Chapter 3
CHAPTER
THREE
Darby
Heaven was a black card.
I might’ve drooled a little when Club Daddy Beck pulled his no-limit credit card from his wallet and handed it over. There were conditions, surely, but I didn’t hear a single one. I was too busy prancing my happy ass out of Beck’s office and down to the floor to find my favorite strongman, Oz.
I’d just been given the keys to the kingdom, which was exactly the pick-me-up I needed after my brush with the worst the Basilica Casino had to offer.
Unsurprisingly, Graham called to apologize for landing me in holy hot water.
I only wished he’d shown his face at the club so I could’ve sicced Colette on him.
Our resident hellhound was dying to flex her newfound site security muscles with something more hands-on than checking birthdates on IDs.
Colette might not have loved guarding the front door, but damn did we need her.
Business was booming, and it was a lot for one person to manage alone.
I hadn’t been kidding when I told that square-jawed softie at the Basilica we were hiring.
Not that I wanted him here. The angels couldn’t wait to scrub my hellish stain off their white marble floors, and I didn’t want their castoffs in my club.
But yes, Graham called. And texted. And left a few groveling voicemails.
But from the security officer who asked for my number I got nothing but radio silence.
I saw the shift in him the moment he realized who—and what—I was.
His lizard brain took over, and it was like he saw me in a whole new light.
His interest wasn’t sleazy, but it was obvious.
I knew the signs. Pupils dilated despite the glaring Nevada sun, sweat glistening at the shaved sides of his hairline, cheeks dusting with pink.
He’d seemed like a decent guy, and I appreciated him sparing me whatever nastiness his coworkers might’ve had planned.
But he hadn’t called, and he hadn’t come by, and that was fine.
I had a kingdom to run.
Besides bouncing badly behaved guests on the nightly, Colette served as our daytime chauffeur.
I knew Becky was a pretentious son of a bitch, but the private limo was next-level snobbery.
That didn’t stop me from enjoying it, though, and sizing up exactly how many bags and boxes I could cram into the stretch Lincoln’s spacious interior.
I turned to my shopping companion, who lounged across from me like a golden retriever in human form, all sunshine and muscle.
“All right, Ozzy-bear,” I began. “We are men on a mission. And what is our mission?”
Oz held up the list I’d given him. It was a veritable scroll, crammed margin to margin with everything from costumes and makeup to tea strainers and curtain rods. Mammon’s Mile offered the best local shopping, and I was the best shopper I knew.
“You have the map?” I asked.
With a solemn nod, Oz produced the pamphlet I’d picked up a few days ago.
It listed every store in the mall along with the food court offerings.
I’d marked our route with a bright pink highlighter, and Oz had added a fat red X at the Asian place he wanted to hit for lunch.
I didn’t trust mall sushi, but since he’d agreed to be my pack mule for the day, I owed him. Lunch was the least I could do.
Leaning forward, I peered into the limo’s minibar. It was a sleek little compartment lined with crystal-cut bottles, miniature cans of tonic, and a set of glassware. To one side, a bottle of red wine rested in a cradle, begging for attention.
“You know,” I said, lifting the bottle from its nest, “Becky’s been doing a lot for us lately… and by doing, I mean buying.”
Oz shot me a side-eye. “He’s been doing stuff too.”
I waved him off. “He’s a supervisor. An overseer. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. But I appreciate him, and I think we should do something to give back. Say thanks.”
I passed Oz the bottle and a corkscrew.
“Maybe a card? Chocolates?” he offered as he got to work. “Or flowers? Some guys like flowers…”
“I’m thinking something flashier,” I replied. “Something that will earn back a bit of the money he’s been so graciously throwing our way.”
The cork popped loose, and I snagged a glass from the rack then held it out for a pour.
“How do you feel about a theme night?”
Oz’s eyebrow arched over the frames of his glasses. “What’s that?”
He filled the glass halfway before I gave him a “keep going” motion. It wasn’t until the wine flirted with the rim that I signaled him to stop.
I sipped it down just enough to avoid sloshing merlot all over my outfit, then scooted back on the bench seat and kicked one leg over the other.
“We can frame it like a reopening,” I explained. “Under new management. Make it a party. How’s this for a slogan? The Devil’s Dollhouse: Come Play with Us!”
I snickered at the innuendo while my brain conjured images of promo posters, custom drink menus, and new setlists.
I could deliver a night like the Dollhouse had never seen.
Club Daddy would be so impressed that he might promote me again.
I wasn’t sure what title came above manager, but I’d always been partial to CEO.
While I fantasized, Oz twisted the wine bottle in his big hands.
“Sounds expensive,” he said.
“It’ll pay for itself,” I assured him. “We’ll do group numbers, wear costumes, maybe throw in a few interactive activities.” I wiggled my brows, but Oz remained wary.
“I thought we were moving away from the…” His bright blue eyes flicked toward Colette in the driver’s seat before he whispered, “Prostitution.”
I snorted. “I said a party, Ozzy. Think games.”
We could get a giant prize wheel and play Sin for a Spin—tip challenges, flirty dares, maybe a little humiliation kink if the crowd leaned that way.
Or divide the club into properties, the staff into players, and host a full-blown game of Stripopoly.
I relished the thought of charging high rollers through the nose for rent on Luxe Lane.
Oz remained unconvinced, or maybe just confused, as he asked, “Playing games is gonna make us money?”
He was concerned enough to make me doubt myself. I needed him on my side. I needed everyone on my side eventually. I’d just chosen to build the base of my platform atop Oz’s broad, well-defined shoulders.
Pasting on a dazzling smile, I tried again. “The right games will. Imagine how much people would pay to pin a tail on you.”
His forehead scrunched, and his lips pursed. I could practically hear his mental gears grinding.
Finally, he asked, “Shouldn’t it be Zeph? The rest of us already have tails…”
Oh, bless him.
“I’ll workshop it,” I said then clinked my glass against the bottle dangling in his grasp. “Now drink up, buddy. It’s never too early to pregame.”
We arrived at Mammon’s Mile like racers approaching the starting line. Fellow customers flocked the Strip-side entrance, spilling in and out through the glass doors.
Colette had taken off in the limo, claiming she’d return in a few hours. I’d told her not to rush, and Oz and I bounded joyfully into the retail wonderland.
Well, I bounded joyfully. Oz ambled. Which was fine. He was the best candidate for this job for myriad reasons, only one of which was his ability to schlep large quantities of goods from one shop to the next.
Elliot would have hissed like a feral cat at the idea of being surrounded by strangers for untold hours.
Zephyr was fun, but too distractible to keep on task.
And the twins… Honestly, it gave me anxiety to think about what they were doing left to their own devices at the club.
With Oz at my side and Colette on driver duty, that left no one onsite to keep the dastardly duo in check.
We really did need another security guard. Or a designated babysitter. I would accept either at this point.
Working the map and list in tandem, Oz and I were a dream team. I had bedrooms to outfit, closets to stock, and an entire club to bring up to standard.
For the most part, Oz let me steer. But when we got to a housewares store called “It’s Kitch!” he took point. Since he was our resident chef, I trusted him to fill in the gaps in my culinary knowledge.
He was a thoughtful shopper, practical, focused, and mindful of Club Daddy’s credit line. It was sweet. Still, I nudged him into splurging on a high-end stand mixer and a six-slot toaster. We had a lot of mouths to feed, after all.
The one item we couldn’t source was a toaster oven. Despite having the difference explained to me several times, I still wasn’t sure why we needed a toaster and a toaster oven. But I didn’t press. It was enough of a mind fuck to have Oz explain anything, so I ended up just nodding along.
Then it was time for wardrobe.
Since I ordered the bulk of our costumes online, in-store shopping was reserved for basics. Las Vegas was a relatively progressive city, but even here, stores that catered to the specific needs of a troupe of male strippers—especially male strippers who dressed like I did—were few and far between.
But the makeup shop was my haven.
Makeup was universal. Genderless. Timeless. It didn’t care who you were when you walked in, only who you wanted to be when you walked out. There was power in that. Choice. Control.
I lost myself in the rows and aisles, fingertips swiping over silky powders, and sample bottles popping open with quiet little clicks. Soon, my handbasket overflowed with glosses, eyeliners, highlighters, and blush.
By the time I reached the checkout, I was high on pigment and perfume, and my heart beat steady and soothed.
That mood carried me into lunch, where Oz downed sushi by the roll. I mostly picked at mine, puzzling over what exactly went into imitation crab meat until it was time to continue our quest.
Besides the essentials, I grabbed a few extra goodies for my boys back home.