Chapter 22
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Mercer
When I woke on the couch after dawn, Darby was nowhere in sight. For a moment I wondered if he’d slipped out and taken a cab back to the club, but before I got up to look for him, my mind drifted back to the conversation we’d had before sleep claimed me.
He’d told me what the Dollhouse used to be under Maslow—how the wraith had treated the dolls. I’d heard Maslow call the dancers dogs and even threaten Darby’s life, but the full scope of it still blindsided me.
Sex trafficking, energy siphoning, demon drugs funneled to angels… it all sounded like hell, yet Darby had assured me Hell itself was much worse.
His honesty begged further questions about things I’d accepted blindly or perhaps refused to see. Things I was now being forced to consider.
Darby being a man was a fact I’d made peace with.
Darby being a demon was a harder pill to swallow.
I’d sworn vows once, promising forever to a woman I’d barely known. That ended in child support payments and custody schedules, not fire and brimstone.
What were the eternal ramifications of falling for a demon?
During last night’s grocery run, people had stared and whispered, but Darby hadn’t flinched.
He’d just hummed along to the tinny music playing overhead and asked me about my favorite cereal as if nothing were out of place.
But I’d seen the way their eyes raked over him, and I’d felt my pulse jump, defensive and afraid.
What would happen when Rachel found out?
Darby didn’t deserve to be kept a secret, and even if I managed it, Molly would doubtless mention a new partner in my life.
As skilled as my ex-wife already was at keeping my daughter from me, the last thing she needed was evidence that I was a bad influence.
That I’d lost myself so fully I was flirting with danger, leaning into corruption, and possibly even sleeping with a former resident of Hell.
And the worst part was that the courts might believe her. A judge would take one look at Darby’s horns and tail, his clothes, his career, and hand Rachel the custodial victory she’d been angling for since our divorce papers were signed.
I could lose Molly for good.
Fear wasn’t new to me, but this kind was different. It was personal and pervasive, stemming from a place so intrinsic I couldn’t possibly fight or outmaneuver it.
But then I heard Darby in the kitchen, ransacking my pantry while muttering under his breath, and all I wanted was to be near him.
It took some finagling to get myself off the couch. Levering myself upright prompted a groan, and the sofa groaned right back. Falling asleep with my prosthetic still strapped on had been a mistake. My thigh ached like hell, and when I stood, I had to brace myself on the armrest.
I eased back down onto the edge of the couch and then leaned forward, rubbing around the stump below my knee. My thumb worked at a particularly tender spot, kneading the scar tissue.
That was when I caught movement in my periphery.
Darby peeked around the corner from the kitchen, curls mussed and lips curved in a smile that was more sunshine than sin.
He was still wearing my clothes. The tee shirt hung halfway down his thighs, and the sleeves swallowed his arms. The sweatpants bunched at his ankles where he’d rolled them up.
On anyone else, the outfit would have looked ridiculous.
On Darby, it only made me want to pull him closer and wrap him in something more tender than fabric.
I pulled my hand off my leg, suddenly self-conscious and wondering if he’d seen more than I meant to show. But he just smiled wider.
“Up and at ’em, soldier,” he declared then shifted, bare toes curling against the floor. “I uh… had some time. So I made us breakfast.”
I cleared my throat and tried not to grimace at the pain still spiraling from my knee to my hip. “Yeah? What’d you make?”
“Eggs. Toast. Nothing fancy.” He paused, fingers fidgeting at his side like he wasn’t sure if he should be proud or apologetic. “I don’t usually cook, but I promise it’s edible.”
“I’m sure it’s great,” I replied.
His tail gave a little shiver, betraying nerves he probably thought he was hiding. “You wanna eat at the table?”
My leg hadn’t loosened up yet, and the last thing I needed was to try to bear weight and end up eating carpet in front of him. “Actually, maybe in here?” I asked. “I promise not to pass out on you again.”
Darby’s smile tilted. “I didn’t mind. You aren’t quite nocturnal yet, but you’ll get there. Becky’s still getting used to it too. I found him face down on the desk in his office the other day. Very undignified.”
He tittered a laugh then ducked into the kitchen. A moment later, he came back balancing two plates plus forks and paper towel napkins. He set them on the coffee table and went back for glasses of water.
When he returned, I eased forward to take the drinks he offered. “This looks wonderful. Thank you.”
Darby grinned and settled in beside me, sitting cross-legged with his plate balanced on one thigh.
We ate, and between bites, Darby filled the room with chatter, spinning wild tales about the club—nothing heavy, nothing dark, and no Maslow lurking in the wings. Just stupid bets between dancers, costume malfunctions, and outlandish practical jokes.
I found myself smiling more than I had in a long time. Darby had a way of blooming wherever he landed, and the more he opened up, the more breathtaking he became. Sitting beside him, owning the whole of his attention, I felt spoiled by it.
More than that, I felt included. Invited into something that was larger than either of us.
It had become clear in the short time I’d spent at the club that the Dollhouse was a home as much as it was a business.
The dolls were a regiment all their own, which made Darby their commander.
I felt like I’d been smuggled into their ranks and granted a seat at their mess table.
My leg had stopped throbbing by the time we finished eating, so I got up and gathered the dishes. Darby leaned back on the couch, eyes half-lidded, and covered a yawn with his hand.
“I’d better be getting back,” he murmured. “This princess needs her beauty sleep.”
His phone had been left to lie on the coffee table, and he scooped it up, pressed the power button, and frowned when nothing happened. “Battery’s dead.” He flashed me the dark screen. “Mind if I borrow yours? I’ll call a ride and get out of your hair.”
“I’ll drive you,” I offered quickly.
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
I wasn’t ready for the silence that would follow him out the door.
My house had never felt so lived-in, and I already dreaded how empty it would be once he was gone.
I would almost certainly avoid it by heading over to the VFW Post to catch up with Jack and Earl and explain things better than I had during last night’s hasty departure.
Or maybe I could deal with the thoughts I’d been chewing on since before breakfast. I couldn’t change the fact that Darby was a demon, but I could brace for the fallout. Get ahead of it. Be proactive instead of reactive. And that meant calling Rachel.
On our way to the garage, I scooped up Darby’s cum-stained clothes and tossed them in the laundry hamper, promising to drop them off clean at the club when I came in tonight. Then we loaded up the toaster oven and piled onto the Victory.
The ride across town was cozy, but the entertainment came when we arrived at the club.
My phone got a workout, calling not one, not two, but three different dancers trying to find one who was awake enough to answer the door.
Ultimately, Oz was the early bird who peeked out in a sleepy daze, only to be greeted with Darby thrusting the toaster oven at him.
Oz accepted it with silent, sleepy gratitude.
Then came the awkward pause—the split second of wondering whether I was allowed or expected to give my date a kiss goodnight.
Or was it good morning?
I’d barely begun to deliberate, nerves warring harder than want, when Darby solved the matter for me. He caught me by the shoulders, tugged me close, and planted a kiss on my cheek like an X marking the spot for blush to fill. Then he rocked back with a grin.
“See you tonight, Mercy.”
With a wag of his tail, he turned and vanished into the building.
Oz lingered in the doorway long enough to wave. He was apparently too drowsy to be surprised by the fond farewell.
When the door shut, an errant thought struck me.
Maybe it wasn’t surprising to anyone but me. Darby was an escort for hire. Maybe this was just what he did.
I tried not to dwell on it, but jealousy had already seeded itself deep in my gut. I knew what it was like to have Darby’s focus, to be centered in the beam of his attention, and I knew people paid for that privilege. They paid sums I couldn’t hope to match.
Simply put, he was out of my league.
I did my best to shove the thought aside and assure myself that what we’d shared last night had been real. Darby hadn’t been onstage. He hadn’t been working. He’d been mine.
Still, an uncomfortable weight sat on my shoulders the whole ride home. After I pulled into the garage and killed the motorcycle’s engine, the silence rang out louder than the roar that had come before it. I took off my helmet and stowed it with my gloves, then simply sat for a long moment.
I was putting a hell of a lot on the line chasing Darby, and I didn’t want to get caught thinking this was bigger than it was. But I didn’t want to downplay it by pretending it was less than what I wanted it to be.
Ultimately, it was a matter of bravery. A quality I used to think I had, but that belief had been called into question over the past year.
Now I shied from conflict where I used to charge into it.
Now I surrendered things. Like my daughter.
Like myself. And regardless of what happened between a certain little demon and me, those behaviors needed to change.
I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over the screen before selecting Rachel’s number. Making the call should have been as easy as breathing, but I struggled to dial, put the phone to my ear, and wait.
Two rings, three, then Rachel’s voice came across the line.
“Hello?”
As time went by, I’d resigned myself to texting. It was easier. The inevitable refusal was cushioned by not having to hear it out loud. Since I was calling, she no doubt thought something was wrong. But maybe this was right.
“Hey. It’s me.” My throat went tight around the words, and I cleared it before adding, “Mercer.”
I almost hung up. Almost.
“What do you need?” she asked. Suspicion threaded through the weariness in her tone.
I dismounted the Victory and got my feet under me, then forced out a deceptively simple statement. “I think it’s time we talked.”
I could hear her breathing on the other end, and I strained to listen beyond it, hoping to catch the distant sound of Molly’s voice or laughter.
“About what?” Rachel asked.
“About Molly.” My grip tightened on the phone, a small effort to steady myself.
Be brave.
I was a soldier, for God’s sake. I saved lives. Surely I could manage a conversation with my ex-wife.
“I have rights, Rachel,” I said. “And I want them. I want visitation. I want to see my daughter.”
“You think you’re ready for that?” Rachel asked.
“Yes,” I rushed to say. “I have been for a while. I’ve got a place and a steady job.”
It didn’t bear mentioning that my job was bouncing at a strip club; I’d fight that battle when we got to it.
With a rough swallow, I continued. “I want her to see where I live and know she’s got a room here, that she’s welcome.” I paused. “That she’s wanted.”
Rachel expelled a long sigh. “Where’s this coming from?”
“The heart, I think,” I said then sobered. “I love her, Rachel. You know that. Don’t you think she should too?”
“She knows…” The lack of conviction in her voice cut me deep.
I waited while she thought on it. After a moment, she responded with increased certainty.
“Look, this isn’t simple. Molly’s settled. She has a good life…”
I’d heard the excuses, and I prayed they were true. I wanted Molly to be happy and thriving. But I wanted those things for myself too, and I was starting to realize that having my daughter in my life was the only way to get them.
“I don’t want to be a ghost to her,” I said. “I don’t want her growing up thinking I didn’t care.”
The line went quiet with only the faint crackle of connection between us.
Finally, Rachel replied, “I’ll think about it.”
“Soon?” I pressed and was met with a huffed breath.
I was pacing the garage now, wearing a track in the floor while Rachel deliberated. When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I spoke again.
“Rach—”
“Summer starts in a couple of weeks,” she interrupted. “Maybe then?”
“Yeah!” My fist pumped before I could rein myself in. “Yeah,” I repeated more evenly. “That’s great.”
Rachel sounded less than convinced, her voice thinner, distracted. “Was that all you wanted to talk about?”
“Yeah.” I bobbed my head as if she could see it. “That’s all.”
It was everything.
“Okay, then,” she murmured. “I’ll call you.”
The line went dead, leaving me with the echo of my own nod.
I curled my hand around the phone and circled the garage while the gravity of what just happened caught up to me.
I couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe right. My chest felt too tight and my heart too full.
The only thing I wanted—the only thing I could think to do—was tell someone, and the first person who came to mind was Darby.
But I didn’t have his number.
I shook my head and smiled. Tonight, I would get his number and give him my news.
I could hardly wait.