Chapter 16
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Zephyr
The kiss left me reeling.
It was my first, and I’d thought… I’d hoped that would be with Beck. At least with someone who was more than a face in the nightly swarm and a pair of breasts that now bore my signature. That was a first too.
She was gone along with her giddy friend, but I was far from alone as I touched my fingers to my lips. I glanced at the second-floor railing where Maslow’s office loomed and checked to be sure he wasn’t there before I rubbed the back of my hand across my mouth, removing the uninvited taste.
I’d heard they didn’t allow that kind of contact in other clubs. “Hands off” policies abounded, and any advances were at the dancer’s discretion. But things were different here, and I doubted that first surprise kiss would be my last.
Elliot had exited the stage, taking his usual route directly to the dressing room where he would hide until his next set. He was the only one of us who didn’t mingle with the customers. I wondered how he got away with that.
The music kicked over to Darby’s playlist, and the previously quiet crowd stirred into an uproar.
Since this was his night off from VIP, he’d left me to do the rounds alone.
Things had been going well until I was sent to get drinks for one of the rooms and got mobbed on the floor.
With the horde now distracted by the next act, I was able to move toward the bar with the drink order scribbled on a slip of paper in my palm.
Rush stood behind the counter, long hair pulled back and head tilted as he rimmed a glass with indigo sugar.
He moved like he was casting a spell—fingers deft, deliberate.
The pendant lights caught the sugar’s shimmer, but his wide-brimmed hat threw a shadow across his face, like even the light knew better than to get in his way.
“Pretty sure you missed your calling as a potion master,” I remarked, sliding onto a stool.
Rush didn’t look up. “Tried that once. Bad trip. Swore off cauldrons.”
I huffed a tired laugh before setting the note on the bar top. “VIP order. Two Lustinis, one Envy on the Rocks, and a bottle of absinthe.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “They’re… very committed to making it a night.”
Rush raised a brow as his tail snaked out and wrapped around the shaker. “You want me to garnish it with a bad decision or just a sprig of mint?”
I shrugged. “Dealer’s choice. They’re already halfway to sloppy confessions. One of them asked if I came with the bottle.”
He shook his head while starting to pour. “Classy.”
“I didn’t know what to say, so I laughed. I think that made it worse.”
“You’ve got the kind of face that makes drunk people think they’re charming,” Rush said, setting the martini glass aside. “They’re not.”
He may have scoffed at the notion, but the way things worked around here, I was part of the package. A perk of the experience. And I didn’t get much say in the matter.
Maslow took the adage “the customer is always right” to the extreme. If a VIP wanted attention, they got it. If they wanted to touch, they could. If they crossed a line, the line moved.
Darby had been teaching me how to work around it. To guide hands where I didn’t mind them being and to smile while my skin crawled, but some things and people slipped past my defenses. Like autograph girl.
Rush poured something green and glowing into a coupe, then set it down beside him. “You good, though?” he asked, quieter now. Not a bartender’s question, a friend’s.
I exhaled, shoulders easing down. “Just need to catch my breath. Everyone’s grabby tonight.”
Rush pushed one of the finished drinks toward me. “Take ten. Pretend you’re waiting on me.” Then he grabbed a clean glass, held it under the water sprayer, and filled it without a word. He slid the drink across the bar, and into my reach.
I blinked at him. “You’re not going to tell me to smile and get back out there?”
“I’m not your manager,” he said simply. “Drink the water. I’ll handle the potions.”
The lump in my throat surprised me. I nodded and took the glass as he started on the next drink.
His henna-inked fingers—those intricate lines and swirls that faded a little at the edges—tipped bottles into the steel shaker with practiced grace.
He didn’t measure; he didn’t need to. And he was always so calm. I envied that.
Thankful for the excuse to waste a bit of time, I grasped the sweaty water glass and spun away from the bar. The cold edge of the counter bit into my bare back as I reclined against it, breathing in the muggy air.
Across the room, Darby soaked up the spotlight.
He dropped to his knees in a corset top with his chest bared and legs spread, dipping low to the driving beat of an Ariana Grande song.
I wanted to be there, not so far removed, but my grip strength had yet to recover since Maslow’s extraction, and any drops in my routine were likely to turn into falls.
Sipping my drink, I cast my gaze across the crowd, letting my eyes unfocus and render the horde a faceless blur.
I’d barely begun to pan across the sea of anonymity when an approaching figure came clear.
Tall and broad-shouldered, with his hair swept back from features that were somehow stern and soft, Beck cut through the crowd.
His tie hung loose against a dark shirt, the knot tugged down just enough to suggest either exhaustion or deliberate ease—or maybe both.
A fine dusting of gray threaded through the stubble shadowing his jaw, catching the light in a way that made him look more seasoned than weathered.
His golden eyes were fixed forward, unwavering, and trained on me.
My heart rattled inside my ribs, and I almost leaped off the stool, so drawn to him I could have been dragged. But I hooked my heels on the wooden rung beneath me, determined not to betray my desperation.
Not this time; I knew better.
I kept my poise as he approached, bringing a blonde-haired woman alongside him.
A jealous chill slithered down my spine at the sight of them so close.
The woman was tall, especially in her high heels, and undeniably pretty.
Her makeup was simple but classy: crisp black eyeliner and full red lips that pursed as she zeroed in on me.
“Bonjour,” she greeted, squeezing Beck aside while surging into the lead and thrusting out her hand. “Zephyr, is it?”
The foreign greeting tickled something in my brain, and my guard lowered. I wanted to ask her to say it again. Instead, I replied, “Yes ma’am.”
Sliding off the stool, I accepted her shake, and her smile spread.
“He has manners.” She jabbed her elbow into Beck’s ribs as he came alongside her, then addressed me again. “I’m Colette. It’s nice to put a face to the name I’ve heard so much recently.”
When Beck’s gaze met mine, I was immediately enveloped in the honey warmth of his eyes. My heart kicked again, followed by a growl in my gut.
At least my body understood what this was. Lust was not to be confused with longing or love. Lucas Beckett was a meal to me and a customer to Maslow, and I was a whore to him. A bill he’d returned to pay.
But he’d returned with a woman. Did he want to settle with me or share me?
My eyes flicked between them, conveying the question Beck answered.
“My associate,” he explained.
An associate wasn’t a partner—at least not romantically—and that small reassurance eased some of the tension coiled in my chest. I turned and set my water glass on the bar, suddenly aware of how exposed I was.
Beck had seen me in far less, of course, but with him standing so close, the temptation to let him see, touch, and taste everything was dangerously hard to ignore.
My stomach grumbled another complaint that I rushed to talk over. “How can I help you?”
The question was for either of them, but Beck answered first. “I think you and I need to discuss… things.” He glanced at the mass of bodies populating the room, and his lip curled. “Is there a private area nearby?”
Coincidentally, we had a room with that exact label on it
The thought of taking Beck there made my mouth go dry.
Amidst all the equipment and restraints, I’d be vulnerable, and more than that, complicit in Maslow’s scheme.
Considering that scheme was arguably the only reason I was on Earth, and my boss had made no secret of his ability to discern when I was keeping things from him, it seemed I had reached the end of my resistance.
I needed to eat. To get my strength back. To resume my place under the spotlight and in the air. To keep myself from fading.
It wasn’t just want or hunger anymore; it was survival. The cruel mechanics of my existence demanded it. I needed sex to keep performing, to keep seducing, to keep pretending I liked this.
I wasn’t sure what moved me first—resignation or despair—but I offered Beck a small nod.
“This way.”
Edging around him, I made my way through the crowd.
Every step was a brush past sequins and sweat-slick skin, and the throb of music trailed behind me like a second pulse.
Beck fell into step, silent and watchful, and I wished he would put his arm around me.
It would have been a welcome touch, the kind I so rarely got.
Colette’s voice chased us as we passed the bar. “I’ll wait here, then,” she said, a hint of amusement stitched into her tone.
We passed out of the main area into an adjacent hall.
The noise of the club was swallowed by the hush of the corridor as we shuffled along.
The air back here was cooler, but my skin felt too warm, too exposed.
My palms were clammy as I curled my fingers into them and fixed my eyes on the path ahead.
Beck walked beside me, silent until he began in a gruff whisper, “Zephyr?”
“Just a little farther,” I said, pretending like it didn’t make my insides twist when he said my name. The name his associate claimed she’d heard many times recently.
From him? What had he been saying about me?