Chapter 33
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
Mercer
We had a saying in the service: no plan survives enemy contact. The Dollhouse dancers weren’t my enemies, but since they’d likely closed ranks behind Darby’s orders to keep me out, they’d become a force of opposition all the same.
So I tried not to plan.
But that was nearly impossible when my thoughts had spent the last twenty-eight hours circling like vultures over the carcass of my love life.
It was still strange, realizing the person I’d fallen for was the furthest thing from what I would ever have considered my “type.” I had never thought about another man the way I thought about Darby.
Hell, I’d never thought about anyone the way I thought about him.
And now, I couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else.
It wasn’t only Darby that brought me here, though. I had other concerns, namely about the conversation with Antonella that had been too brief and brusque for comfort. She said my part in this was over, but I had come to see that the trouble in Vegas went far beyond me.
My concern compounded as the hours dragged by.
The angels had destroyed the Dollhouse. Worse than I even knew since I hadn’t been allowed inside.
But was that the sole reason they wanted the place emptied out?
Devastating as it was, a bit of vandalism was far from the worst thing they could have done.
I wasn’t sure the club would be open when I rolled the Victory into the lot, but it was.
Packed, actually. There was hardly room to park, which made me grateful for the bike’s ability to wedge into a space that didn’t technically exist. After killing the engine, I stowed my helmet, then turned to face the black brick facade of the Devil’s Dollhouse.
Customers looped around the side of the building beneath the second-story windows belonging to the dolls’ bedrooms. Darby told me there used to be bars over the glass, and the thought turned my stomach. It was bad enough that the old club owner called the dancers dogs. Worse that he caged them too.
But there wouldn’t be anyone upstairs right now. Everyone would be on the floor, working.
I dragged my gaze back to the line of hopeful admittees. The crowd was abuzz with anticipation. A few wore game-themed costumes that would delight Darby. I followed their focus to the entry, where IDs would be offered up under the red glow of the lights, and searched for the bouncer.
Please, not Colette.
If they’d brought in a stand-in to cover the door tonight, I might’ve had a chance of slipping in unnoticed. It wasn’t like they had my photo taped behind the bar with “Do Not Admit” scrawled across it, and the Dollhouse didn’t bother with guest lists.
But then I saw her.
Sleek black suit, slick blonde ponytail, and dark eyes scanning the lot and the line in alternating sweeps.
Colette, indeed.
I couldn’t risk her spotting me.
Nibbling the inside of my lip, I crouched beside the Victory and opened the saddlebag. After a bit of rummaging, my fingers closed around the small toolkit I kept inside. It was nothing fancy, just enough to tinker with a carburetor or, potentially, break into a nightclub.
Snapping the saddlebag closed, I stood with the toolkit tucked under my arm.
The front door was clearly out of the question, but the back door would be unmanned.
I wasn’t exactly trained in breaking and entering, but I’d fiddled with Humvee engines overseas and tweaked the Victory enough to have developed a feel for stubborn metal.
Once I was inside, I could find Darby, and we could talk. I didn’t need long, just a few minutes between sets to apologize again and issue a warning. Maybe Antonella’s words would trigger something in him. Or maybe this was just an elaborate excuse to see him again.
Either way, I needed to do it.
Slipping down the side of the building, I hugged the shadowed edge where the light from the sign didn’t reach. Only after I exited Colette’s line of sight did I start to relax.
The rear of the building came into view, complete with a cramped yard boxed in by a six-foot wall of cinderblock.
Outside it, a big blue dumpster had been filled to heaping with broken furniture and busted speaker stacks.
They must have spent hours hauling that shit out—clearing the wreckage.
I was almost relieved not to have seen the club at its worst, but I wasn’t sure if walking into it now would be any better.
Underfoot, the concrete was cracked with stubborn weeds pushing through.
Creeping over them, I hesitated at the corner of the enclosure and glanced through one of the narrow air gaps in the wall.
There wasn’t much to see, just shapes, shadows, and a spill of yellow from the light above the battered back door.
It looked clear, so I moved forward into the opening, only to be assaulted by the stench of the dumpsters. The smells of beer, bleach, and baked trash were joined by a waft of cigarette smoke. It was fresh and made a trail past the bins to the slim figure positioned against the building.
Elliot stood outside the beam of the overhead light, leaning with one leg drawn up and his heel hooked on a missing patch of brick. He wore a baggy black hoodie over shiny green pants, layered up despite the oppressive heat. His cigarette flared as he lifted it to his mouth and took a drag.
“Thought I heard someone coming,” he muttered, voice low and rough from smoke. His gaze dropped to the toolkit in my hand, then lifted again. “You breaking in, soldier boy?”
My mouth went dry. I hadn’t considered a cover story. “Maintenance,” I said.
Elliot scoffed and tipped his head toward the blue box behind me, the one loaded with what must have been the majority of the club’s contents. “Little late, don’t you think?” he asked.
I grimaced and hugged my toolkit closer. “I wanted to stay. I asked Darby—”
“Save it.” He flicked his hand like he was batting away a fly. “I don’t give a shit.”
I nodded, understanding, but still felt compelled to say, “I’m sorry.”
The apology earned me another snort.
I glanced at the door beside him, propped open with a chunk of concrete. The club’s music rumbled through the gap as Elliot took another drag. Smoke curled around his face and along the curves of his horns as he tapped the cigarette with a black-painted nail, scattering ash across the concrete.
I gestured to it. “What happened to the vape?”
His lips pursed. “I’m not exactly a bubblegum guy.”
“What about Sticky Bunz?”
He huffed what might have been a laugh before taking one last pull from the cigarette. Dropping the spent butt, he ground it out under his boot then folded his arms over his chest.
“What are you doing here, man?” His eyes found me again, narrow and faintly aglow. “Really.”
His tone wasn’t hostile, just tired. Like he’d run out of patience for everyone else’s bullshit but cared just enough to call me on mine.
I had no answer except the truth. But truth had gotten me into Darby’s good graces in the first place. That was how we’d connected. When I’d lied—or kept quiet—was when things fell apart.
“I think the club’s in trouble.”
Elliot let out a more genuine laugh. “Do you, now?” He tilted his head. “Are you the trouble?”
“I was,” I admitted. “I didn’t mean to be. But I think the angels are planning something. Antonella called it retribution for the sinners—”
“Fuck. No.” He shook his head. “I told you, I don’t give a shit.”
I blinked at him, thrown. “You asked?”
“Not about that holy cunt, I didn’t,” he retorted. “I asked about you. What do you want?”
I looked at the cracked door he guarded and said quietly, “I want… I need to talk to Darby.”
“Mmm.” Elliot’s mouth quirked. “Beck at least brought flowers when he came crawling.”
“What?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head then jerked his thumb toward the front of the building. “If you want in, why not wait in line like everyone else?”
“Pretty sure I’m banned.”
Silence chased my statement, and I tried to think of something to add that wasn’t another apology or excuse. Neither of those had moved him; I wasn’t sure what would.
“You know,” he said after a pause. “I never thanked you for helping me out a few weeks ago.”
It took me a second to track his meaning back to one of my first shifts at the club. The night he’d nearly been pulled off the pole and into a rowdy crowd, dragged dangerously close to an undertow of bodies.
“Oh.” I swallowed. “I was just doing my job.”
He nodded and crossed his arms again. “You were decent at it. Better than Mazzy’s bruisers. If that had happened under their watch, it would’ve just… happened.”
I recalled the panic on his face as the audience morphed into a mob.
He wasn’t a big guy. Well under six foot and slight, he was built more for show than substance and would have been easily overpowered.
For a selfish, foolish moment I realized I could overpower him now.
I could muscle past and get inside without his approval, or permission, or whatever I was trying to earn here.
But what he’d said caused my mind to backtrack.
“You don’t think they would have stopped it?” I asked. “You could’ve been hurt.”
Dark brows dropped over his almond-shaped eyes. “They were here to keep us contained, not safe.”
The line drawn between containment and safety made fury surge in me. It was bars on the windows and guards at the doors. A house of pleasure turned into a prison, a second Hell.
I knew one thing: if I could stand between the dolls and that kind of treatment, that was where I wanted to be.
Since my injury, I’d been adrift, but this was somewhere I could belong.
I envied their camaraderie and companionship and wanted desperately to be counted among them.
To be embraced by Darby again, if not as his lover, then maybe as his guard.
I was a soldier. A Marine, even if most days I didn’t feel like one. I knew how to fight; maybe all I’d been lacking was a worthy cause.
While I considered, Elliot tapped his toe against the concrete, clearly doing some thinking of his own.
“You said the angels are planning something,” he said at last. “Antonella told you?”
“Yes.” My throat tightened. “She said something’s coming. Not for me, but I think it might be for all of you.”
His head dipped slowly. “You should probably go to Beck with that.”
“I will,” I agreed. “But Darby’s first. I…”
Another flippant wave stopped me. “Yeah, yeah, you like him. Think he’s pretty. I heard.” He shrugged. “But if you want to win him over, you need to level that shit up.”
I nodded, resolute. “That’s what I’m trying to do.”
Moths fluttered around the fixture overhead, their wingbeats drowned by the thrum of the club’s music.
Finally, Elliot sighed and pushed off the wall. He went to the door and grabbed the outer handle before kicking loose the chunk of concrete wedged in the jamb. With a shove, the door swung wide, letting out a wave of unfiltered sound.
“Fine.” Elliot’s voice raised to compensate for the increase in volume. “Get in there and ‘maintenance’ some shit. But if you fuck up again, I’ll sic Ozzy on you.”
Unlike Elliot, Oz was massive and practically made of muscle. I had no doubt he could bench press me or knock a few teeth loose given the proper motivation. Odd as it was to envision the gentle giant resorting to violence, I didn’t want to take any chances.
“Point taken,” I said.
Still holding the door, Elliot beckoned me in. “Go ahead, then.”
The door yawned wider, spilling out cool air, thumping bass, and a dull roar of voices. If this had been a test, I’d passed, but the real trial waited beyond that threshold.
After I crossed it, I would have to find Darby in the crowd. Convince him not to have me thrown out. Convince him to listen. Maybe even convince him to trust me again.
Swallowing, I steeled my resolve, and then I entered the club.