Chapter 35
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FIVE
Darby
I was too tired to deal with this.
Too exhausted to think straight or breathe without feeling like I was suffocating. Maybe even too tired to hear correctly, because I’d be damned if Mercer, the Marine with the unshakable stare and the battle scars to match, had actually told me he loved me.
Right after I told him to get out.
It was asinine, ill-timed, and reckless in a way I couldn’t afford to be. I’d built my life on control, and this was chaos. The kind of madness that cracked foundations and threatened to flood every carefully sealed room inside me.
Keeping everything contained was how I survived.
Feelings could be sorted into boxes, labeled “for later” or “never again,” and then stashed somewhere dark.
That was how I made it through the next encounter, the next client, the next transaction.
That was how I lay down every night, whether I was in my own bed or someone else’s.
I compartmentalized like a human Caboodle. Everything went in its place, and there was no space in any of my compartments for something as dangerous as love.
So I kicked Mercer out.
Again.
And when the door shut behind him, the silence that followed was a vacuum.
I ventured back out into the club and tried to fill my brain with noise. With tasks. With anything that didn’t have Mercer’s voice echoing in it. I moved from room to room, pleasing private crowds while the other dolls went to work on the downstairs stage.
The theme night was going off without a hitch. Ozzy was the star of the moment, tearing away his Colonel Mustard costume with practiced flair. He’d fixed that misstep and was now perfectly on beat and glorious in shades of tan and gold.
I paused outside the next VIP suite, hanging over the railing and letting the energy of it all wash over me.
I’d meant it when I told Mercer I made this.
I created myself out of what most people would consider nothing.
Or less than nothing. I was a colored woman’s accidental child, born a whore and died one too.
But now, I was Luxe.
Luxe, who wore clothes that cost more money than my mother ever dreamed of. He dined at couture restaurants and drank thousand-dollar bottles of wine. People bathed him in champagne and threw hundred-dollar bills at his feet.
Who was Luxe? Mercer had asked.
He was something.
I made him, and I made this place. Everything that spread out before and beneath me had been nothing once too. First Maslow’s cage meant to contain us, then Antonella Rossetti’s trash heap meant to bury us. And here I was, overseeing it all. Proud. Tired. And lonely as hell.
I exhaled and cast a glance toward the entrance, half expecting to see Mercer slipping out the same way he’d come in. But instead of a broad-shouldered Marine vanishing into the night, I caught sight of something else.
A knot of guests had formed near the door. Guests cluttered where they should not have been, slowing the flow of traffic to a stop. I wasn’t the first to notice. Beck was already moving in that direction, cutting through the crowd with the speed of purpose.
Straightening, I fussed with my skirt then started down the catwalk.
If the club owner was needed on the scene, then so was the manager.
I arrived at a conversation in progress.
Make that a confrontation between Beck and Colette and a pair of uniformed LVPD officers.
The policemen looked fatigued, and Beck looked ready to incinerate someone.
His glamor was slipping, throwing off a faint shimmer of heat around his tense form and leaking the sharp tang of sulfur into the air.
He must’ve been furious to let his human facade crack in the middle of the rush hour crowd.
Clearly, I wasn’t the only one too exhausted to cope tonight.
“Darby!” Beck’s head snapped toward me, and his eyes flared a dangerous yellow. The air stirred around him, a whip of wind hinting at the movement of an unseen tail.
I flinched instinctively.
“Is this part of your murder game?” He gestured to the bewildered cops.
“Murder what?” one of the officers echoed while leaning in with sudden interest.
“Maybe we don’t call it that in front of the police, Becky,” I said, glancing at the policemen and giving an affected laugh. “It’s a theme night. Not a—”
“Did you hire them?” Beck gave the officers a once-over from their bulky utility belts to their unimpressed stares, then threw up his hands. “Because I would like to be kept in the loop if we’re paying for, what? Set extras?”
The line of guests waiting for admittance had taken notice. They whispered and craned their necks to steal a better look. Nothing like a police presence to spice up an evening of faux murder.
“We’re responding to a call—” one officer started.
“Yes, I heard you the first time,” Beck snapped.
“—about cadavers being stored on the property,” the officer finished flatly.
Beck glanced from the cops to Colette, who shook her head. Then his gaze returned to me.
“This isn’t cute,” he said. “Costumes, fine. Turning the club into a make-believe crime scene, fine. But this kind of publicity—”
“Beck!” I interrupted, bordering on frantic. “I didn’t call them. They’re real cops. Not… extras.”
He faced the officers, whose combined patience was wearing thin. “Cadavers?” he repeated, like if he said it out loud, it would start making sense.
“You’re going to need to clear everyone out,” said the second officer. “We have a warrant.”
He reached into his jacket and produced a folded document, which Beck took and quickly skimmed the contents. I leaned in to steal a glimpse before Beck exhaled through his nose.
“Fucking angels,” he muttered.
“Sir?” the first officer said sharply.
Beck’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him warmed, like heat rolling off asphalt.
“Nothing.” He handed back the warrant with a wan smile. “Just admiring your timing.”
When the cops didn’t respond, Beck squared his shoulders and continued. “I understand. Either we clear the place or you’ll do it for us. But perhaps this could wait? We close in four hours. You’re welcome to sit at the bar. Help yourselves to some drinks while you keep an eye on things.”
The officers didn’t even blink. Theirs was an adamant, and silent, refusal.
Beck’s jaw tightened, all semblance of civility gone as a vein throbbed in his temple. “Colette,” he bit out, not even looking at her. “Lock the doors. Start clearing the line.”
The hellhound’s red lips pursed in a frown that implied she didn’t like this plan any more than he did. “And what shall I tell them?” she asked.
“Say we’re at capacity,” Beck replied. “Or a pipe burst. Or we ran out of booze. I don’t care, just get them gone.”
Colette dipped her head. “Oui, mon ami.”
“And you.” Beck jabbed a finger at me. “Get everyone off the floor. Quietly. No panic, no gossip, no cameras. Got it?”
I nodded.
Colette went to address the line while I faced the club’s interior.
The members of the crowd who weren’t looking our way remained blissfully unaware—laughing, dancing, and clinking glasses under the amber lights.
Oz gyrated onstage, and the music thumped on, sights and sounds oddly juxtaposed with the dread crawling up my spine.
How could I tell two hundred people that the party was over and the police were onsite looking for dead bodies? And would I be taken seriously dressed like I was? It would have been the perfect gag. Little wonder Beck thought I’d planned it.
My brain stuttered while I stood there, wishing for the help I’d sent away.
Mercer would have known what to do. During the power outage, he’d been as solid as a rock, and he’d looked for me. Waited until I’d come into sight, then he’d fixed my hair and invited me to Bingo. I wanted that now. A boulder to redirect the current that seemed determined to sweep me away.
I was still thinking of him when Callum and Colt wandered up, flushed and sweaty in their Professor Plum and Mister Peacock costumes.
“What’s goin’ on?” Colt asked, looking toward where the policemen and Beck loitered in the entry.
“Why are there c-c-cops here?” Callum stammered.
“It’s a murder mystery,” I replied weakly.
“Yeah, we know.” Colt tugged on the sleeve of his blue satin jacket. “That’s why we got all dressed up. I meant why’s the goddamn PD holdin’ up the line? Or are those costumes too?”
“We have to close the club,” I told him, voice wavering. “Again.”
Turning aside, I pressed my fingers to my temple, trying to vent off enough thoughts to make room for logic.
“Did I manifest this?” I mumbled. “Am I dreaming?” I set one foot down in a decisive stomp. “That must be it.”
Swinging toward Colt, I declared, “Pinch me.”
His brow quirked. “Like on the arm or…”
The tilt of his head drew my attention to the Stetson shadowing his face—the very same hat I’d told him absolutely did not belong with his Mister Peacock costume. So now Miss Peacock was a cross-dresser and a cowboy. Perfect.
Stepping forward, I caught both twins by their elbows and hauled them toward the crowd. “Help me. We need to get everyone out of here so the police can look around.”
“Look for what?” Colt asked.
“Bodies, Colt. Dead ones. On Clue night.” I sighed. “And if either of you makes a crack about a lead pipe, I’m going to lose it.”
It was no small task to shut down the Dollhouse in the middle of a shift, but after Colt got the idea to start telling people there was a gas leak, it went a lot quicker. Callum protested that a gas leak would bring the fire department rather than the police, but he couldn’t argue with the results.
Zephyr, Oz, and Elliot chipped in toward the end, checking bathrooms and hallways for stragglers and herding them toward the exits.
Lastly, Rush emerged from behind the bar and caught up to where we’d gathered with Beck, Colette, and the cops, who looked more than ready to start tearing the place apart.
A third officer had joined them, accompanied by a pair of German Shepherds in black tactical vests.