Chapter 31
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
Zephyr
Days passed, and I settled into my new normal: working every night, practicing every day.
I didn’t go back to VIP.
I was on stage, in my silks or on my hoop, and I was content. My routines had become increasingly ambitious, though more easily imagined than executed after Maslow’s daily withdrawals.
I was weak. Hungry. Often dizzy. And what should have been dazzling became dangerous.
On the third night, I blacked out only to come to a split second later, suspended by the silks wound around my leg.
No one noticed, and I didn’t confess. Just kept pushing, rehearsing, and taking my place in the spotlight over and over again.
When I slept, it was on the floor in Darby’s room because his bed was small and no matter how curved or compressed he began each night, he ended it spreadeagle, arms and legs touching both sides of the mattress. But the floor was better than the room downstairs, and I enjoyed his company, besides.
Word must have spread about my falling out with Beck because the guys all made gestures in an effort to mend my shattered heart.
Oz got tofu and prepared an assortment of vegetarian dishes. Elliot made me a paper crane like the ones hanging in his bedroom. Colt and Callum burned a CD with a playlist of country songs about heartache and revenge, and more than one discussing setting fire to someone’s truck.
Darby came up with the only gift that made me blush: a lacy bra and panties in emerald green. I hadn’t had the nerve or privacy to try them on yet. I wasn’t willing to let Darby show me how to tuck my cock and balls again, so I resolved to figure it out on my own. Eventually.
On the morning of the fourth day, I received another gift. This one came from Maslow after the daily lineup. He pulled me aside in the upstairs hall, waiting until everyone else had dispersed to shove a large paper bag into my arms.
I wasn’t deluded enough to think it was a real present. Not from him, and not considering the leering look he gave me after I peeked at the pile of gauzy fabric inside.
“Get dressed, baby boy,” Maslow said. “I’m taking you out on the town.”
He must have known I hadn’t been sleeping in the room downstairs. I hadn’t even stepped inside. Maybe this was payback—taking me to earn my keep somewhere else. On a corner. In front of strangers, with no low lights to soften the harsh glare of perception.
Judging by how sheer everything in the bag was, I wouldn’t have a scrap of modesty left. I bit my lip, trying to keep the worry off my face as I imagined being paraded around or put on display on the street that had seemed wonderful when I was with Beck.
Now, it felt like a dream teetering into a nightmare.
Darby crept out of our room with his shower tote, always in a hurry to wash after being subjected to Maslow’s siphoning touch. The wraith stopped him with a snap.
“Luxe! I’m taking Cherry on a field trip. Do something with his face. You’ve got ten minutes.”
Darby was suspicious of the wraith’s intent, but considering I knew no more than he did and every probing question left me increasingly emotional, we spent the bulk of our allotted ten minutes in silence.
I emerged from the bathroom after a rush job of a makeover, wearing the outfit Maslow had provided.
It wasn’t an outfit, actually. Just pants made of translucent material and cut open on the sides so they billowed around my legs.
They cuffed at my ankles and sat low on my hips and thankfully included a pair of underwear to conceal the necessary bits.
There were sandals too, that reminded me of my aerial boots.
They had solid bottoms to protect against Nevada’s scorching sidewalks, and the tops were made of strips of muslin that wrapped up my ankles.
I met Maslow at the door, where he provided the finishing touch: a choker necklace with gold chains that swagged across my shoulder to a cuff around my upper arm.
He’d never dressed me. Never picked clothes or accessories for any of my performances, and it felt like one more piece of my autonomy had been stripped away.
I was a doll.
The club’s name suggested as much, but I’d never been as keenly aware of it as when Maslow was in my face with a lit cigar pinned between his lips. He fluffed my hair and tugged on the choker until it sat straight. It was all I could do to cut my gaze aside and breathe.
Don’t cry; you’ll ruin your makeup.
We took a car. It was much smaller than Beck’s limo, and I sat in the back seat alone while Maslow rode in front with the driver. They didn’t talk to me and, while I might have benefited from listening to their conversation, I couldn’t make sense of the words.
My brain was a buzz of panic, and my skin stuck to the leather upholstery. I shifted and squirmed, making the fabric creak until Maslow snapped his fingers at me like he had at Darby.
“Settle down,” he grunted. “We’re almost there.”
It was early, and the Strip was filling with tourists.
Trapped in the vehicle and desperate for a distraction, I looked at the sights as we passed them, recognizing many from my walking tour with Beck.
I hoped to spot the street magician again, but while I was searching for him, the car veered out of the line of traffic and stopped.
Maslow’s door opened and shut as I scanned the side of the street we’d parked on. Ahead on the right, jets of water plumed up in staggering, misty sprays. Maslow tugged my door open, and I poked my head out to look around.
It wasn’t a street corner, which would have come as a relief if I hadn’t had an entirely new cause for concern. The building we had stopped beside was the same one Beck pointed out to me. The casino owned by angels.
Antonella Rossetti.
Running me out on a rail.
Beck said there was a dividing line down the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard, and I was on the wrong side of it.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I whispered as Maslow’s offered hand seized me in a grab.
I was hauled from the car into the midday glare, where I swayed while taking in the spectacle before me. The name I hadn’t known before was spelled out in an arch above the entrance.
The Basilica. Golden wings flanked the words.
It didn’t look ominous. Quite the opposite. It was white, grand, and glorious, with massive panes of glass that sparkled in the sunlight. When I compared it to the structures on the opposite side of the street, I immediately noticed the disparity. Good versus evil. Light versus dark.
I didn’t belong here, but part of me wanted to.
Maslow kept hold of my hand, his grip tight but slick with sweat. He passed the driver a few folded bills, then led me toward the alabaster steps into the building.
“We shouldn’t be here,” I repeated, this time so the wraith could hear.
“Nonsense.” Maslow scoffed. “I’m an honored guest in this place, and you’re just the accessory I needed to complete this look.”
He gestured to his suit, accented with a pocket square made of the same gauzy material as my pants.
His shirt was red to match my hair, and gold chains tasseled off the shoulders of his jacket.
When he squeezed my hand, the gem-studded rings that bedecked his chubby fingers grated against my knuckles.
We reached the landing, and Maslow pulled me in to hiss in my ear. “Smile, sweetheart. The people wanna see you pretty.”
“What people?”
All the people. Every one of them. Because the casino was packed.
The hotel check-in desk lined one wall, cluttered with guests arriving and departing.
Bellhops zipped past pushing golden luggage carts, and tourists loitered in clumps, necks craned to take in the domed ceiling adorned with shimmering frescoes.
Cameras flashed. Waiters ferried trays of champagne. Laughter bounced off the walls.
I smiled because I’d been told to.
Because I had to.
As anxious as I’d been at the Crowndell about getting separated from the group, now I found myself wishing for a little distance from Maslow. If he lost track of me… maybe I could wander. But where would I go?
Half naked, with only the vaguest sense of direction, I’d get lost in no time. Maybe I’d stumble into the care of someone kinder than the wraith—but there were worse things than Maslow in the world. I could just as easily fall prey to a bigger, hungrier predator.
So, I let Maslow lead me, tagging along as closely as if I were on a leash.
Conditioned air swept across my bare chest and cut through the sheer material of my pants, raising goosebumps everywhere it touched. My footsteps were cushioned by the velvet carpet that stretched across the tile like rivers of spilled wine.
On the gaming floor, dealers wearing crisp white button-downs worked card tables. Overhead, a chandelier dripped crystals like teardrops, and the soft strains of a string quartet piped in over hidden speakers.
Maslow and I moved with a sense of purpose, weaving through the crowd that suddenly parted. The path was not made for us, but for the tall male figure about twenty feet away.
The moment I saw him, everything else dropped out of focus.
With porcelain-pale skin and white hair cut to the contour of his jaw, he had a distinct aura. Ghostly. Inhuman. Or holy.
He wasn’t dressed like a priest or a saint.
His suit was sleek and dark with the jacket slitted open up the back so a massive pair of wings could emerge.
The white-feathered things arched above his shoulders, glittering with powdered gold.
My attention roamed from those to his face, made of features so fine and smooth they might have been carved.
I’d never seen anything so perfect.
When he turned toward us, I braced for the affront. The order to leave. The confirmation of what I’d known from the start: I was not welcome here.
But as he approached, his polished black shoes striking the ground with marked precision, I had a second thought.
What if he could help me?