Chapter 41
CHAPTER
FORTY-ONE
Darby
After ten long days, the LVPD cleared the club, and we returned to find the Dollhouse not quite the place we’d left behind.
Everything had been scrubbed, sanitized, inspected, and taped off for so long that it barely smelled like home anymore.
Not to mention the replacement equipment and rented furniture that made everything a little uncanny.
Still, it was good to be back.
Word drifted through the grapevine about the body they’d pulled from our cooler.
Some card shark had waded too deep into gambling debt and ended up worth more dead than alive.
Throat slit, blood pooling inside that black garbage bag—ugly business, and not ours.
Proximity could be guilt if the law wanted it to be, but this time, they didn’t.
Or maybe they couldn’t. Lack of evidence and all.
Our tip about the angels breaking in also hit a dead end. The detective jotted a few notes on a steno pad, nodded in that tired, patronizing way people do when they don’t believe a word coming out of your mouth, and that was that. The case was closed before it ever opened.
Antonella and her brood remained untouchable. They were kingpins in the Vegas scene with their holy fiefdom built on threats, debts, and wings dipped in blood. And they had their sights on us, no question.
But Beck was right.
We didn’t go down easy.
Now that we were back on our own turf, we stood a little taller. We had our feet set and defenses strengthened, ready to withstand whatever came next.
Speaking of standing taller, that was precisely what I was doing, both literally and figuratively.
My spine felt straighter than it had in days as I stepped into Beck’s office, taking a break from restoring the upstairs bedrooms to something resembling normal.
The dolls and I had spent the morning unboxing linens, hanging curtains, and trying to make the place feel lived-in instead of crime-scene adjacent.
It was mind-numbing work, but it gave me time to think.
Now I was here to talk to Club Daddy about my roles at the Dollhouse—both the job he’d given me and the one I’d assigned myself.
The higher demon sat behind his desk, scrolling through the charges added to his account during the time the dolls and I were crashing at Mercer’s. I didn’t have his black card in my pocket anymore, but I still had it saved to my wallet.
What a world, right? Demons and angels roamed the streets, but the real miracle was same-day delivery.
Beck must have arrived at the total because his expression suddenly soured. He clicked the mouse a few times then looked again, no more pleased than before.
“Can you explain a few things to me?” he asked while rubbing at his temple. He didn’t wait for my response before starting down the list. “Fog machine?”
“Ambiance,” I said, completely serious.
“Life-sized Aquaman standee?”
“Emotional support.”
“A beanbag shaped like a croissant?”
“Cheaper than an air mattress,” I replied.
“Are you sure?”
I shrugged, and Beck paused.
“Bulk pack of glitter-infused oils?” he asked.
“Oh, those.” I winced. “I actually thought those were for cooking.”
Slowly, Beck leaned aside to peer at me around the edge of the computer monitor. Skepticism dripped from every inch of him. “It says massage oil on the listing. Do you usually massage your food?”
I lifted my chin. “Only when it’s been through something traumatic.”
He stared. I stared back.
Before he could start on the next line item, the pressure building in my chest surged up my throat.
“Becky, I think I need a change,” I declared.
His eyes narrowed. He must’ve thought I was trying to derail the conversation, and maybe I was.
He’d called me in here to talk about finances and how the club was hemorrhaging cash from the sabotage and shutdown.
But he’d been right before: some investments were slow to pay off. This one would. I’d make sure of it.
With a small shake of his head, Beck cleared whatever thought he’d been forming and shifted his attention fully to me.
“What kind of change?” he asked.
I gripped the back of the chair in front of me, digging my fingertips into the leather. “I’m redefining my role,” I said. “This sugar baby is ready to grow up.”
Beck leaned back, shoulders relaxing as understanding dawned.
Then he shook his head. “Darby, I don’t have any expectations for the work you do, inside or outside these walls.
As far as I’m concerned, you and the dolls are entertainers.
People come here for a show, and you get to decide what that show is. Especially as the manager.”
I swallowed as heat crawled up the back of my neck. “Some people may not like it. I’ve set certain… standards.”
Standards that kept me safe.
Standards that kept me desirable.
Standards that sometimes felt like a cage I’d built around myself.
Beck’s gaze sharpened. “You’re afraid we’ll lose customers?”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “We already have trouble with the Rossettis. I don’t want to cause more problems.”
What I didn’t add—what I didn’t know how to say—was that I didn’t want to disappoint him. Not after everything he’d done. Not after everything we’d survived.
Beck clasped his hands on the desktop and leaned in. The Rolex on his wrist glinted the same gold as his eyes.
“I know the name of this game,” he said. “I see what everyone else sees when they walk in here. Sex. Skin. All of it for sale.” His voice gentled, losing that businesslike edge as he added, “But not everything can be bought. Some things are priceless.”
I drew a breath and only then realized I’d been prepared to argue. Maslow wouldn’t have endured a word of this. Even my mother would have dismissed me. Because we had to eat. Because I was a good boy, and I made our clients happy.
But perhaps I’d fallen into kinder hands.
“Sometimes,” Beck went on. “It’s enough to want something you cannot have. You can sell fantasy, Darby. You can be the dream without making it come true.”
“I don’t want to shortchange anyone,” I murmured, unsure what to do with the rush of relief that had left me a little lightheaded. “I don’t want to mislead people. Or make the club… less.”
“Less?” Beck huffed a laugh. “Darby, you’re the one who gives this place its shine. You set the tone, the expectations, and the standards. And you aren’t on the menu unless you put yourself there. It’s your choice.”
My fingers curled harder around the back of the chair. I held my breath, afraid that if I exhaled too soon, the hope blooming in my chest would scatter like dandelion seeds.
“For what it’s worth,” Beck added softly. “I’m happy for you.”
A nervous laugh escaped me before I could reel it back. “You say that now.”
His mouth kicked up at one corner. “It’s good. To try again.”
He didn’t know me very well. He didn’t know where I came from or what I’d endured, but somehow, he understood. The ache. The fear. The cautious push toward something better.
I’d been a professional whore, escort, companion—whatever term suited the person paying.
But when it came to love, I was a novice.
Beck and I were both taking risks that couldn’t be calculated and learning that comfort and happiness were currencies in their own right.
With that came accepting that yes, some things truly were priceless.
“Thank you,” I said quietly.
I turned to leave, heart still thundering, but Beck’s voice followed me.
“Don’t forget to tell soldier boy he’s on the door tonight.”
I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my mouth. It wasn’t exactly a formal rehire, but Mercer hadn’t been formally fired either.
“He’ll be there,” I replied.
“That means he’s on the door, Darby,” Beck said. “Not you. Try to keep the workplace fraternization to a minimum.”
My smile became saccharine, and I bobbed my head. “Of course, Becky. I’ll stay off Mercy’s knob as long as Zephyr stays out from under your desk.”
Beck groaned, and I took that as my cue to see myself out.
Descending the steps to the ground level wasn’t quite the victory lap it should’ve been.
My knees were knocking, and my emotions were a strange cocktail of disbelief, delight, and something so buoyant it felt like it could float me straight out of the building.
By the time I reached the front door, I was weightless.
Sunlight blinded me as I shoved out into the parking lot. It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon, and Mercer and I had plans at the VFW Post. It turned out that Bingo was only one of their regularly scheduled activities. There were also trivia nights, bake sales, and today, a BBQ cookoff.
I’d dressed for the occasion in an exceptionally casual romper and wedge heels that made me look like I was strolling into my own personal summer montage.
Mercer had donned a blue polo and the khaki shorts that were making more frequent appearances lately.
He wasn’t hiding anymore and neither was I.
No poodle wig. No Luxe. Just me, my horns, and my tail swinging happily behind me.
I trotted across the lot to where he waited beside his bike and slid effortlessly into his space like it had always been mine. Mercer opened one arm in silent invitation and tucked me against his side.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
Glancing back toward the club entrance, I admitted in a low voice, “He knows about the oils.”
Mercer snorted. “And the pan you ruined using them?”
Considering the next charge on Beck’s account had been the replacement cookware set I’d ordered…
I nodded. “Safe to assume he knows about that too.”
“What about the rest of it?”
A warm feeling curled around my heart—satisfaction with a touch of pride. “We’re good.”
“Good?” He leaned back enough to search my face.
I held his gaze, let him see it, then nodded once. “Good.” Pushing up onto my toes, I pressed a kiss to the rough line of his jaw. Then, recalling the end of my very successful conversation with my boss, I asked, “You don’t happen to have another job lined up, do you?”
Mercer’s face twisted in befuddlement. “You know, I haven’t had much time to look.”
“Well don’t,” I said. “Because you’re back on staff.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Really?”
“Really,” I confirmed. “As in, you are really overqualified to bounce handsy strip-club patrons, but please don’t turn me down because we really need the help.”
A smile pulled at his lips. “You’ve got it. For as long as you need me.”
I was still smug and satisfied by everything about today as I brushed my hands down my romper and stepped toward the Victory. I swung my leg halfway over then stopped and looked back at Mercer. “You ready?”
“Yeah.” He reached into the pocket of his shorts. “But I want to give you something first.”
My tail gave an excited flick as I settled onto the ground. “A present? What for?”
“Not exactly a present.” He rummaged a second longer before pulling something free. “More of an invitation, I guess?”
What he held out was a single key with a purple ribbon tied around it in a crooked bow. He grimaced. “I probably should’ve put it in a box.”
Taking it carefully, I let it settle in the center of my palm. The metal was warm from being pressed to his thigh, and it shone bright silver against my skin. Keys were only good for two things: keeping people out or letting them in. And being handed one was its own quiet declaration.
I tore my gaze away from the object that was, unquestionably, the best present he could’ve dreamed up, and looked up at him.
“Mercy… is this what I think it is?”
He nodded toward the club building behind us. “I know this is your home, but I thought you could stay at mine sometimes? You’re already half moved in with all the stuff you left there.”
“You like it,” I teased while being drawn by the gravity of being welcomed, invited… wanted.
“I love it,” Mercer corrected. “Just like I love you.”
He was so free with those words, and they had yet to lose their charm. I curled my fingers around the key—fisted it tight—then launched myself at him. My arms locked around his neck, clinging. He smelled like store-brand detergent and Old Spice. Basic. Familiar. Beautiful.
I breathed him in until my pulse steadied, then I leaned back, holding on to his elbows.
“Ask me again,” I whispered.
Mercer gripped my waist and gave it a slow, affectionate squeeze. “Do you love me, pretty girl?”
My head started nodding before he finished speaking.
“I do,” I said.
One of these days, I’d be able to say it myself without hesitation. It was already getting easier, but for now, this was good too.
Mercer’s hands slid up my sides and then settled around my waist again, pulling me into him. Before I could take another breath, he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of my hair.
I might have stayed there forever, missed the BBQ cookoff this afternoon and our work shift tonight, but a flash of movement down the Strip snagged my attention.
A crane was hoisting something up the side of a distant building. Workers balanced on a platform, stretching a massive vinyl banner into place over an old sign I recognized instantly, even half covered.
The Devil’s Dollhouse billboard.
Or what was left of it.
My stomach dipped as the new image unfurled. Stylized flames, a pitchfork motif, and a scantily clad silhouette that was definitely not one of ours.
“Mercy,” I whispered.
We both turned toward Las Vegas Boulevard just in time to see the text appear, bold and brazen:
PURGATORY
A Brand-New Strip Club Experience
Coming Soon to Friendly Fairmont Street
My hand clenched around the key until its metal teeth dug into my palm.
So much for a peaceful Sunday.