Chapter 11
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
Beck
It was never clearer that returning to the Devil’s Dollhouse was a mistake than when I walked into the club and my dick went as stiff as a dowsing rod pointing straight at the incubus.
There were plenty of others to look at. I’d entered to a pair of dancers mid-brawl, their arms and legs flailing on the stage, but my notice went directly to Cherry and I wondered—I worried—if he was okay. And that was ten different kinds of fucked up.
Colette had wanted to come inside this time, which gave me all the reason I needed to leave her in the car.
I knew her game. She wanted to meet the incubus, size him up, maybe try the same stunt Luxe had pulled in the executive suite.
I didn’t need a wingwoman. And I doubted Cherry was suffering for attention.
But there he was, in a heathered purple tank top and harem pants, and I’d be damned if the billboard didn’t do him a bit of justice.
Maslow proved a welcome distraction, announcing my arrival while dismissing the dancers with casually crude language that got my hackles up.
Not one of them batted an eye, which was telling.
They were either unbothered by the name-calling or accustomed to it.
Either way, it left a foul taste in my mouth that lingered as I climbed the steps to Maslow’s office and allowed him to close us inside.
Unlike my dusty cave of a workspace, Maslow’s office was sleek. Velvet and leather furniture matched the aesthetic downstairs, all high-end upholstery with low-end energy. Everything looked expensive, but none of it felt comfortable, like it had been bought to impress but not use.
A massive desk was the centerpiece. The ebony monolith took up entirely too much real estate for a man who mostly sat behind it, posturing. It screamed overcompensation. Probably came with a matching complex.
Behind it, a bank of monitors ran silent black-and-white feeds from every corner of the club.
Dressing rooms, hallways, executive suites—nothing escaped the all-seeing eye of surveillance.
Next to the door we’d entered through, floor-to-ceiling glass offered a view of the main stage so Maslow could watch his performers like a king surveying his court.
Or a perv watching a peep show. Either way, it fit.
Maslow settled on his throne while I slid into one of the guest chairs opposite him. He proceeded to make a show of pulling a plump black portfolio folder from one of the desk drawers and setting it between his splayed palms.
I’d worried he would drag his heels or stall with undue formalities while setting the stage for his grand proposal, so I was pleasantly surprised when he began straightaway.
“As I mentioned on the phone, I have a lucrative proposition for you. A new club.” He flipped open the cover of the portfolio and spread its contents across the desktop.
I scooted to the edge of my seat, scanning the pristine pages. Blueprints, abstracts, elevation drawings… It was a lot to take in.
“Prime real estate,” Maslow said, snapping a pen he pulled from nowhere against one of the sheets. “Just off Fairmont. Neutral territory. No angelic sigils or demonic claims. It’s virgin soil.”
Not entirely. It looked to be a gut job. A building currently occupied the space Maslow referred to, but his drawings detailed plans to demolish it and construct a new one in its place.
The design was bold. Soaring where the Dollhouse was comparatively squat. Five levels were labeled with notes that said things like Ascension Floor, The Font, and Penance Row.
It looked a bit like a club, but more like a statement. The kind of place that would draw attention like a lightning rod.
Maslow’s grin turned sharp. “I’m calling it Purgatory,” he said. “What do you think?”
I thought a lot less about the building or the name than I did about the location.
The moment demons and angels had revealed themselves to the world, they started carving it up.
Las Vegas had become its own battleground for supernatural dominance, but it was a war without a victor.
I’d been part of the negotiations when both sides had finally agreed it was better to strike a truce than burn Sin City to the ground.
They’d split the Strip down the middle: demons claimed one side, angels took the other.
The adjacent property on Fairmont Street had been left out of the terms entirely.
I pushed back, shaking my head. “That’s not neutral, Maz. That’s a powder keg. If you build on it, you’re daring someone to light a match.”
Maslow rolled his pen between his stubby fingers. “Which is why we need to move fast. Quiet. By the time anyone notices, we’ll be too big to burn down.” Turning in his chair, he stretched his hand toward the exterior wall as though we could see Fairmont from here.
The wraith grinned, flashing his gold-capped teeth. “Picture it: you and me, partners in Purgatory.”
It sounded like Hell. No, it sounded worse.
But he was ready for it. He’d shown me everything besides his bank statements to prove how prepared he was to dive into this debacle. I couldn’t help but wonder.
“Why another club? Is this one not enough for you?
Maslow’s smile spread. “I have aspirations, Beckett. And product. Young, hungry, and pliable. Straight from Hell. No attachments, no overheads.”
He paused to swallow the drool that must have been pooling in his mouth, aggressively salivating as he spoke about more pretty boys, and maybe girls too, being marched out of the underworld and put to work baring their bodies for human amusement.
His enthusiasm peaked as he concluded, “You wouldn’t believe how many eager little things are waiting for their chance topside.”
“What does that mean? ‘Straight from Hell?’” My brows dipped in a frown. “You running a pipeline now?”
Maslow chuckled. “I have enough… let’s call them applicants… to staff three more clubs if I wanted.” He was so flippant about it, casual, and unnervingly proprietary. “You could have one of your own,” he added. “A club, I mean. Or a demon if it suits you.” He shrugged.
My gaze drifted to the grid of monitors on the wall behind the desk, and I located the two broadcasting activity. One showed a kitchen area where the dancers had gathered around a long table to eat. They looked amiable enough, gesturing and chatting, though I couldn’t hear what was being said.
The other feed that drew my notice was the one trained on the stage. Cherry sat alone with his legs dangling off the stage’s elevated edge. He looked so small.
I hadn’t considered it, never cared to, but after seeing barred windows and finding the whole troupe onsite with apparently nowhere else to be in the middle of a weekday, the realization struck me like a blow. They lived here, yes. But could they leave here?
“But don’t mind those pretty bitches downstairs.” Maslow’s flapping hand cut through my view. “Lesser demons are like cattle, Beckett. Easy to move in, easy to move out. They’re not the point.”
He rolled back from the desk and stood, dwarfed by the gargantuan piece of furniture as he began to pace the floor across from me.
“What I’m talking about is enterprise,” he said. “Legacy. A foothold off the Strip and the power that comes with it. The Dollhouse was proof of concept. Fairmont is where we scale.”
I was out.
I had to be.
As someone who’d played a part in crafting the treaty that held this town together, I could not be involved in its destruction. And I wasn’t sure I could sit by and watch Maslow do it, either.
I stayed seated while he walked, clasping my hands and staring at him with all the severity I could muster.
“If you open a club on Fairmont, you’re not expanding, you’re declaring war. You think the angels will let that slide? You think they won’t see it as a threat?”
He laughed—the bastard actually laughed—then said, “Let me worry about the angels.”
“You do that.” My fists tightened, and I wanted to swing one at him. Knock some sense into his thick skull. “I’ve had my fill of those feathered fucks. Enough for two eternities.”
The wraith tipped his head toward me. His brows waggled with amusement. “The way I heard it, Stefano Rossetti was getting his fill of you.”
Mother. Fucker.
“That’s too far,” I growled.
My warning look and the vein pulsing at my temple proved enough to cow Maslow, who nodded.
“You’re right, you’re right,” he admitted. “So, let me handle the angels, and you handle Fairmont.”
I expelled a breath and shoved all the way back in my chair. My retreat spurred the wraith to plant his palms on the desktop and lean in until he was at my eye level.
“Think about the leverage,” he said. “The influence. We’d have both sides of the Strip begging to kiss our boots. They may even want to invest.” He tugged on his shirt, every bit a peacock preening. “Not to blow my own horn, but this place is profitable.”
I snorted. “You’ll have to offer more than money if you want me to walk into a firing line, Maz.”
The conversation was over. I couldn’t think of a damned thing that would persuade me to commit career—and potentially literal—suicide. I stood, but Maslow stopped me before I reached the door.
“I can offer more,” he purred in a way that made my lip curl. “Carnal pleasure, perhaps? Has your cock grown cold without your angelic lover to keep it warm?”
Disgust carved my face with hard, snarling lines. “We’re done here.” Grabbing the knob, I yanked the door open.
Maslow staggered back while squinting in disdain. “You’ve changed, Beckett,” he said.
I felt that. Daily. A kind of malaise that had grown with every passing decade. It started with Stefano Rossetti. I wasn’t sure where it would end.
Maslow’s words settled across my shoulders like a yoke. Or maybe it had always been there, and I was only just now aware of the weight. Either way, I couldn’t shake it.
Still, I straightened, met his gaze, and said, “Don’t do this, Maslow. You’d be lucky not to live long enough to regret it.”
Exiting the office, I made my way down the staircase at a rapid clip, training my gaze ahead to avoid glimpsing Cherry, who I imagined to still be perched on the edge of the stage.
But as I rounded the last turn of the spiraling stairs, I was faced with reality in the form of the rosy-cheeked redhead blocking the landing.
With Maslow behind me and Cherry before me, I was well and truly trapped.