Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
Darby
Oz and I returned from Mammon’s Mile like soldiers laden with the spoils of war. Gifts were distributed and housewares replaced. Elliot thanked me for the gloves and hoodie before Oz cornered him to show off his finds from the comic book store.
I continued unloading sacks like Santa Claus, stashing Zephyr’s candy in the pantry, and then handing over the darts and board, which the twins immediately hung on the wall behind the dining table.
From there, I busied myself in the kitchen, stocking plates and glasses.
The cabinet I needed was high enough that I had to kick off my shoes and climb onto the chipped laminate counter to reach.
I removed the old dishware with near-giddy delight and stacked it on top of the fridge, which seemed to groan in complaint.
That thing was ancient—not retro cute, just aged and decrepit enough to rattle every time the compressor kicked on. Needless to say, it was on the list of things to be replaced, but the mall didn’t sell large appliances, so it lived to struggle another day.
Colt and Callum made enough racket arguing about their darts game that I fished out my new earbuds and set them to shuffle through the playlist on my equally new cell phone.
Maslow would never have let us have things like that.
Not the headphones so much as the way to contact people outside the club.
It was a channel he couldn’t monitor—a measure of control he was unwilling to relinquish, so he didn’t.
Now we all had phones. And group chats. And social media accounts.
The internet was a brave new world, and I was first into the fray, having had a bit of experience scrolling my sugar daddies’ devices and ordering myself pretty things on their dimes.
I lined up the last row of glasses, each one catching the glare from the overhead light until it threw back a clean glint of white. Satisfying. I was just about to hop down when a voice boomed loud enough to cut through the chorus of the Ke$ha song pulsing in my ears.
I popped one earbud free and leaned around the cabinet door.
Beck had entered the kitchen to find Callum standing ramrod-straight in front of the dartboard with an apple balanced on his head. Colt stood a few feet away holding a metal-tipped dart like he was auditioning for a barroom version of William Tell.
The scene froze for one perfect, damning second—Callum looking like he regretted every life choice that had brought him here, Colt radiating mischief, and Beck as frazzled as any father figure would be.
“What in all hells are you doing?” Beck boomed.
Colt’s nose crinkled as he sighted down the dart. “If you’ll gimme a damn minute, I’ll show ya. I’m a crack shot with these.” He tipped the brim of his Stetson toward his brother. “He knows it. Don’t ya, Cal?”
Beck strode forward with his palm out to Callum. “Callum, move. And give me the apple.” He indicated the dartboard as his disapproval steadily increased. “Where did this come from? Did I pay for this?”
The dart whizzed through the air before anyone could answer, thunking dead center into the apple Beck now held. His yellow eyes flared as he looked from the speared fruit to Colt, who was grinning like mad.
“That could’ve been my eye,” Beck groused.
“Yeah, but imagine how badass you’d look with an eyepatch,” Colt fired back. “Pirate Captain Becky bossin’ us around. Swabbing decks and—”
“Walking the plank.” Beck set the apple firmly on the table. He held out his hand again, this time to Colt, then curled his fingers in a prompting gesture.
“Aw, hell,” Colt muttered then surrendered the rest of the darts.
Beck pocketed them then turned to scan the room. His gaze landed on where I was perched barefoot on the counter, peeking out at the sideshow in progress.
“Darby?” he said, his voice riding the last fumes of his composure. “Can I borrow you for a moment?”
For half a second, I considered pretending I hadn’t heard him. Maybe he was talking to some other barefoot idiot trying to camouflage in the cabinetry.
But my boss’s eyes stayed locked on me, unblinking, so I hopped down onto the peel-and-stick linoleum floor. My phone was warm in my pocket, and Ke$ha kept belting it out in my remaining earbud, but the room felt quieter.
I stepped into my shoes then trailed after Beck as he made a swift exit. Clearly, he was a man on his way to deal with a problem, and I got the impression that the problem was me.
Crossing the club floor, I quickened my pace until I walked beside him. “Is this about the darts?” I asked. “Because, while yes, I might’ve seen that coming, they didn’t have any rubber-tipped ones…”
“Colette informed me we have a new employee,” Beck said without breaking stride. “I think we should discuss it. Better now than when the guy shows up in…” He flicked a glance at his watch. “Less than an hour.”
“Colette hired someone? For what?”
“Security, apparently.”
That sounded familiar. And here I was, thinking about the do-gooder guard from the Basilica for the second time today.
It could’ve been a coincidence. We got walk-ins often enough—usually dancers hoping for an audition, but bartender and guard applicants weren’t unheard of.
I made a noncommittal noise as Beck started up the staircase to the second-level mezzanine. The metal steps rang underfoot until we reached the office with its black-painted door. Beck pushed it open then gestured me inside.
Mazzy’s old lair had changed in the weeks since Beck took over the Dollhouse.
The cavernous space the wraith had once claimed as his own had been gutted, and the gargantuan pieces of furniture replaced with a sleek new desk and chairs.
The wall of surveillance monitors had also been scaled down, which, oddly, made me feel safer.
Knowing that scumbag was no longer watching our every move took a weight off my shoulders.
A little less oversight went a long way.
Seated in one of those new chairs was Colette, who was too engrossed in filling in the daily Sudoku puzzle to acknowledge our arrival.
Security was lean with just Colette holding down the fort, but honestly? She had more grit in her pinkie finger than both of Maslow’s hellhound bruisers combined. Plus, she cared about us. Beck did too. And that had changed the whole atmosphere of the club.
While Beck may have cared about all of us, he still had his favorite.
One corner of his newly renovated office held a hammock-style swing, where Zephyr reposed even now, sucking on one of the lollipops from Beck’s desktop candy jar.
I wasn’t the only one willing to ply the incubus with sweets.
Beck stowed the damn things everywhere—dressing room drawers, the kitchen pantry, and tucked into Zephyr’s tote bag like love notes.
It was cute. The kind of thing that made you believe someone actually gave a damn.
But I knew Beck’s motivations weren’t entirely selfless.
Watching his boyfriend work a lollipop down to the stick was practically softcore porn.
And I’d bet money Zephyr’s head game had gone pro since the candy stash became a thing.
“I thought we agreed I’d be doing the interviews,” Beck said, changing the channel on my mental theater before it turned X-rated. His yellow eyes cut toward Colette across the desk.
The hellhound set the newspaper aside and folded her arms, entirely unrepentant. “You were busy.”
“With what?” he retorted.
“Do you really want me to answer that?”
Her gaze slid to Zephyr in the hammock chair with his feet dangling over the edge. Sunlight from the window lit his scarlet hair like live coals. He wasn’t even pretending to care about the conversation—just watching the Strip outside with a lollipop tucked in the corner of his mouth.
Beck raked a hand through his silvery brown hair then muttered, “You could’ve knocked.”
Colette chuckled. “Non. Mon petit francais needs his strength to perform.” Her grin spread obnoxiously wide. “Well, he needs your strength. That’s how it works, right?”
Beck huffed a breath.
I helped myself to the second guest chair, letting their banter roll over me. Zephyr had the right idea, lounging in his hammock like he didn’t have a single worry heavier than the candy stick between his teeth. I wished I could check out like that, let sunlight and sugar do all the heavy lifting.
Unfortunately, my seat at this table was secured by my manager title and the fact that I might have had more to do with this mishap than I cared to admit.
“Besides,” Colette said, arms crossed and tone smug. “I am more than capable of screening applicants. My process is foolproof.”
“How did he even find out about the opening?” Beck pinched the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t posted the position yet.”
“He said he was referred,” Colette replied.
I squirmed, trying and failing to shirk the burden of culpability. “Let me guess: young guy, brown hair, brown eyes, all-American with a crew cut?”
“Yes!” She pointed at me like I’d won a prize.
Beck’s gaze narrowed. “That’s oddly specific.”
“Not really,” I said with a shrug that was far too casual. “Describes about half the white guys in Nevada.”
“And yet,” Beck pressed, “I get the feeling it doesn’t. You handing out job referrals, Darby?”
“No!” I replied quickly. “I merely… suggested he apply.”
“Well, that explains that.” Beck had gone from pinching his nose to trying to smooth the wrinkles between his brows. “Now all we’re missing is an actual hiring process.”
Colette’s chest swelled. “I told you, my process—”
“Included no background check, no references, and no drug screening,” Beck rattled off.
“How was he supposed to start tonight if we had to wait for all that?” she shot back.
“We may have a bigger problem,” I cut in, loudly enough to put a stop to their bickering.
Beck glanced over as I added, “He works at the Basilica.”
Beck looked at Colette as if to verify. When she nodded, his attention returned to me. “You would only know that if you were at the Basilica.” He didn’t wait for further confirmation before asking, “When were you at the Basilica?”
“A few days ago.” I sighed. “And it wasn’t my idea. But I talked to…” I glanced at Colette. “What’s his name?”
“Mercer James,” she supplied.
I frowned, wishing I’d checked the guy’s shirt for a badge or asked if he had a card when he asked for mine. “That’s two first names. Or two last names. Which one’s which?”
“First Mercer,” Colette replied. “Then James.”
Sure.
“I talked to Mercer,” I said, “and told him we needed a security guard. But it was a joke. I didn’t think he’d take me up on it.”
Zephyr spun away from the window to regard the rest of us with his head tilted. “Why would a guard from the Basilica wanna work here?”
“Can’t be the pay,” Colette muttered.
Everyone except Beck laughed.
I hadn’t really expected Mercer to turn out for an interview, and certainly not without a call ahead. The fact that he was seeking employment so soon after our clash could only mean one thing.
“I may have gotten him fired,” I confessed.
Beck shot me a sharp look. “You what?”
“Or he got himself fired,” I amended. My initial defense weakened as I rambled on. “Because of me. It’s complicated.”
Beck lifted the piece of paper that had been left on his desk and flapped it in the air. It looked to be some sort of application or résumé.
“So this guy chased your ass from the Basilica to here?” he asked. “Is he applying for a job or a hookup?”
Beside me, Colette shrugged. “Well, he got the job. Maybe he can have both.”
“No, he can’t.” I glared at her. “He doesn’t want to sleep with me.”
“You sure about that?” Beck raised a brow.
Colette snorted. “Some men will go to great lengths for a prime piece of meat, won’t they, Lucas?”
Beck tipped his head toward the ceiling like he was petitioning some higher power for patience while Zephyr slipped out of his hammock swing and padded over to the desk.
“Voyons, Colette,” he said, his voice a singsong tease. “Je suis plus qu’un morceau de viande.”
Colette clucked her tongue. “Ah, mon c?ur. Toi tu serais plut?t un vrai festin.”
Beck rolled his chair back to make room for Zephyr to climb into his lap. Looping his arms around Beck’s neck, the incubus leaned in with an expectant smile. Beck plucked the lollipop from Zephyr’s mouth, then kissed him deeply enough that he must have tasted the flavor the sucker left behind.
Colette let out a chuckle. “And Lucas can’t help going back for seconds.”
When they finally broke apart, Zephyr opened his mouth like a baby bird, and Beck obligingly returned the candy.
That had been one of my more successful matchmaking efforts, though I was paying for it now, stuck watching the cringe-worthy aftermath and dealing with the fact that Zephyr’s mere presence was enough to drain all the business sense from Beck’s otherwise level head.
Neither he nor Colette seemed half as worried as they should’ve been about letting a potential traitor into our midst. I’d already had a close brush with the Basilica’s bruisers, and I didn’t trust Mercer to be any different.
Sure, he’d stepped in when things were spiraling out of my control, but that didn’t erase the fact that he used to punch a clock for our sworn enemies.
With Beck and Zephyr making heart eyes and Colette egging them on, it fell to me—yet again—to point out what should’ve been obvious.
I cleared my throat. “Let’s circle back to what Cherry said. Why would this Mercer guy want to work here?”
Beck angled a narrow-eyed look my way, clearly perturbed at being interrupted mid face-suck. “Better question: why are you poaching Antonella’s employees?”
I let out a sharp breath. “I was a little shaken up at the time.” Literally. Physically. “Clearly, I wasn’t in my right mind.”
From his nest in Beck’s lap, Zephyr chimed, “So what are we gonna do? He’ll be here in half an hour.”
Beck’s mouth tightened. “We’ll turn him away. His employment status is hardly official.”
“I’ll take responsibility for him,” Colette said. “He’s very qualified. Former Marine.” She gestured toward the résumé Beck had been waving earlier.
Mmm. Marine.
Mercer in a Basilica uniform was hardly thrilling, but dress him in fatigues and shiny silver dog tags, and I had a very different toy to play with.
Leaning forward, I snagged the corner of the paper Colette had indicated and dragged it into my greedy little hands.
A résumé, yes. And it was pure military.
It looked like the man had been born into the service and lived there until the recent Basilica stint.
Maybe I could overlook that. Maybe he hadn’t been in his right mind either.
Beck leaned back in his chair, fingers idly tracing patterns on Zephyr’s thigh. “Fine. Let him show up. If he works out, great. We need the extra muscle. If he doesn’t, we get front-row seats to watching him crash and burn.”
If Mercer tanked the job, I’d enjoy the show right up until the angels turned it into something less funny, like a bloodbath. Knowing my luck, I’d be stuck mopping up afterward.