Chapter 3 #2
There was a pole dancer too. Hemlock. With glossy black hair and red eyes ringed in liner, he had a unique appeal, but his performances were more skillful than sensual.
While the other dancers engaged and mingled with the crowd, the leather-clad pole artist came and went in the shadows, rarely stepping off the stage.
And now there was a new kid. Maslow hadn’t told me his name, but I figured it’d be pretty obvious when someone came out in tights doing acrobatic bullshit.
The waitress reached a break in her conversation with Livingston, which gave me a chance to cut in.
“Is Luxe working tonight?”
The girl turned toward me, then tittered a laugh. “He works every night.”
“Where?” I gestured to the other glass-fronted rooms. I didn’t spot the dancer at a glance, but that was no surprise given tonight’s crowd.
The waitress giggled again. “I’ll send him your way. Can I get you some drinks while you wait?”
Livingston edged into the conversation, brushing against me and assaulting me with the musky smell of his cologne.
“What do you recommend?” he asked.
Wrong question while I was footing the bill. But Livingston nodded blithely along while the waitress spouted off details about the club’s bottle service, signature cocktails, and the Seven Deadly Sins flight that got his mouth watering.
“We’ll take that,” he said.
Another upcharge.
My jaw ticked.
The waitress smiled. “Anything else?”
“God, I hope not.” My grumble caused her cheer to fade while Livingston went to take a seat on the curved couch inside the suite. There he sprawled with his legs spread, as if anticipating having a body between them.
I turned back to the waitress, who was waiting. I shouldn’t have wondered what for. Everyone, everywhere, had their hand out, and I’d been hemorrhaging cash all night.
I pressed a bill into her hand, hoping it was enough to cover the undoubtedly overpriced flight, and she was off at a trot.
With another heavy breath, I turned from the Western showdown on the stage and faced my client. He was really settled in, eyeing the table in the center of the room with a pole running through it.
It was quieter in here, and I could hear my own thoughts again.
Besides the couch and pole, a small side table held the drink menu, and a corded phone was mounted on the wall.
The colors were all jewel tones, and mostly dark.
People tended to prefer anonymity when feasting their eyes.
Livingston was brazen, and I was vaguely concerned about what I’d gotten Luxe into by calling him up here.
But the sassy twink knew how to maintain boundaries. I’d seen him run more than one handsy customer out of the club, and it was amusing as fuck. I wouldn’t have hated it if Livingston was the next aggressive asshole to be shown the door, but I needed to get to the matter at hand first.
It hadn’t just been a dry spell since my last sexual encounter.
It had been a long while since I’d cut my last deal too.
Blame it on increased competition in the field or my own decreased interest. Either way, I was overdue, and since Livingston had practically thrown himself at me, this was as good a reason as any to get back in the game.
“So, Ewing,” I began, drawing the other man’s attention. “It’s been a long night. You must be eager to discuss what brought you all the way out here. It seemed urgent.”
Livingston’s mouth bent in a frown, and his previously relaxed posture stiffened. “It is,” he admitted. “A bit. I find myself facing potentially harmful allegations.”
That could mean literally anything. From infidelity to embezzlement, I’d been called upon to soothe every kind of scandal. When PR companies failed and people refused to be paid off, I stepped in to pull the strings of the universe.
Between Livingston’s barrage of emails yesterday and his arrival today, I’d done a bit of digging into his business.
He was the founder and chief shareholder of Argus Intellisec, a high-tech security company that recently branched into AI-assisted surveillance.
It had made big news, so articles had been plentiful.
It had also made Livingston a mint from early-bird investors, causing the stocks he’d monologued about for half our drive here to soar.
The other man twitched, looking itchy, already giving guilty cues for a crime he had yet to name.
“Someone believes… they found some information, internal records, transaction logs…” He cast a glance toward the stage, where Smolder and Spite were taking their bows. “Supposedly, they have evidence we sold software to private military firms, and they’re threatening to blow the whistle.”
I was a little surprised the informant was well enough to be a concern. And by “well,” I meant alive. Part of me admired that Livingston hadn’t hired a hitman instead of a demon. But maybe what he wanted was more specific than a kill order. Some tasks required finesse rather than brute force.
“Do you know who the whistleblower is?” I asked.
At that, the other man looked pained. He nodded slowly before replying, “My son.”
My next breath escaped in a cough. So, Livingston Junior caught Daddy glad-handing with mercenary groups, and he didn’t approve. Finesse, for sure.
The waitress returned toting a black mirrored tray.
It was long and rectangular and lined with a set of shot glasses.
Smoke rose from the tray—stemming from a bed of dry ice—as she rested it on the pole table.
Leaning forward, I inspected the folded cards labeling each drink: Pride, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, and Wrath.
As soon as the waitress left, Livingston lunged for the Gluttony shot and guzzled it. We demons had a firm grasp of our vices, but humans were rarely so self-aware. After spending the evening with the man, I could attest that gluttony suited him.
I eyed the Pride shot, amused by its placement at the front of the line. Judging by the ingredients listed on its name card, it was a spinoff of a French 75. The gold rim was a mess waiting to get on my lips, but it wouldn’t be a strip club without a bit of glitter.
If I was paying for this indulgence, I might as well get my money’s worth. Enjoying a few drinks would give me time to mull over Livingston’s problem and decide whether I wanted to make it my own.
Tipping back the shot, I caught vaguely floral notes as the cool liquid tingled on my tongue and then slid smoothly down my throat.
Livingston reached for another shot—Greed.
I predicted it before his hand twitched in that direction.
Humans may not have been self-aware, but they were predictable.
He’d fallen quiet, and I found I liked him better that way.
Let him stew in his troubles for a bit. The more dire he believed his situation was, the more likely this would work out in my favor.
Adjusting in my seat, I looked outside the suite, hoping to see some sign of Luxe incoming. When the house lights flashed to purple and the spots targeted the stage, my attention was drawn there instead.
Music kicked on. Far from the country rock that accompanied the twins’ act, this was theatrical and dramatic.
I watched and waited until a length of fabric spilled from the ceiling above the stage.
It unwound rapidly, spinning and twirling until it took shape.
Long and hanging perpendicular to the floor, it looked like a cocoon opening to unveil a redheaded man I’d never seen before.
Hello, new kid.