Chapter 15
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Beck
It took me a week to work up the nerve to return to the club.
Really, the delay was less nerves and more logistics.
I spent one day researching rates for prostitutes in Vegas, then another debating whether a tip was customary or expected.
If so, was it calculated in terms of percent or performance?
What message did I want to send the man who’d let me fuck him twice?
Who I’d called Beauty because it suited him so well, and who suckled my fingers in a way that spurred me to waste an entire afternoon pondering his head game?
I’d gotten off to it. Multiple times. So, should I tip him for the masturbation material that was the memory of his legs, neck, and the lips that I definitely did not kiss?
I patted my money clip where it bulged in my suit coat pocket. A less scrupulous demon would have taken the free goods without a second thought, and maybe that was my problem. I was a scrupulous demon. Or I had become one.
“You’ve changed, Beckett,” Maslow had said.
That truth stuck with me. The wraith probably wished I had taken something else away from our meeting: thoughts about his new construction on Fairmont and my ability to see it through.
Instead, my focus was wrapped up in my own shortcomings and the six dancers at the mercy of whatever the Devil’s Dollhouse was, or would soon become.
“You’re thinking about him again,” Colette quipped from her seat beside me. She tested her gloved hands on the wheel of the limo before tagging on, “The incubus.”
“I’d say that’s logical since I’m going to see him,” I replied.
Colette hummed. “Oui, but you don’t often sweat so much when you are being logical.”
I frowned at the implication, then tugged open my suit coat to check my underarms for dampness.
“You’ve been sweaty for days,” Colette continued. “And showering more than usual. Because you are sweaty? Or a different kind of salty?”
She smelled it, of course. The not-sweat that stemmed from an area south of my underarms. She should have been a bloodhound for how eager she was to sniff out clues about my… activities.
“It’s the desert, Coll,” I informed her. “Everyone’s sweating.”
“And showering.” Her lips pulled into a coy smile. “And taking too long in the office bathroom to do sweaty, salty things.”
There was no point in denying that jacking off had beaten out FreeCell in the list of ways I passed the time. Colette’s hound senses were too keen for such a confined space. I could get away with nothing.
“I think it’s more musky than salty,” I muttered.
“It’s both, and it’s also rather noisy,” Colette replied. If she’d provided sound effects of wet skin slapping, I might have wilted from mortification. Thankfully, she carried on, sans accompaniment. “Maybe that’s why they make the club so loud, to cover up all the… moaning.”
My narrow gaze cut over to her. “I don’t moan.”
Despite the warning I conveyed, the hellhound held my gaze without a hint of remorse. “What do you call it, then, when you say another man’s name and he’s not even in the room? Or the building?”
“Pretty sure I don’t do that either.”
She huffed a laugh. “Not when you’re awake…”
I bolted upright in my seat, causing the belt to strain across my chest. “You’d better not be coming into my room again! I confiscated your key card for a reason—”
“I get peckish at night,” she whined. “And your minibar is so well stocked.”
“Because I don’t eat from it,” I retorted. Then added in a grumble, “Six dollars for a bag of M I don’t. Regardless of the position.”
Colette chuckled. “With you as a customer, no one is getting paid for sex.”
“Which is a situation I am trying to rectify,” I retorted.
We traveled in silence another half mile, barely outpacing the foot traffic as we made our way down the Strip.
We were passing the blue and purple lights of the fan tail above the entrance of the Peacock Casino when Colette muttered, “The cruise would have been cheaper.”
“Definitely,” I agreed with a sigh.
Another half mile dragged by before we turned off Las Vegas Boulevard onto the side street that hosted the Dollhouse.
The red glow of the club’s sign became a beacon as we advanced then rolled into the lot.
There were few open spots to be found, so Colette squeezed the Lincoln in near the back and left the engine running.
“We have arrived,” she declared. “Shall I wait in the car, monsieur?”
I could usually tell how wily Colette was feeling by the number of Frenchisms she peppered into conversation.
Since our chat on the drive here had been chock-full, I didn’t believe for a minute she would keep that energy politely contained while I dealt with things in the club.
Like a real dog, she’d be barking and clawing at the windows in the first five minutes.
Or worse, since she wasn’t a real dog, and wasn’t limited by a lack of opposable thumbs.
I shook my head. “No chance. I’m not risking you diving in after me like a goddamn lifeguard,” I said. Then reluctantly admitted, “Besides, I might need the accountability.”
We exited the limo and made our way toward the club’s crowded entrance, where hopeful admittees chatted and snapped selfies while the bouncers checked IDs.
Colette and I queued up at the end of the line behind a gaggle of college-aged girls preening and tossing their hair like show ponies.
You would have thought they were preparing to go onto a stage rather than stand in front of one.
“Did anyone bring a Sharpie?” a busty blonde asked while rummaging in her sequined clutch.
“I did!” Her brunette friend waved a permanent marker in the air. “I’m getting autographs.”
The two of them looked at each other and flashed bleached smiles before announcing in unison, “On my tits!”
They erupted in squeals and peals of laughter, and I raked a hand through my hair.
My jaw clenched tight as thoughts piled up.
Mostly about how I looked standing here beside these twenty-something girls in their sparkly minidresses, already high on cocktails and the thrill of tossing singles at scantily clad men.
And I had a wad of cash tucked in my jacket and the audacity to act like I was above it all.
Colette picked at her nails, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “So, if the incubus is a prostitute, does that make the wraith his pimp?” She fanned her fingers out for inspection while aiming a grin my way. “The kind who may want to break your kneecaps with his cane?”
“Maz doesn’t carry a cane,” I replied, keeping my voice low and hoping she got the hint to do the same. “And where did you get that impression of pimps?”
“I have seen many films,” she replied, and I couldn’t help but frown.
“That happens in many films?”
She raised a shoulder then dusted her hands down her slacks. “You’d be surprised. Regardless, I am prepared to defend you.” Tugging open her suit coat revealed the underarm holster for her revolver. The gun glinted in the Dollhouse’s red glow.
I cringed. “Please don’t pull that out.”
Colette closed her jacket then gave the weapon an affectionate pat. “Don’t worry. It’s called concealed carry for a reason.”
We reached the front of the line, where I was once again recognized by the bouncers.
“Not tonight,” I replied to the offer of VIP treatment. “We won’t be long.”
I paid the cover fee, and we traded the shadows of night for the moody black of the club.
No one escorted us this time, which left Colette and me to navigate the packed room on our own.
Bodies crowded in wall to wall, every one of them angling for a better view of the main stage.
Before I looked, I felt. The air hit me, thick with sweat, perfume, and the electric buzz of want.
The lights were down low, leaving the glow of red sconces bleeding across the walls and the occasional strobe to cast everything in breathless flashes. The spotlight pointed like an arrow at the dancer dominating center stage.
In thigh-high combat boots, hot pants, and a lot of tattoos, Hemlock moved like smoke on the pole.
He was fluid and finessed, every roll of his hips coaxing breathless awe from the crowd.
A remix of “Tainted Love” reverberated through the speakers, slowed down and atmospheric, like the room had been dropped underwater.
I came to a stop with my hands in my pockets, letting the dark press in and the music crawl down my spine, wondering when the hell this place started feeling like it was under my skin too.
I watched Hemlock’s performance, marveling at the way the strobes turned his pale skin paper white and rendered his tattoos and gratuitous black eyeliner impossibly stark.
It wasn’t the kind of show to merit whistles or catcalls, but it was mesmerizing.
After a moment or two, I tore my gaze away.
I wasn’t here to feast my eyes on goth glamor. I had a debt to pay.
When I broke into motion, Colette did her best to cling to my side as we dipped and weaved between fellow patrons.
“This isn’t ABBA.” She gestured to indicate the music swelling in the air.
“That’s more Marvel’s schtick,” I replied.
“Who?”
Explaining that Marvel was the broad-shouldered blond himbo with a thing for comic books and power ballads like “It’s Raining Men” would’ve made me sound way too familiar with the place. So instead, I said, “Not all nubile demon boys are the same, Coll.”
She snorted. “If you say so.”
Passing the bar, I spared a glance at the hipster mixologist tossing and flipping a shaker bottle with Cocktails-level flair. Glasses lined the counter in front of him, holding spheres of ice and glowing blue liquid.
This place was profitable, Maslow had said, and I didn’t doubt it.
They had perfected the art of selling spectacle rather than just skin.
Everywhere I looked, there was something to experience, and I caught myself turning a slow circle, absorbing all that the Dollhouse had to offer.
As the final notes of “Tainted Love” petered out, I spotted the exact offering I’d come to find.
Zephyr was wearing nearly nothing. His sheer crop top was more sleeves than shirt, covering his arms and shoulders and exposing his toned stomach and chest. High-cut underwear arched over his hips, and his legs were bare to the ankles where his toe boots laced up.
I realized I hadn’t seen his hair loose before, and I studied the way the choppy layers framed his face and spilled down the nape of his neck.
He was delicate but strong, soft but sharp, almost too feminine to be a man but shaped with the lean muscles of one.
It felt criminal to know I’d ever called him anything less than beautiful.
He was surrounded too, swamped by customers who weren’t too shy to drag their hands across his abdomen or pull on his hair. While I watched, the coeds from the line outside emerged, waving their marker in his face.
Zephyr swayed back, clearly startled as the blonde thrust the Sharpie into his uncertain grip. Her friend crowded in, stretching the neckline of her dress so low her breasts nearly spilled out.
The momentary surprise wore off, and Zephyr recovered with a smile. His sharp teeth flashed, and his violet eyes glowed dimly. Feeding from them because they wanted him. How could they not?
My cheeks flushed at the sight of his skin, creamy white against the rich red of everything else. Even his shoes were a deep shade of crimson, exposing toenails painted to match.
“You’re sweating again,” Colette muttered from where she lurked at my side.
The two of us were crushed together as the crowd began to shift. She turned, and her gaze chased mine to where Zephyr seemed to occupy a spotlight all his own.
He signed the girl’s chest, then moved on to her friend, who boldly shouldered in.
When they both bore matching black scribbles on their decolletage, they let out another shared squeal.
Zephyr’s smile strained, but it didn’t break until the brunette snaked her arm around his waist and jerked him in to plant a kiss on his lips.
The warmth—of familiarity, affection?—that had beset me moments before burned white hot. I searched the crowd for security, but the moment passed before anyone could intervene.
The two broke apart with the girl giggling drunkenly while her friend dragged her back into the mob.
Thoughts of the brash woman ingesting incubus venom came belatedly, and I decided just as swiftly that I didn’t care.
Let her be enthralled and intoxicated with him.
Let her be miserable that she couldn’t really have him because… because…
Go ahead, I dared myself. Finish that thought.
Because neither could I.