Chapter 6
SIX
Don’t ask questions you don’t already know the answer to.
LUCA
Stay calm. Don’t push too hard. Be supportive. I lecture myself sternly as I fold the clean towels at the Fang while listening absently to the dancers chat before open.
I’m doing my best to be chill, but Celine’s skin turned into the fucking Rosetta Stone! I can’t help but have questions about that. Questions I refuse to ask because I know she doesn’t want to talk about it. If she did, she would have barreled in headfirst as soon as we were alone in the car.
I try not to let it sting that she doesn’t trust me with this.
Celine owes me nothing. Not her present and certainly not her past. I only hope she trusts me enough to ask for help if whatever put the shadows in her eyes becomes a problem for her future. I’ll turn it to stone, then she can grind it to dust.
“They blurred his dangly bits, so we couldn’t confirm if they were shriveled or not,” Celine says as she meticulously contours her face.
I shake my head and add a towel to my stack.
When the girls shoot the shit, I’m never quite sure what’s going to come out of their mouths, but it’s nice to see Celine relax.
“If you watch the international version, it won’t be censored,” Imani says, her lips curled into the amused disgust she always shows whenever man parts are up for discussion.
Celine perks up, and I grimace. “Not sure I need to see more.”
“But we’ve recently learned we don’t know anything about science,” Celine argues. “This could be helpful.”
I pretend to consider that, then shake my head. “Nope. I’m comfortable maintaining a certain level of ignorance.”
“You and every guy I’ve ever gone to bed with,” Imani teases.
I groan as all of them laugh at me. “You can’t blame me for every bad sex experience you’ve ever had with a man,” I complain. “Some of us take the time to learn.”
“Can confirm,” Ada says, winking at me as she pencils in her eyebrows. “Luca knows what he’s doing.”
They cheer at that, demanding I tell them about my secrets in graphic detail.
I shake my head and focus back on the remaining tasks in front of me.
I’ve got to fill out these inventory forms and send them off.
The booze won’t restock itself. I’ve been practically running this place since the owner retired two years ago.
Celine sits silently, her mouth hanging slightly open as she applies her eye makeup. Her hand is solid as a rock as she paints dark lines above her eyelashes. Since I’m watching her closely, I notice her eyes flicker over to Ada before focusing back on her own mirror.
Ada and I slept together a few times after she moved to Vegas and before she started working at the club. It’s common knowledge around here, and it’s never made things weird.
Part of me can’t help hoping Celine didn’t like the reminder. That’s toxic. I know that, but I’ve never claimed to be a nice guy. Shit, I live in the Fringes for a reason, wear combat boots most days, and have no interest in becoming more civilized than I already am.
Glancing at my watch, I clear my throat, because gentleman or not, I’m a damn good manager and punctual as fuck. “Thirty-minute warning,” I call out, rolling my eyes at the chorus of groans they throw my way.
“We’ve got a big-ass clock right there, Luca,” Brandy whines, pointing at the wall with a turquoise nail covered in rhinestones.
“And yet you still manage to lose track of time,” I say. “Make it make sense.”
“I’m worth the wait,” she grumbles.
“Yeah, you are, but imagine the tips you’d get if you were on time.” I wink at her and leave the room with my stack of clean towels so they can finish getting ready. I’ve got a bar to prep.
Alistair is back. He grins a fang-baring smile at me when I serve him his Blood Tide without a tomato, seeming strangely pleased that I’m not actively trying to kill him.
I shake my head, keeping a close eye on the other complication breathing down my neck tonight: the flirty blond demon.
“She’s incredible,” he says as Celine pulls off an aerial maneuver that used to scare me to death every time she practiced it.
I grunt in agreement. “Wait until you see the next part.”
The demon focuses on her dance, audibly sucking in air as Celine flips backward off the pole and uses her wings to flutter gracefully to the stage.
“Damn!” He whistles, shaking his head. “Do you know if she dates demons?”
I imagine biting his head off and feeding it to him, then shrug and smile blandly instead. “Who Celine dates is her business,” I say.
I could tell him the last demon who showed interest in her could successfully cosplay as the sand in the desert right about now, but I don’t bother. If he finds out the hard way, that’s his problem.
Celine’s song ends, and unease tingles at the base of my spine.
She always comes to the bar for her post-dance water.
I love the ritual, but I wish she would skip it tonight.
The demon’s black eyes are far too interested, and Alistair is only a little better.
Like clockwork, though, she heads my way, crossing the room in a handful of determined strides.
Internally, I sigh, bending over to get her a fresh, cold water bottle from the mini fridge.
“Thanks,” she says, taking the bottle from my hand and drinking half of it in one long swallow. Her throat bobs in the club lights, and I’m momentarily transfixed.
“Nice move,” the demon says to her, gulping as she turns his way. “The backflip, I mean.”
Celine dips her chin in response but doesn’t add anything to encourage him or the conversation. A petty sense of satisfaction rises inside me as his face falls.
“Amazing as always, angel,” Alistair says, wedging himself between Celine and the stranger, then leaning over the bar. “Can I get another round?”
I nod and begin making his drink. My good mood returns as Celine sidesteps Alistair and shoots him a peeved look. He grins at her, flashing fang.
“Personal space, Alistair,” Celine mutters.
“Inviting me into yours? I accept.” The smug fuck winks, and I shake my head at his antics and remind myself not to overreact. I’ve never heard of him hurting someone for no reason, but he’s got a hell of a reputation around here, and you can never be too careful.
“In your dreams,” Celine purrs, cocking her hip.
Alistair closes his eyes and smiles a crooked grin that spells nothing but trouble. “Only every single night, love.”
Celine laughs out loud, her real laugh, throaty and loud. “Alistair, you never miss a beat.”
“I try not to, angel.” He turns to face the demon. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced yet. I’m Alistair.”
“Ciprian . . . Nice to meet you.” Did I imagine that pause after he said his name? Oh well, he wouldn’t be the only one using an alias in this club. It’s not like I give a shit.
They size each other up, and Celine looks at me and rolls her eyes conspiratorially. I bite my bottom lip, chewing on the ring there to keep my mouth shut.
“Harry tells me there’s a new mouth to feed,” Alistair says, drawing my attention back to him in a flash. Celine’s calm amusement fades, and the look she levels at him is far from friendly.
“Why do you care?” she demands, her wings glowing like banked embers. I eye the smoke detector nervously, then shoot her a warning look.
“Simply making conversation.” Alistair holds his hands out, palms up. “I stop by from time to time to make sure she has everything she needs.” That’s surprising, and oddly nice for a guy with Alistair’s reputation.
I hand him his finished drink, giving Celine a moment to get her anger under control. “I’m sure Harry appreciates your help,” I tell him.
“It’s the least I can do.” Alistair takes a sip. “If more of us had had someone like Harry watching out for us at that age . . .”
“Cheers to Harry.” I pour a shot of tequila and clink the glass against Alistair’s larger cup, then down it. I don’t make it a habit of drinking on the job, but in a strip club surrounded by unpredictable supernaturals, sometimes you need to take the edge off.
“I’m curious to hear how a woman ended up with the name Harry,” Ciprian says, his black eyes glittering as he studies the three of us nosily.
“That’s a long story,” I lie without blinking.
It isn’t. Her name is Harriet, and she used to dance here at the club, but that’s none of his godsdamn business.
A regular stumbles to the corner and waves me over.
“Duty calls,” I grunt, passing Celine another bottle of water, then shifting further down the bar.
I spend the next few hours mixing drinks and convincing the clientele I have to cut off not to punch me in the face. By the time the crowd thins, I’m dead on my feet, and my face hurts from smiling.
“You’re a master manipulator, man,” Ciprian says, his voice slurring around the trickier syllables. He hasn’t left the bar all night, watching mostly in silence. It’s been so long since he spoke, I didn’t realize how buzzed he was.
“Am I?” I ask, knowing enough about handling drunk people to avoid turning a conversation into an argument.
“Yeah.” He hiccups loudly. “It’s fucking amazing to watch.”
“Thanks, I think.” I laugh, shaking my head as the house lights bounce off his blond hair. It practically glows in the dark.
“No, seriously.” Ciprian picks up one of the discarded cocktail skewers and twists a straw paper around it.
“You and the redhead both wrap them around your fingers, but your methods are completely different from hers. She’s fire—they can’t resist the heat, even if they know she’ll burn them, and you, you’re that green gel that gets slathered on after to soothe the sting. Total power couple.”
“We aren’t together,” I blurt, then imagine turning my own dumb ass to stone for being incredibly stupid. He’s interested in her. That’s obvious, and I practically gave him verbal permission to go for it.
“Hmm,” Ciprian says.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Fuck me, why am I antagonizing him? This whole conversation is ridiculous. He might not even remember it tomorrow. But after the day I’ve had . . . it bothers me that this drunk stranger noticed our dynamic so easily. I feel almost bruised by it.
“Just trying to figure out who you’re lying to, me or yourself,” Ciprian drawls.
I narrow my eyes at him, and my basilisk stirs. “I’m closing your tab,” I snap. “You’re cut off for tonight.” My tone is abrasive as fuck. I wait for him to push back, but he doesn’t.
“I understand,” Ciprian says, climbing off his stool too gracefully for someone who has downed as many drinks as he has. “Before I go, have you seen this guy? He was supposed to meet me here a few days ago, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him.”
I glance at his phone screen as he holds it out.
Pain explodes in my gums. My fangs descend, and it’s only years of practice keeping my mouth shut that prevents me from visibly reacting.
There, clear as day on his smudged phone screen, is the demon I turned to stone for Celine. Reacting on autopilot, I shake my head.
“Doesn’t look familiar,” I say. “Sorry about that.”
“Thanks anyway.” Ciprian takes off with a friendly wave, but again, I notice a slight hesitation. If he doesn’t believe me . . . I’ll have to kill him, too. For his sake, I hope he forgets all about his friend.