Chapter 34
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Mercer
Thankfully the club’s layout hadn’t changed. The bones were the same, and the scenery was familiar enough to keep me oriented, but the details were different. New lighting, fresh paint, and furniture shuffled like pieces in a game I no longer knew the rules to.
At first, it made me sad, but my sorrow quickly curdled into anger.
At Antonella. At myself. After yet another beat, my feelings steeled into resolve.
If the dolls could rebuild then so could I.
Molly was safe now. The threat that had paralyzed me was gone.
That meant I could think again, and plan.
Not to withstand enemy contact but for a tentative future. A hope of restoring what had been lost.
To reach the main floor, I had to pass by the dressing room. The dancers moved in and out of there constantly, changing costumes and touching up makeup. While the rest of the place smelled vaguely like a construction site, that room reeked of cologne and clean sweat, even from the doorway.
I caught myself slowing as I passed, searching for Darby’s scent.
It wasn’t the heavy, musky sort of fragrance men were supposed to wear, but something gentler—green, faintly floral, and sweet in a way that invited rather than overwhelmed.
It was the kind of smell that made you want to breath deeper.
Another whiff yielded nothing specific, too choked with sandalwood and leather from the twins’ western gear, so I moved ahead, down the narrow hall and into the main area of the club.
The room opened up before me, and I paused to take it in.
The stage was empty for the moment, lights low, but the set pieces had me blinking twice.
They looked less like the backdrop of a strip club and more like something lifted from a high school theater production.
There were a pair of leather armchairs, an electric fireplace, and a bar cart stocked with props instead of booze.
It took me a second to realize it was the library from Clue.
I huffed a laugh. I still wasn’t sure how this theme night was supposed to work—dolls stripping down between rounds of amateur sleuthing—but if anyone could make it seamless, it was Darby. He had a knack for turning chaos into art.
Even between sets, the place buzzed. The crowd was loud, laughing and downing drinks.
A few of the costumed guests had made it inside.
Someone wore a Monopoly top hat and monocle, another had donned what looked to be an edible Candyland corset, and a couple sported matching Twister bodysuits covered in colored dots.
Judging by the energy in the room and the sheer number of people packed inside, the event was a hit.
After everything this place had been through, seeing it alive again did something good to me.
I scanned the floor, seeking Darby in the crowd, but he wasn’t down here.
So my gaze drifted upward to the second-level catwalk and the VIP suites that overlooked the stage.
That was his domain, his territory. Up there, he was in his element, somehow juggling multiple rooms and myriad admirers with enviable grace.
I didn’t see him, but I felt him. His magnetism drew me through the throng and toward the wrought-iron staircase that spiraled up to the mezzanine.
Did I really intend to approach him? To corner him mid-shift and demand a conversation he almost certainly did not want to have? No, I needed to handle this respectfully. Let him come to me. On his terms.
On the second floor, I scanned the suites until I found one unoccupied.
While moving toward it, I warred with worries of all the ways this could go wrong.
I could be recognized, by Darby or anyone else, and risked being thrown out before I had a chance to explain.
A waitress might swing by for a drink order and give away my position before I was ready.
I hadn’t even paid the cover charge, much less provided a credit card to secure my spot among the club’s high rollers.
I slipped into the empty room. A flip of the wall switch brought the dim lights to life and started the disco ball on a slow, lazy spin, scattering white dots across the walls and ceiling.
The space was small and intimate with just a single chair, a corner couch, and a low table. All of it too new to have any soul yet.
If I squinted, I could almost imagine it was my living room.
The couch could’ve been my couch—the one where Darby and I had sat shoulder to shoulder, laughing over s’mores and beer.
We could be like that again. Close. Comfortable.
And if I managed to get him back to my home, I might never let him leave again.
Crossing the floor, I sank into the sofa cushions, shifting and resettling, trying to find a position that didn’t make me look as conspicuous as I felt.
Legs crossed, then stretched, then folded again.
I peeked out at the stage below me, the catwalk beside me, and the disco ball above. I wasn’t sure I breathed at all.
From where I sat, I could be seen through the glass wall, but only in profile.
As I’d been reminded on my recent grocery store run, I had the ability to blend.
I was unremarkable enough not to draw notice, which was a fact I hoped to use to my advantage as I waited, keeping my face turned away from the door while throwing glances that way every few seconds.
A flash of movement at the edge of the glass made my pulse jump, and I fixed my gaze ahead. My hands curled into fists as I held my position until I heard the click-swish of the door opening.
Heels tapped on the floor as Darby stepped inside.
He was dressed in a French maid costume that would have looked absurd on anyone else.
But on him, it was devastating. The black satin clung to his torso, white stockings hugged his legs, and a fluffed apron at his waist was tied with a bow that rested directly on top of his ass.
“Well, hello, handsome,” he purred, stepping closer. “I didn’t see you on my dance card.”
He flashed a smile—sweet, playful, and customer-service flawless—but the second his eyes focused, the charm drained from his face. His features hardened, and his tail, which had been a lazy curl behind him, lashed sharp as a whip.
“I just want to talk,” I blurted while standing with both hands raised in surrender. “Can we talk?”
Darby’s orange eyes went impossibly cold. “That depends on who you came to talk to,” he replied. “Because Luxe is on duty right now, and he charges by the hour.”
He extended his hand, palm upturned and expectant.
It took me a second to realize he wanted payment.
I hesitated. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Then his tail flicked again, and the air left me in a sigh.
“Okay,” I murmured. “I get it.”
Fishing my wallet from my back pocket, I thumbed out a credit card and handed it over. The transactional distance after everything we’d shared burned like acid down my throat.
Darby took the card and slipped it into the corset top of his dress, then he nodded toward the couch.
“Go ahead, big fella,” he said. “Get comfy.”
I didn’t sit. Couldn’t. I was far too unsettled to accept any sort of comfort.
Instead, I spoke. “Look, I’m sorry for barging in here, but I can’t just let this go. I can’t let you go.”
Meeting his eyes was like staring into a void. I’d never seen him so removed. Well, no, I had. The day we met after the Basilica guards had roughed him up. That realization made it clear where I’d been categorized. The dolls weren’t my enemies, but I had become theirs.
“You know I care about you, right?” I took a tentative step forward. “You and all of this.” I gestured toward the club beyond the glass. “It’s pretty damn incredible. And to think I nearly ruined it—”
“Talking makes me thirsty,” Darby said, so abrupt it stalled me. “We should get some drinks.”
He grabbed the cocktail menu off the table and flipped it open.
“Darby…”
He didn’t look up, continuing to scan the options with exaggerated interest.
“We have a few specials tonight. For the theme. Let’s see… the Scarlet Shot, the Professor Plum Punch…” The menu snapped shut, and he fixed me with a sharp smile. “You know what? Let’s try them all. I’m sure you’re good for it.”
Before I could respond, he spun toward the door, hips swaying just enough to remind me how easily he could weaponize grace. He flagged down a passing waitress wearing a demon horn headband and a rubber tail and rattled off the order. My credit card hit her tray with a quiet slap.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” Darby said to her, his voice honey smooth.
Then he turned back to me, just as saccharine and syrupy.
“Why are you still on your feet?” He came closer then stopped directly before me and tilted his head.
Thick lashes lowered, and glossed lips parted.
“This is where we get comfortable. Don’t you want to relax, baby? ”
For a moment, I almost believed it—the invitation, the warmth—but when I looked into his eyes, there wasn’t a hint of desire there. Just my own reflection, dark and hollow in the black of his pupils.
“I don’t feel like sitting,” I said.
His white brows dipped as his expression sharpened. “Maybe I wasn’t clear,” he said. “If you don’t sit, I don’t stay. And you’re getting billed either way.”
The words drove me back toward the couch, and I obeyed, lowering myself onto the stiff cushions.
“Atta boy.” His smile was pure show. “Now, how about you make room for me too? I don’t need much. Just this bit right here…”
He trailed off as he situated himself on my thighs, settling back until his body molded against mine.
There was the scent I’d been searching for in the dressing room, fresh and sweet and unbearably familiar.
Darby pressed in, his tail looping around my leg and holding on to me the way I wanted to hold on to him.
I stalled until he grabbed my wrists and guided them around his waist, locking my arms where they used to rest so naturally.