Chapter 16
LUCY
Ismooth clammy palms down the front of my corset for what has to be the tenth time and tug the white bow at the back of my corset tighter.
Behind me, The Rabbit Hole is pulsing to life.
Watchman’s house music thrums hypnotic waves while Duchess and Dee dance on the two stages beside the main stage, where Mira will start the first rounds of sets.
It’s still early, and there are more patrons here for poker than a show. Soon the club will be packed, and music the customers know will flood the speakers. The club will smell less like incense and old roses and more like tropical cotton candy, sweat, and liquor—
“Oh my God, stop stalling, Loose,” I hiss under my breath. “You’ve got this. Be Alice. Just. Be. Alice.”
I press the button that will play the music set I picked out and roll my shoulders back, adopting Alice’s coy smile and confident posture. Then I push open the Flower Room door.
A gust of cotton candy and berries fills my senses, heavier and sweeter than it’s ever been on the floor. It’s like the oxygen has been replaced by Smoke, blurring the edges of my vision and making me a little lightheaded in a way I haven’t felt since the first day I got here.
The Rabbit Hole’s special blend of weed and tobacco made me dizzy the first few days I was here, but thank goodness it doesn’t give you a contact high or we’d all be screwed. Even the lingering remnants of it from past patrons in this close of quarters is apparently enough to make me feel floaty.
The lock clicks behind me, the closed door now muffling the rest of the club into distant bass and vibration and bringing me back to the room.
Red lantern sconces shaped like upside-down tulips are our only real light, casting a golden pink glow.
Fake vines crawl along the walls and ceiling beams, tangled around twinkling fairy lights like stars and silk roses in deep crimson, white, and blush pink.
Velvet curtains drape between stunning paintings of gardens around the world.
The music in here isn’t loud, but the familiar tune of “Roses” by Awaken I Am drums beneath my skin like a second heartbeat. One that is quickly outpaced by my racing pulse at the sight of him.
The Hatter had said he’d meet me, but there’s a part of me that’s still shocked to see him, and another very real, visceral part that’s feeling a very different sensation deep in me.
Nerves obviously. Just nerves.
He sits back in a leather chair that looks like a throne in the center of the room, facing the small stage.
He’s holding his pocket watch, while his other hand lies loosely on the chair’s arms. With his bronze steampunk mask, white button-down, slacks, and vest, he looks a little like an impatient alt-Victorian king.
His legs are spread, taking up almost too much space, just like they did in the booth last night.
Big ego posturing like that usually annoys me—Luna’s brother Nox is the CEO of big ego—but for some reason, I don’t mind it with him.
Maybe it’s because it doesn’t feel like posturing.
He looks… relaxed. That confidence looks just as hot now as it did then.
But it’s his eyes that hit me. Nothing about the way his gaze slowly takes me in feels impatient. He’s savoring me, and I feel like a Sweet Tea Bakery tart served up to him on a silver platter.
I gulp as his gaze catches first on the blue satin corset hugging me, pushing my breasts nearly up to my chin, before drifting lower to my blue skirt that resembles a tutu.
My petticoat underneath tickles my thighs just above my sheer, white thigh-highs, and I’m suddenly very aware of every inch of exposed skin.
Good thing my heels are so much shorter than my stage Pleasers.
They still look like pointe shoes to fit the vibe of my costume, but should I want to run, I’d get a lot farther before getting caught.
Not that I’d want to run from him. Well…
I wouldn’t want to get away from him. Him catching me on the other hand? .
No, wait—where on earth did that come from?
Geez. Keep it in your panties, Alice. We’ve got a job to do.
His gaze finally lifts up to mine. He has this unnerving way of making me feel like he can see right through me, and it makes me grateful for my white masquerade mask. Funny how most of my body is on display, but the tiny scrap of lace over my eyes keeps me from feeling exposed.
“Alice, you look…”
My heartbeat stutters.
What’s he going to say? Alice you look… sexy, gorgeous, pretty—
“Nervous,” he finishes.
Oh. Well. That sucks.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly, clearing my throat. “Just getting into character, is all.”
The admission might be a little too candid—we’re not supposed to break character in the first place—but he seems to be the type to honor confessions with confessions. Maybe this can be a start.
As for the dancing. My routines at The Rabbit Hole are completely different than any I ever learned at Bordeaux Conservatory, but Tweetie and Duchess have helped me choreograph every single one.
Whether I’m any good at them doesn’t actually matter.
The real goal is intel gathering. Thankfully, stage and pole come naturally with my background.
Dancing in a stranger’s lap… doesn’t, and I definitely don’t need a therapist to tell me why the position is triggering.
But I already freaked out once in front of Hatter. I don’t want to do it again.
And I won’t.
Because I can do this.
I can do this.
“Getting into character, hm?” He asks, tracing his finger over his mouth and flicking his gaze up and down before smirking. “Alright then. Do your worst, bunny.”
That grin, I don’t know why, but it makes me less nervous. So I smile back, take a breath, and step forward.
Pure hunger takes over Hatter’s expression as he shifts in his seat.
Okay, yeah, I can do this, but I definitely cannot do it looking at him. Not yet. I need to get in the zone first so I do my job. Something to appease Castle, and make sure there’s not some super-secret anti-Troisgarde spy in my midst.
When I get to the middle of the room, a healthy distance away from him—for now—I turn around and begin.
I start slow at first, gliding my hands down my ribs, where my corset narrows at my waist before flaring into my tutu over my hips.
I trace the outline of my body as I move, highlighting curves and the muscles in my legs that have gotten so much more defined now that I dance four to six hours every night in six-inch heels.
But what is he focusing on? Where my skirt lifts to show the globes of my butt? On the bows tying my thigh-highs tight? Or maybe he’s a boob guy and he’ll be bored out of his mind until I have the big ovary energy to turn around and face him like a strong, independent woman already.
But when I glance over my shoulder, his eyes bore right into mine. That intensity is so much more intimate than looking anywhere else. I love-hate how it makes my stomach flip.
“Wh-what’re you looking at, Hatter?”
“You Alice,” he answers low. “Always you.”
I quickly turn back around and gulp. “Oh.”
Oh? OH? Good grief, get a grip girl. It’s just a dance.
Do. Your. Job!
I breathe in the heady scent of leftover Smoke and finally turn to face him, letting my fingers drift slowly over my skirt to play with the top of my thigh-highs.
The move takes me lower, bending at my waist, and popping my butt up, letting my skirt fall to my waist and revealing that I’m wearing my white and red heart thong underneath.
According to Duchess, it’s the “perfect face down-ass up frontal view,” and so I look up at him beneath lowered lashes so he can better see my cleavage as well.
His nostrils flare and his hands tighten around the chair arms now. But his eyes still zero in on mine, not even dipping to my sweetheart cleavage.
Geez, I’m giving my best stuff here. I’d expect his gaze to be glued to my body, but it’s almost like whenever I look away from him, he’s only waiting until I come back to him.
Maybe he’ll loosen up when I straddle him? I have to eventually. I mean, that’s the entire point of a lap dance.
Except for the real point of a lap dance at The Rabbit Hole is to get information. Castle would probably fire me on the spot if he saw me overthinking the “easy part” right now.
Think. Questions. I’m supposed to be asking questions. Are VIP sessions always this freaking awkward? All I need to do is ask him about… anything. He should be a simple nut for me to crack, right? For goodness sake, he punched a stranger for me—
“Thank you,” I blurt out.
Smooth, Lucy. Very smooth.
Sure, it wasn’t the most eloquent way to get him to talk, but it’s something besides being stuck in my head.
I see one dark brow lift from within his faux goggles, disappearing under the mask.
“For… what?” he prompts.
“You know.” I slowly begin circling around the throne before answering. “For defending me last night.”
When I come back around, dragging my finger down his tense arm, something has shifted in his face. His jaw relaxed and his stiff posture in his shoulders eased.
“You weren’t afraid of me?”
“Of course not.” A very unsexy snort escapes me, and I cover my mouth to stifle a giggle. “Let’s just say, I’m not exactly unused to violence.”
Why on earth did I just laugh? That wasn’t funny.
Wait, more importantly, why would I say that? No one admits to casually being cool about violence.
I paste on a fake smile as I trail my fingers down the pop-off clasps on my corset, hoping he can’t see my panic. His eyes narrow slightly, and I can’t tell if he’s ticked off or analyzing me.
“I really fucking don’t like that,” he murmurs to himself so low I almost can’t hear him under the music.
But then his voice raises. “I hated that son of a bitch the second I saw him. Honestly knocking his lights out felt pretty inevitable.” He shifts in his chair.
“It’s why I put so much money on stage. I didn’t want him getting alone time with you. ”