl as he reaches for the keys.

Our fingers meet.

Then still.

Skin touches skin beneath the door and something happens.

Neither of us move.

I can’t see him, but an urgency to connect with him pushes one word to my throat.

“Rex . . .”

~*~

Rex

Exactly like my dream.

I’m separated from someone important, wanting so badly to remove the barrier between us, but knowing it’s impossible. Hands braced together through a space that’s so small and yet feels like something bigger than my heart can take.

“Rex . . .”

My breath hitches. The way she says my name, sadness dripping off the word, makes her sound so young and helpless. So familiar and yet . . . not.

I stare at the space where our fingers are connected. Dark purple painted nails accentuate her pale skin.

“It’s okay.” Those two simple words reverberate in my head like a gong. It’s okay. The urge to lay my cheek against the cold floor and try to see her is overwhelming. “I’m going to get you out of here.” Again, the words feel as if they’ve been spoken before, but when?

Reluctantly, I let go of her fingers and stand. With a turn of the key, the door swings open. Mac is sitting on the floor, her knees tucked in and arms wrapped tight around them. She tilts her head back to look at me. Pain and confusion work behind her eyes.

“You okay?”

“Better now,” she whispers.

Bright light flares behind my eyes, and I see her: the flaming-orange hair, gray eyes, and pale skin. Before I can grab the vision and store it in my memory, it’s gone. I close my eyes, searching for it, begging to get it back, but it’s like trying to hold onto vapor.

“Holy shit.” I lean back against the doorframe and rub my eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Mac’s voice is close. “All the color drained from your face. Here”—her small hands grip my arm—“you need to sit down.”

“No, really. I’m good.” I wave her off and breathe through the feeling that I’m going to pass out. “I just need a second. Think I stood up too fast or something.”

Or something.

“Oh, right.” She backs away. “Take your time.”

That was the most intense déjà vu I’ve ever experienced. Not only were the visuals so real but the intensity of the feelings. Just like my dreams, but I’m awake. Is that possible?

The flash of the little girl seemed almost like a memory. She couldn’t be a relative. If I had family, I wouldn’t have had to go into group homes and foster care after she died. But I must know the redheaded girl from somewhere. I get the feeling that she was important to me. Another orphan maybe? Why would I only see portions of her face? Even in my dreams, it’s only her eyes, lips, and hair, but only in sections.

“Dude, where the fuck have you been? We’re not your roadies, Justin Bieber. Get your ass out here and help us set up.” Lane shoves me and pops a cigarette in his mouth. He swings his gaze to Mac, who’s now behind her cart of bottles. “Mac, what’s up, girl? Mind grabbing me a beer, sweetheart?”

A possessive growl threatens to escape my throat, before I swallow it back. As much as I don’t appreciate Lane calling her sweetheart, she isn’t mine. I brush it off to me having respect for the girl. I mean she’s not a fucking groupie. Shit.

“Sure, Lane.” She pushes her cart past us, peeking up at me with a tiny smile. “See ya ’round, Rex.”

“Yeah, see ya.” I watch her until she disappears into the bar area then turn to Lane. His eyes are fixed at ass level where Mac just turned the corner. Fucking asshole. I punch him in the shoulder hard enough to knock the cigarette from his lips. “Call me Justin Bieber again, bitch, and I’ll break your legs.”

He rubs his arm, his jaw slack. “That’s my fret arm, dick!”