Chapter 18
eighteen
I don’t wait at the curb.
Five-o’clock heat bleeds through the revolving door when I step into Silver State Publishing.
I wanted to ditch my suit after lunch for a black tee, dark denim, and motorcycle boots, but I kept the suit knowing I’d walk into Lindy’s office.
It’s black, perfectly pressed, with the red tie she once said she likes.
I keep my stride civilian, hands visible, shoulders easy, and knife-edge tucked away under my suit jacket.
The receptionist blinks up at me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for Melinda Ashenheart,” I say.
A beat of confusion. She checks the directory. “I don’t have an Ashenheart.”
“Westbrook,” I correct. “Melinda Westbrook.”
“Oh, yes, editorial. Fourteenth floor.” She watches me cross the lobby. The elevator opens onto a glass bullpen and a hum of keys. Conversations thin as I walk through. Eyes track. A guy in a too-tight shirt leans back.
“Hey big man,” he calls. “Visitors aren’t supposed to be on this floor.”
I smile like he didn’t speak and keep moving. Melinda stands at her desk, pencil behind her ear, looking adorable. Relief hits her face, then the flush she tries to swallow. She takes a step and the grinner adds, louder, “Westbrook, HR’s gonna love this. Boyfriend pickups?”
Melinda’s shoulders hitch like she’s bracing for me to slice the man in half. After what she’s already seen, can’t say I blame her. I stop with a foot of air between us because this is her ground. Her fingers flick my lapel, a quick private touch.
“You kept the suit,” she murmurs. “I figured you’d change the second you got home.”
I tip my head so only she can hear. “I’d never embarrass you at work, darling,” I murmur. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
Her mouth curves. “Walk me out.”
I let my fingers brush her knuckles—one, two, three—then step back.
Melinda turns to the grinner. “Tell HR it’s husband pickups.”
He blinks. Mouth opens, shuts. I try to keep my face straight, but fail a little.
She’s so goddamn cute. I give him a wink and smile as pride climbs up my spine and offer my arm.
She threads her hand through. The bullpen goes library-quiet.
Her heels click across the floor. The elevator chimes.
As the doors start to slide, Victoria pops up over her monitor and calls, “While you’re at it, nosy boy, tell HR to put her soon-to-be ruined lipstick on the expense report. ”
Melinda laughs, and the doors cut the room in half. We ride down. My thumb grazes the ring on her hand.
“Why isn’t it changed?” I ask, quiet. “Your name.”
She exhales. “HR forms. Email. Bylines.”
“Adrian can fix all that for you,” I say. “He can email HR as you, set your email to your new name, fix all your bylines, even the old ones if they’re digital. I want our name on your mail, your door, your paycheck.”
Her breath catches.
“Say yes, Lindy.”
“Yes.”
“Good girl.” I want to believe I’d let her keep Westbrook if she pushed back. I don’t. The need to put my name on her is feral. Thank fuck she said yes, so I don’t have to find out.
“Home first,” I say as the doors open. “Change, then Mirage.”
She nods. Logan swings her car to the curb; I tuck her in and drive. I park, dismiss Logan for the night, and go up with her. I do a sweep on muscle memory. Entry, hall, bath, closets. She toes off her shoes and laughs at me under her breath.
“I’m not leaving you alone,” I tell her, palm at the small of her back.
“Not even at home? Not even to change?”
“Especially not then,” I say, and lean in. “Tell me where you want me.”
“Here,” she says, catching my shirt and pulling me down for a kiss that’s soft first, then is a drag of teeth that puts heat in my bones. She breaks it with a smile that says behave. “And there. Doorway. Turn around.”
I turn. I still hear everything: her giggle at my playing along, the whisper of a zipper, the slide of silk. I lay my knife on the dresser and tilt the hilt so it’s off by a hair.
A garment bag rustles. “Blue or black?” she calls.
“Blue.” Her eyes are extraordinary when she wears blue.
A minute later she taps my shoulder. I face her. Navy dress. Bare throat. My ring on her finger. I fix the clasp at her nape and smooth the line down her spine with two fingers, slow. I steal another kiss, deeper this time, thumb under her jaw to tip her face to mine.
“You’re staring,” she says.
“At you?” I grab her coat, her bag, and place them on the bed.
“Always.” I shrug out of my jacket, slip the red tie free, and reach for the midnight blazer.
I trade the white shirt for an open-collar black one and ditch the tie.
I slide a navy silk square into the pocket to match her dress.
Dark, close-cut denim. Black belt. Chelsea boots.
I pick up my knife and arrange the weight on my hip until it sits right, fasten the single button, and turn back to her.
She searches my face, the lightness thinning. “You have left me,” she says, quietly.
“I know darling,” I tell her, knowing I can’t guarantee it won’t ever happen again. “But, no more silence while I’m away.”
Her shoulders ease a notch. “Promise?”
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” I say, and kiss her knuckles. “This one, I can keep.”
“We match,” she says, tapping the silk. I draw her in and kiss her until her fingers curl in my lapel and the room goes quiet around us.
“Let’s go,” I murmur against her mouth. “I have a surprise for you.” I help her into her coat, take her bag, and do one last sweep to check windows, latches, and lights. I lock the door to our room and the front door and then rest my palm at the small of her back all the way to the car.
Outside, daylight thins to copper and heat lifts off the asphalt in sighs.
Kids lick the last of their ice cream on the curb while a bachelorette troop in colored sashes trades sunglasses for lashes.
Valets start their whistles. You can feel the click when Vegas pulls on its second skin—sequins and shadow, bright smile, sharp teeth just behind it.
The first neon pops; more follow like dominoes. The Strip inhales cold casino air out the doors and the sidewalks pick up a new kind of footstep. The day promises you you’re still you; the night offers an alias and swears it won’t tell.
Melinda watches the switch with editor eyes, catching where truth leaks through. I watch her watching it.
Mirage waits ahead, red script and gold smoke warming to full glow. I pull to the curb, kill the engine, and step out first. I open her door before the marquee can finish its wink. My hand finds the small of her back again.
We step through the doors. Mirage smells like orange oil on polished wood, warm lights, a nick of lingering cigarette, champagne fizz, and the faint sweet of baby powder and hairspray.
Amber lamps throw soft halos; a blue wash sleeps on the main curtain.
Pinspots blink like star maps across the ceiling.
“Evening, Mr. Ashenheart, Mrs. Ashenheart, welcome in.” The host drops the rope.
At the rail, security nods. A bartender clocks us mid-shake and lifts his chin, tins clapping shut like applause.
Vince, the stage manager, touches his earpiece and slides off stage-left.
Alma, the general manager, gives the smallest chin lift, and the lane opens like the room decided to move around us instead of the other way.
After I dropped Lindy from lunch, I came straight here.
I met with Alma first and then fired anyone she flagged as an issue.
Everyone left was told their job depends on their ability to listen to Melinda, that her word isn’t ever to be tested, and that it always outranks mine.
The days I was gone I was on a job, but I could’ve been home before Tuesday.
I wanted to walk the floors before tonight, sit with every staff member one by one, and make sure every blind spot is mapped, every corner visible by camera.
I needed to know there wasn’t a single man here that’d make her flinch, not a single woman who’d be left unsupported.
I should’ve told her. I should’ve come home. That guilt rides shotgun.
But tonight I’m putting the keys in her hand. Mirage is hers. If I did any of this right, the not-coming-home and the silence will be worth the look on her face. I want to build a city where doors open before she touches them.
I kept my name off the paperwork, but Vegas isn’t stupid. The Ashenheart rumor mill, like the city, never sleeps. The people here don’t have to believe it when they hear the whispers about me, ghost, fixer, killer, they just have to fear the possibility of its accuracy enough to stay in line.
Onstage, the feather fans breathe with the band. Plumes shiver on the snare, then glide with the bass. They sweep up to hide a smile, break at the wrist, and pour down a hip. One bare shoulder leads, bare spines answer, and the fans follow every movement like they’re sewn to the dancers’ bones.
Behind the bar, citrus peels come off in long ribbons; a bottle upends in a clean six-count; a bartender mouths an order across the counter and gets it back without a spoken word.
Steam curls up from fresh ice. A flame kisses an orange twist and the oil snaps in the air.
Coupe glasses fog at the rim; a strainer hisses; tins crack and pour.
Every table has its own little sun: a low amber lamp with a silk shade. The light pools perfectly on black lacquer tables while brass RESERVED tents catch the glow. Velvet banquettes curve along the walls, and a mirrored column throws back a hundred little constellations of sequins and glass.