Chapter 32
CHAPTER
THIRTY-TWO
Beck
Half a week was longer than I wanted to wait to make things right with Zephyr.
But if I was going to ask his forgiveness, I needed to give something in exchange.
Information about his human life would have been a worthy peace offering, but Colette’s search came up dry.
It turned out not knowing his real name, dates of birth or death, or any specific location made sifting through the library’s microfiche of obituaries a fruitless effort.
Zephyr spoke French. He’d learned aerial stunts, maybe even acrobatics, somewhere. The circus, perhaps? But when? And where?
In lieu of news about his past, I hoped flowers would suffice.
Colette and I arrived at the Devil’s Dollhouse before noon. She didn’t offer to accompany me, declaring this was a private affair and she would leave me to it.
The walk across the parking lot had sweat prickling at my collar, both from nerves and the oppressive desert heat. By the time I reached the club’s front doors, the back of my suit jacket clung to me damply, and my palm was clammy around the tissue wrapping of the bouquet.
Maslow had no reason to turn me away. I’d paid his extortionate price for my time with Zephyr, and he hadn’t stopped circling the Fairmont Street deal like a vulture. Still, showing up at a strip club with flowers in broad daylight didn’t scream “professional interest.”
The bouncers, two hellhounds in black clothes and matching mirrored sunglasses, bowed up as I approached, stepping in front of the doors before I could say a word. One of them tipped his head toward the closed sign hanging in the painted-over window.
“We’re not open.”
“I wanted to drop these off.” I held up the bouquet. “It’ll only take a minute.”
The broader of the two gave me a slow once-over. “Bigshot like you can’t afford delivery?”
“Who’re they for?” the second one asked, grinning like he already knew. “We’ll take a note.”
“The little redhead, of course,” the first one said. “Takes him out for a date, now flowers. What’s next? An engagement ring?”
“I’d like to give them to him myself if you don’t mind,” I said, keeping my voice even.
“We’ll take the flowers and pass the word along.” The first reached for the bouquet. “You’re not the only lovesick puppy dropping off gifts for the performers. Damn bitches get more fan mail than Santa Claus.”
Both hounds chortled, but I was not amused. It rankled my pride being here. Apologizing looked a lot like groveling, and I didn’t intend to show my belly to these brutes. That vulnerability was reserved for Zephyr because I trusted him not to exploit it.
And wasn’t that a novel thought?
The bouncer waited for the bouquet, but I didn’t hand it over.
“I’m not in the habit of entrusting sentimental gestures to creatures with hourly rates,” I told him.
That earned a joint chuckle and the continuation of their good humor, but neither of them moved.
A bead of sweat rolled from my temple to my jaw, and I wiped it away with a grimace. “Your boss in?” I hedged. “Maybe I could talk to him instead.”
“Maz isn’t taking guests right now.” The second one shrugged. “He’s got a full schedule.”
“Right,” I muttered, jaw tight. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt whatever pressing matters keep a strip club mogul busy before lunch.”
With their point made and my options reduced to leaving the flowers in their questionably capable hands or leaving, I chose the latter.
Turning on my heel, I headed back toward the limo and was halfway there before I hatched another plan. I had plenty of practice sneaking out of Maslow’s club; it couldn’t be so different to sneak in.
But that would be crazy. Maybe a little desperate.
Certainly not behavior becoming a centuries-old demon.
It smacked of angst-ridden teen with a boombox on his shoulder, throwing pebbles at a bedroom window to get attention.
The specificity of that scenario made me frown.
Maybe Colette wasn’t the only one who watched too many movies.
On the subject of bedroom windows, one slid open above me, and a head popped out. Wavy white hair framed Luxe’s cranky face like a hovering cloud.
“What are you doing, Becky?” he barked.
I looked up and across the building’s painted brick edifice.
All the upper-level windows had bars affixed to the outside except the one the little demon currently leaned out of.
He looked different from how I usually saw him.
Less finessed in a pink crop top and a black ribbon choker with matching bows tied around his horns.
I debated ignoring him, but the Dollhouse doors opened both ways, and if the men outside wouldn’t admit me, maybe the ones inside would.
“Came for a visit,” I called up. “Think you could let me in?”
He slid farther out, perching his ass on the window ledge to flash his pleated black skirt and smooth brown legs. “Are those flowers for me?” he asked. I couldn’t tell from this distance, but I would have bet money he was batting his lashes.
“Zephyr,” I replied flatly.
Luxe crossed his arms and turned up his nose. “He doesn’t want anything from you right now.”
I grimaced. Considering how isolated the Dollhouse dancers were, I should have expected word about what happened between Zephyr and I to travel. It seemed my apologies would begin earlier than expected.
“I know,” I replied. “That’s why I’m here. I’m sorry.”
Luxe tilted his head and simply said, “Prove it.”
The weighty heat of the sun bore down on my shoulders until I was practically steaming inside my jacket. I passed the bouquet from one slick palm to the other. “I’m trying,” I said, then huffed. “I will. Can you open the back door or something?”
“Cannot,” he chirped. “Mazzy boarded it over after your last not-so-secret rendezvous.”
Of fucking course he did.
I growled to myself, then muttered, “Pretty sure that violates fire code…” My gaze cut toward the limo where Colette reposed in the driver’s seat, committed to letting me clamber out of the grave I’d dug myself.
In the window above, Luxe began to shimmy back inside. “Have a nice day, Becky!” he called brightly.
“Luxe!” I snapped.
His head poked out again like a sassy little groundhog. “It’s Darby,” he replied. “I’m not on the clock.”
I couldn’t decide whether his providing his real name was a threat or an invitation, but I decided to take the gamble.
“Okay, Darby…” I squared myself with the building, every inch the tragic fool making declarations to a balcony.
Romeo with heatstroke. Except my Juliet was somewhere inside, and I had to get through his pint-sized bodyguard first.
“I’m here to make things right with Zephyr,” I explained. “I care about him.”
Two more bobbleheads joined Darby’s. Smolder and Spite, the twin cowboys, peered down at me wearing Cheshire grins.
Was the whole fucking entourage packed in that room watching me humiliate myself?
“Those sure are some pretty flowers, Mister Beckett,” Spite drawled. I assumed it was him from the ever-present ten-gallon hat.
Darby shot him a warning look. “They’re for me.”
Another growl crept up my throat. “You can have the damn flowers. Just… get me inside.”
“Why should we?” Smolder asked.
My lips pursed as I pondered. I knew the answer, but honesty required a measure of that vulnerability I preferred not to parcel out.
Still, the thought of another day passing without making amends chafed more than the trio of jokers squinting down at me. I sighed. “I made Zephyr a promise. I’d like to keep it—if he’ll let me.”
Spite grinned and sing-songed, “Say please.”
“Please,” I muttered through clenched teeth.
They dissolved into laughter and disappeared from the window.
I thought that was the end of it until a length of white fabric came tumbling down and dropped against the side of the building.
A knotted bedsheet, or maybe several tied together.
It was the kind of makeshift escape route you’d see in movies used by rebellious teenagers or prisoners slipping out of their cells.
The twins peeked out again, their matching green eyes wild with delight. It must have been nice, for once, to make someone else the entertainment.
“You can’t be serious.” I gestured to the ridiculous strip of cloth dangling before me.
“It ain’t so bad,” Smolder offered sympathetically while his brother gave the sheet rope a taunting tug.
“Saddle up, cowboy,” Spite teased. “Come get your man.”
I considered my expensive clothes, slick-bottomed shoes, the flowers I clutched, and the slew of other reasons I should not be scaling a wall today. I wasn’t sure I could manage it, but I knew for certain I would make an ass of myself trying.
“Hand over hand, one foot in front of the other,” Smolder coaxed. “Ozzy says it makes him feel like Spiderman.”
“Who’s Ozzy?” I asked, then shook my head. “Never mind. Can’t Zephyr just come down here?”
The country-western duo consulted each other before Darby reappeared, bent over the frame with his chin propped on his fist.
“Oh, no,” he said. “You’re gonna work for this, Becky. Actions being louder than words and all.”
The other two beamed like this was the best show they’d seen all week. It probably was.
I looked at the sheet again. Then the bouquet. Then my shoes.
My dignity was already on life support—might as well finish the job.
“Fuck me,” I muttered under my breath. Stripping off my suit jacket, I folded it over one arm, then shoved the flowers into the crook of my elbow.
The first handhold felt shaky. The second was worse. The knotted sheet twisted and stretched and tested my limited upper body strength. I was a desk demon. I pushed papers. Lately, I played card games on my computer. I definitely did not swing from ropes like some kind of urban ape-man.
Every tug strained my shirt across my back and made sweat run into places sweat shouldn’t go. My dress shoes scraped the wall, and I gritted my teeth so hard I thought they might chip.