Chapter 5
CHAPTER
FIVE
Mercer
Calling Luxe to set up an interview felt like cashing in a favor I wasn’t owed, so I didn’t. Instead, I pulled my Victory High-Ball into the lot outside the Devil’s Dollhouse and parked. Then I sat. And sat some more.
The two-story building was made of black-painted brick and lacked much in the way of curb appeal. If not for the towering neon sign angled toward the Boulevard, I might have missed it entirely.
I’d printed a copy of my résumé at the Basilica before clocking out. It was stashed in my saddlebag, probably bent at the edges by now, but the information was still current, considering I’d used it to land the casino job a matter of months ago.
The setting sun was painting the pavement in gold, and I figured I had an hour or so before the club opened. Just enough time to catch a manager on-site. Preferably someone other than the sharp-tongued little demon who might have been expecting my visit.
I swung off the bike and pulled my helmet free then stowed it in my saddlebag after pulling out my résumé. The paper was, indeed, a bit worse for wear, so I flattened it against my thigh to smooth out the worst of the wrinkles. Then I crossed the lot.
Since my return to Vegas, I’d avoided this side of the Strip, not wanting to explain to my bosses why I was rubbing elbows with hellish company. That feeling was exacerbated when I reached the Dollhouse’s doors and found them painted black and adorned with a demon’s bright red silhouette.
I scanned for an intercom or buzzer but found nothing. Just me and the devil’s front door. So I knocked.
If no one answered, I would take it as a sign. An excuse, at least, to give Antonella. To delay this until she changed her mind. But I’d barely waited a beat before the door cracked open and a blonde woman’s head popped out.
Winged eyeliner sharpened her gaze as she scanned me from head to toe.
“Bonjour,” she greeted.
“Bonjour,” I echoed.
Her brows shot up, and a glimmer of interest flashed across her face. “Parlez-vous francais?”
“Oh… no,” I admitted while kicking myself mentally. My single year of high school French had not prepared me for anything resembling conversation.
“Ah.” As quickly as her interest had appeared, it evaporated. She leaned a little more into the doorway, unimpressed now. “What can I do for you?”
“I was referred here for the security position?” I wasn’t about to mention Luxe. Surely the job was posted somewhere. No need to bring up my contentious encounter with a member of their staff.
When the woman didn’t respond, I thrust out my résumé and added, “I was told you were hiring.”
Her head rocked back in an exaggerated nod then she gave me another once-over.
I probably should’ve changed out of my work uniform before showing up here.
I’d spent so much time worrying what Antonella and the Basilica crew would think of me crossing to the infernal side of the street, it hadn’t occurred to me that the demons might feel the same.
Was this woman a demon, though?
Without horns curling from her head or a tail flicking somewhere behind that door, I could only assume she was human. Though with the way she looked at me, I wasn’t sure.
Taking the offered résumé, she skimmed over it. “Je m’appelle Colette,” she said while folding the paper and tucking it into her slacks pocket. “Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur James.”
“Likewise.”
She glanced over her shoulder then stepped back and swung the door open wider.
“Would you like to come inside?” she asked.
Her accent was pronounced, but she was clearly far more comfortable with English than I was with French.
“The best part of my job is only having to stand outside after dark,” she added, already pivoting back into the building. “The sun is a cruel bitch.”
My attention caught on the revolver nestled under her right arm, snug in a shoulder holster.
It wasn’t unusual—every security officer in the city carried some kind of firearm—but where most favored sleek, modern pieces, hers looked like solid, no-nonsense steel.
Practical. Reliable. Much like its owner, I suspected.
“Yes. Thank you,” I replied in answer to her initial question, then fell in behind her.
The shift in atmosphere hit the second the door closed. Outside was noise, heat, and neon. Inside the club, the air was cool and dim and startlingly quiet.
Colette led the way down the short entry hall that opened into the club’s main room.
Tables and chairs were scattered across the floor, and curved booths lined the perimeter walls. Overhead, the ceiling dipped and swooped in artful arches painted deep crimson, catching the low light and giving everything a hellfire sheen.
It seemed a bit haunted. Full and empty all at once. There was no one else in sight. No dancers or other members of staff, but I could almost hear the echo of heels on the stage and feel the phantom bassline under my skin.
Colette cut across the floor toward the bar.
Situated on the right wall, it was a sleek, sprawling stretch of dark wood and burnished metal, and the bottles behind it gleamed like trophies.
There, I spotted the bartender, a South Asian man who moved so quietly he could have been a ghost. He had a notepad in hand and looked to be taking inventory.
Like Colette, he easily passed as human. Average height, slim build, and with no otherworldly accoutrements. Though his dark eyes did assess me as Colette and I straddled barstools, and he raised a brow in mute interest.
Still without a word, he set his notepad and pen on the bar and turned to start making a drink. Since I hadn’t ordered anything, I could only assume he was fixing something for Colette.
Colette reached across, snatched the bartender’s abandoned notepad, and clicked the pen.
I straightened my back, speech at the ready.
It was the same introduction that had made Antonella’s eyes gleam.
It enumerated all my tours, deployments, and commendations.
Antonella loved the ribbons, the awards I had buried in my spare bedroom closet.
She loved what they meant while I only saw them as reminders of who I’d been.
Who I wasn’t anymore. Who I never would be again.
The woman sitting across from me now didn’t look like she gave a damn about ribbons. She leaned back on the stool, legs crossed, notepad held aloft and pen twirling between her fingers.
“All right, Monsieur James,” she began.
“Just Mercer is fine,” I cut in, quicker than I should’ve. I would never have dared correct Antonella like that.
She paused with the pen in midair. Then she jotted something onto the notepad.
It was probably nothing. A reminder. But the slight tilt of her head and the way she tapped the pen once before looking up again made me second-guess whether I’d already failed.
Her expression remained impassive as she moved on.
“You’re stationed at the front door,” she said. “A bachelorette party shows up. They’ve brought many penises. Some are being worn as hats. What do you do?”
My mouth fell open.
My practiced speech went out the window.
I’d expected her to ask about my employment history. My strengths or weaknesses. My reasons for applying. Instead, I had a question for her.
“You mean like… human penises?”
She waved me off. “Any kind of penises. But many. What would you do?”
“Uh. Confiscate… them?”
She made a noncommittal noise and scribbled something. “Interesting,” she said.
The bartender slid a glass toward her, and she lifted it for a sip while I cleared my throat.
“I served ten years in the Marines. Five tours overseas. Led a squad through—”
“Mercer,” she interrupted, brown eyes flicking up. “A man dressed as a banana is trying to start a fight with another man dressed as a gorilla. They are both very drunk. What do you do?”
“Separate them?” I tried. “Get backup if needed?”
Another scribble followed by a mumbled, “Mmhmm.”
I shifted on the stool.
This must have been a joke.
A gag.
Was I being pranked?
If I hadn’t been sent here and told to do this, I might have walked out.
But even if this was satire to Colette, it was serious to me.
I was more than qualified to watch the door at any club on either side of the Strip.
Few civilians could pose the kind of threat I’d dealt with in the Middle East on a near-daily basis.
I could handle this job, and I could handle this interview, if that’s what it actually was.
Puffing out my chest, I indicated the résumé stashed in her pocket.
“I have experience de-escalating volatile situations in combat zones. Hostile environments. High-pressure scenarios—”
“Next question,” she cut in. “You’re working a private event. A guest offers you five hundred dollars to arm-wrestle him in the VIP suite.” She plucked the straw from her drink, swirled it, then took a sip. Over the rim of her glass, she told the bartender, “This is quite good.”
I glanced between them, waiting for her to circle back to the point. She didn’t.
“Is it against policy to take the money?” I asked slowly. “Like… isn’t that considered a bribe?”
She didn’t smile. Didn’t even twitch. “You know where you are, yes? You saw the sign?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “This is not the kind of place to make decisions based on ethics.”
Neither was the Basilica.
It was impossible not to compare the two.
While the Dollhouse flaunted its demons and dripped sin from its walls, the Basilica wrapped its corruption in white-feathered wings.
I’d expected more from the angels. A standard. A code. Something worth pledging allegiance to. But all I found were pretty lies and savage smiles. That was why the other guards felt so free to take liberties when Luxe wandered onto our turf. They weren’t bound by ethics. Neither was Antonella.
At least Colette was honest about it.
“I would politely decline,” I told her. “Suggest he spend that five hundred at the bar.”
I gave a nod toward the bartender in a subtle attempt to garner some approval. His responding frown was brief but definitive. Message received.
Colette made another scribble on her notepad. “I see.”
This situation was slipping through my fingers like a bad op. I leaned forward, doubling down on my efforts to salvage it. “I’m trained in multiple forms of hand-to-hand combat. I can handle high-threat individuals. I’ve got leadership skills. Logistics. Security planning. I’m reliable.”
Colette clicked her pen shut with a snap. “Last scenario. A dancer is on fire. Literally. They are not concerned about this, but guests are starting to panic. What’s your move?”
I stared. “Is this… a common occurrence?”
She raised a brow. “It’s a Tuesday occurrence.”
In the corner of my view, the bartender gave an emphatic nod.
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Had to say something. “Direct them somewhere less visible? Maybe… try a fire extinguisher?”
She hummed. Made notes. I foresaw myself being blacklisted not only as an employee, but a customer as well. All because I hadn’t known the correct protocol for dealing with penis hats and spontaneously combusting dancers.
I was fully prepared to accept my dismissal with grace when Colette set the notepad down and extended her hand.
“Congratulations, Monsieur Mercer,” she said. “You’re hired.”
My gaze darted from her waiting hand to the pad of paper lying open on the bar.
Doodles. A whole page of them. Cartoon devils bathed in flames, a surprisingly good sketch of a martini glass, and what I thought was an old wooden guillotine.
No notes.
No “interesting” observations.
Just doodles.
My gaze lifted from the notepad to her warm brown eyes. “I… What?”
Rather than wait for me to shake, she grabbed my hand and gave it a brisk pump. “You are now the overseer of a pack of underdressed disaster men.”
She released me, and I looked at the notepad again, still dazed. “Was that the whole interview?”
Colette tilted her head, considering. “Would you like me to come up with more questions? I’m certain I can think of something.”
That snapped me back fast. I was already half off the barstool before she finished the sentence. “That’s not necessary. Thank you for the opportunity.”
While I scrambled, she stood as well, bringing her drink with her. “There’s bound to be paperwork of some sort. You can fill it out tonight when you come back for your shift.”
“Tonight?”
“Doors open in an hour,” she said then aimed a targeted look at my chest. “That should give you time to find something else to wear.”
I looked down at my uniform and the Basilica badge stitched right above my heart, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
She started to turn but paused. Her head tilted just enough to catch me in her peripheral. “Monsieur Mercer, this has been fun,” she said, voice still light but with an edge I hadn’t noticed before. “But I don’t play games when it comes to my boys’ safety.”
Pivoting, she faced me fully, and for the first time, I caught the flicker of something not entirely human in her dark eyes.
“Let anything happen to them,” she continued, “and I will personally drag you to Hell.”
Despite the threat of fire and brimstone, the temperature in the room seemed to drop.
I straightened. “Understood.”
Colette stepped around me and clapped a hand on my shoulder as she passed. “Good man,” she praised.
Then she strode off, leaving me standing in the middle of the Devil’s Dollhouse, employed, unprepared, and already in way over my head.