Chapter 18 #2
Servers, men and women, move like choreography.
Satin waistcoats, black hosiery, slick shoes.
Trays ride high on one palm, loaded with highball glasses and narrow flutes; the other hand drops a black napkin with the gold M, then the glass, then the smile, all in one motion.
They pivot on a heel, reload their tray, skim lemon and lime from the bowls at the bar, and never break their count.
Melinda’s eyes drink and measure. Heat lifts under her skin, and the room’s pulse finds hers.
Goosebumps kiss her arms and there’s a flicker in her eyes that I’d bet money is wondering am I allowed to love this much heat?
She decides she is and if I didn’t already adore her, the look on her face now would do the trick.
The sex here lives out in the open. The rawness we all beg for in secret but rarely have the nerve to ask for screams within these walls.
She’s in love with the high and trying to fight it.
“It’s okay to love it,” I whisper, kissing her temple.
Melinda’s eyes flick to mine, ignoring that for now. “They know you, me, by name?”
“Part of your surprise,” I say, easy, and keep moving, steering us to the corner table that sees everything. Water arrives without a word. My arm rests along the back of the seat, palm close enough to touch while the room keeps breathing with her.
“I bought it,” I say.
She takes her eyes off the stage and plants them on me. “You what?”
I take the black folio with the Ashenheart seal pressed deep from my jacket. Keys on a brass ring. Two keycards. Codes.
“This is a transfer of control,” I tell her, voice low. “The club’s fully operational as you know. My name never touches it. You don’t owe me an hour or a dollar. You can sit in a corner with a book and let it sing to you, or you can run it, book the acts, rewrite the rules. Your call.”
She studies the keys, then me. “Why?”
“Because my father put a studio in my mother’s name once.
It’s a warehouse we use for poker now,” I say.
“The only thing of hers he didn’t try to control.
” I tap the folio. “I’m not him. I hated him.
But I kept one lesson from him; if you love a woman, you put the keys in her hand.
Don’t keep a spare. Don’t ask for them back.
I’m possessive, yes, but not of this. I want you anchored somewhere that’s yours, money and all.
If you walk tomorrow, Mirage still belongs to you. ”
Her fingers hover. “Cassius…”
“It belongs to you,” I repeat. “No matter what you decide about us in the future I won’t take this from you. In fact, my cousin, Eland, made sure I can’t.”
“What if I ruin it?”
“Not possible.” I slide the folio into her hands. “You love this place down to its bones. Things you love like that are never ordinary. Besides, you already bent the air in here. She'll behave for you. This only goes one way. Exceptional.”
I slide one key off the ring, for the manager’s suite, and press it into her palm.
“House rules are yours,” I tell her. “Adrian and his head of security, Mavik, will run your cameras. You’ll have live and logs. He’ll set it up so you can override his view whenever you want. Mavik will put an app on your phone.”
She blinks, lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “Okay. Rules… No touching the dancers without their permission.” Her eyes cut to the room. “And no cameras in the dressing rooms or bathrooms unless cleared with them first.”
“Anything else?” I ask. “You don’t have to have them all right now.”
“And can we—” she wets her lip, thinking fast. “Security walks the girls to their cars?”
“Currently, they offer to walk them.”
“I want that to be mandatory.”
“Mandatory,” I echo. “The lighting will always be maintained. Cameras will follow to the curb. Adrian, well Ashenheart Defense Agency, can log every plate in and out of this place if that’s what you want. We’ll take Mirage on as a client.”
She exhales, smiling because she can’t help it.
“Whatever breathes in this building answers to you.”
“Does that include you?”
“I don’t answer to anyone.” I slide my palm to the nape of her neck. “Except you. I’ll fight the world and bow at your feet.”
I slide out of my chair and go down on one knee beside our table.
I take her hand and kiss her knuckles, head bowed.
A snare whispers; the standup bass answers with a slow, dirty walk.
The gold curtain shivers, then glides. Light crawls up from the floor.
The dancers are set in a V, their silhouettes clean against the velvet.
Feather fans pop once and fold. Sequins flare like stars.
A trumpet snakes in low and mean and the room lets go of its breath.
Melinda’s fingers hook the table’s edge and hold. A laugh slips out and turns into a grin she can’t swallow. She tips toward the downbeat, eyes bright, lips parted.
I don’t watch the stage; it’s her face I came for. She’s lit from the inside, every nerve saying yes. The curtain keeps opening—more light, more color—and she doesn’t look away. Right now she belongs to this room as much as it belongs to her.
“Say it,” I murmur against her skin.
Her fingers tighten around mine. A flush climbs her throat, equal parts shock and thrill.
“Rise, Cassius.”
I do. Because she said so.
I keep her hand and help her up. “Come see your office,” I tell her.
Up the stairs sits a fairly large manager suite with windows as a wall on one side, showing a phenomenal view of the city.
I kept the inside simple. Dark-walnut desk.
A leather couch. Built-in bookshelves along the interior wall, already holding a few things that matter: These Is My Words next to Shogun, spine to spine, dead center.
An espresso setup complete with grinder, machine, and cups.
“I don’t know how much time you’ll spend up here,” I say, watching her take it in, “but I wanted you to like it.”
She goes to the books first, like I knew she would, touching the spines.
“Next door is the general manager’s office.
The corner room is for the stage manager.
Opposite that is security. You’ll find your camera screens, radios, and incident logs there.
Bartenders and dancers have their own breakrooms down the service hall near the back exit.
There’s a big fridge, lockers, and showers in each. ”
I motion for her to set the folio on the desk and turn the signature page so it faces her. “There’s no clock on this,” I tell her. “We can walk back downstairs and watch the show and do this tomorrow. Or next week.” I don’t say never, because signed or not Mirage belongs to her.
She stands very still. Fingers skim the window, the couch, the two books on the shelf, touchstones in her life that need order for her to breathe.
The bass from the floor hums up through the joists.
She presses her thumb to the wedding band on her hand, then to the These Is My Words spine, like she’s checking which vow came first.
This is the second contract she’s signed with me. The first made us married. This one makes her owner. Control, but on her terms this time.
I ease closer, keep my hands at my sides. “Tell me what’s going on up there.” I lightly kiss her temple then step back.
Her mouth lifts, then steadies. “I came to Vegas to be brave,” she says.
“To prove I could be alone and not…come apart. And in a blink I’m married, there are men and women everywhere I look who answer to you, and now this place that I—” her eyes flick to the door—“that I already love. I’m happy.
I’m terrified. If it all disappeared tomorrow, I don’t know what would be left of me.
I don’t know if I’m strong enough to stand by myself.
I don’t want to be ashamed of wanting this. ”
I nod at the door. “Use Mirage to practice being unapologetic. This place doesn’t report to me. If you need a room that’s not mine, this is it. Your editing work is yours, too. I won’t touch it.”
She searches my face. “And you?”
“My worst fear is you walking away. So I’m not going to pretend I don’t need you.
And you can need me and still be brave. If you need space, I’ll give it to you no matter how much I hate it.
You asked for more communication when I’m away; I’ll give you that.
” I tap the keycard reader. “Your key can lock me out of this building. You own me as much as this place. Don’t you see that? ”
Her shoulders unhook a notch. She looks at the pen like it might bite. Counts—five in, seven hold, five out—and signs in a neat, deliberate hand.
I call Adrian and though he doesn’t greet me, he answers before the second ring.
“Adrian, Melinda is good to be on everything with full owner access.”
“Already done,” he says in my ear. “Mavik’s working on the cams now and she should see that app pop up before tomorrow morning.”
“Good. Thanks,” I say and hang up.
We head back downstairs. Alma meets us at the aisle.
“Alma, this is Melinda,” I say. “Melinda, Alma is your general manager.”
Alma’s mouth curves. “Congratulations on your new business. Calendar’s tight through April. Monthly expenses and reports can be on your desk whenever you want them.”
“Monday,” Melinda answers, a little breathless, a lot sure. “For the past three months.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Alma steps aside.
Off her shoulder is Vince.
“Vince,” I nod. “Stage stays yours unless she says otherwise.”
“Yes sir,” Vince says. “I’ve got a Christmas theme I think you’ll love, Mrs. Ashenheart.”
To his right stands Mateo Ortiz. Beside him is his shadow, Colin Ward.
“Melinda, Ortiz and Colin work for Ashenheart Defense. They’ll run the security systems with Adrian and the bouncers unless you say otherwise,” I say.
Melinda glances at me and then at Ortiz. “I want the dancers escorted to their cars. Every time. I don’t care if you have to bring in more staff.”
“Every time,” Ortiz echoes.