Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
Darby
Dust motes drifted through the beams of the stage lights, sparkling in the air around where Oz stood locked in stern concentration. Smiles would come later, after the moves were muscle memory and practice had scraped away the rough edges. But for now, we were working.
As the first of the dolls to catch wind of my grand reopening scheme, Oz had been tapped for the top spot in the lineup. Zephyr was tasked with keeping Club Daddy busy while everyone else gathered to knock the rust off before I took this idea all the way to the top.
We’d barely begun our first dress rehearsal, and I was already having regrets.
There was a reason the twins opened every night.
Colt was easier to manage after he’d burned off some energy and downed a few beers.
With a set under his belt, he was halfway to civilized.
This afternoon, though, he was wide awake, stone-cold sober, and parked in the chair next to me, playing backseat driver while Oz tried to find his rhythm.
“Shake it like you mean it!” Colt bellowed. “Ain’t nobody payin’ for half a shimmy!”
“Keep it down!” Callum hissed then threw an elbow that made his brother grunt.
Cupping a hand to my mouth, I called toward the stage. “Keep going, Ozzy! We don’t stop for hecklers.” My scowl at Colt caused him to swell with indignation.
“Heckler?” he scoffed. “I’m providin’ direction! Ain’t no different than what you’re doin’.” He tipped his head back so he could peer down his nose at the pad of paper I was filling with notes.
Without the hum of the sound system or the roar of a crowd, the room had an echoing emptiness. The squeak of Oz’s shoes on the stage was the loudest sound, punctuated by the occasional thump of a chair leg as someone shifted in the audience.
The big guy was giving it his all, though.
His suit coat slid off one shoulder, catching on his elbow before he flung it away with theatrical flair.
He rolled his hips while unbuttoning his vest then yanking it wide.
A pair of glittery gold suspenders strained across his bare chest. Snagging one strap, he snapped it against his pec then sank into a low grind that made the twins hoot.
I scribbled on my clipboard: “Suspenders stay. Shoes go.” The wingtips gave him too much of a tap-dancer vibe, and I wanted vampy, not Vaudeville.
At least the rest of the outfit was cute.
In keeping with the game night theme, we’d be starting the evening dressed as the murder suspects from Clue. With his rich, red hair, Zephyr was a natural Miss Scarlett, and Oz made for a bold Colonel Mustard in a suit so yellow it turned his blond mop to gold.
Elliot looked sour as Mister Green, sulking with his arms folded in a booth on the wall. Despite the attitude, I counted it as a victory getting him out of his room. He never missed a shift, but he’d been more reclusive than usual these past few days. Processing, I figured.
Colt and Callum were standing in as Mister Peacock and Professor Plum respectively.
My attempts to cajole Colt into drag were met with a hard no, so we did what Oz had informed me was a “gender bent” outfit.
I was still mourning the smart blue pencil skirt I had picked out for him, and he was lamenting the loss of his trademark cowboy boots.
I, of course, would be Missus White. My closet already boasted half a dozen flavors of French maid chic, but I decided to add another, along with a plump feather duster. Stage prop tonight, sensory toy tomorrow. A few of my clients had a fondness for tickling.
A shadow fell over my notepad as Colt stepped in front of me, thumbs hooked in the waistband of his shiny blue tearaways. When I glanced up, he yanked his pants down to expose the sequined strap cutting across his hips.
“This G-string is creepin’ up my ass,” he whined. “Pretty sure you gave me Cal’s by mistake.”
“You wear the same size,” I muttered then leaned around him toward the stage, squinting at the way Oz’s heel landed offbeat on the down step. If he didn’t fix his footwork now, it would drive me insane later.
“Maybe your ass is getting fat, cowboy.”
The sound of Elliot’s voice caused my head to snap his way. The cherry of his cigarette was a tiny flare in the otherwise dim room.
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Elliot, put that out, please.”
He made a low sound in his throat—half scoff, half sigh—then plucked the cigarette from his lips and ground it out against the tabletop.
Colt spun around to present his backside to the grumpy goth, then slapped it with a pop that echoed in the empty club. “It ain’t fat; it’s juicy like a Georgia peach. But I wouldn’t expect a skinny bitch like you to appreciate that.”
Elliot rolled his eyes while I scribbled “Heel placement” in my notes.
Colt swung back around to me, still fidgeting with his waistband. “I mean it, Darb. This thing is climbin’ higher than a Sunday choir note.”
I sighed and added another memo: “Recheck twins’ fittings.” At this rate, we’d need another round of adjustments or maybe a gag to keep Colt quiet until curtain call.
Better than a gag, a chore. If there was no dancing to wear him out, I could at least send him on a fetch quest.
“Colt, honey?” I gave my eyelashes a flutter. “I think I left my tape measure on my dressing table. Can you grab it for me?”
He frowned, clearly keen to my dismissal, then muttered, “Yeah, I got it.”
Off he trudged, tugging at his underwear and wriggling his hips. I shook my head, amused despite myself.
Colt was barely out of sight before Rush skirted into view, cutting along the side of the stage. Lean and wiry with his long black hair tied in a messy bun and his sleeves rolled up, he moved like every second mattered.
Down the row, Callum perked up. He ruffled one hand through the wavy brown hair at the base of his horns while the other clenched on his knee. The shy smile he aimed at Rush piqued my interest.
As if that weren’t obvious enough, Callum waited until the bartender was in earshot before freeing his hand to wave.
“Hey, Rush.”
The bartender slowed, and something fond slipped across his face. “Hi, Callum.”
My attention bounced between them, watching Callum’s cheeks darken until Rush finally dragged his eyes my way.
“Darby, have you seen Beck?”
I jerked a thumb toward the second-level office where the privacy blinds were drawn tight. “He’s feeding Zeph some lunch. Why?”
Rush’s jaw ticked. “We might need to loop him in on this. There’s a mess outside. A fucking massive one.”
“I’ll get him,” Callum offered.
I was tempted to make a comment about him wanting to stay and make eyes at Rush a while longer, but I bit that back and said instead, “Knock first.”
Callum blushed redder then bobbed his head.
“Tell him to meet us out back,” Rush advised.
With another wobbly nod, Callum made his getaway.
Oz’s number was wrapping up, which made Rush’s timing impeccable. The bartender stood by while I offloaded my clipboard onto a neighboring chair, then stood and swept my hands down my velour shorts.
“Ellie, you’re up next,” I called toward the corner booth. “Go ahead and get started. I’m not sure how long I’ll be.”
With a grunt, Elliot hauled himself to his feet, fussing with the sleeves of his emerald rayon suit. The material was cheap, but it had the sheen I couldn’t match with anything else. I already knew when the spotlights hit him, my grumpy baby was going to glow.
“I’m gonna fall on my ass,” Elliot groused as he walked toward the stage. “Or on my head. Got no fucking grip in this monkey suit.” He shrugged his shoulders, and his tail gave an agitated shiver.
“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got that cute cummerbund and hot pants on underneath,” I replied.
Elliot puffed a breath up into the inky fringe of his hair. “‘Cute’ and ‘cummerbund’ are two words that should never exist in the same sentence. Or on my body.” He slid a thumb under the folded fabric around his waist and gave it a tug. “Feels like I’m wearing a fucking girdle.”
“Then ditch it.” I grinned. “Throw it into the crowd. Make the ladies scream. I trust your instincts.” I gave his outfit a final once-over, hesitating on the black leather fingerless gloves that would have looked better on a biker than on a snappy State Department employee.
“While you’re at it, lose the gloves too,” I told him.
Elliot’s shoulders came up, and he clenched his fists like I might try to yank the gloves off him. “I need them.”
“For what?”
He scowled, and his eyes blazed red. Paired with the all-green ensemble, the crimson glow was almost festive. Like a pissed off Christmas tree.
When I only shrugged, he snapped, “Unless you’re gonna hike your skirt and get on the pole, then maybe you should leave me to it.”
“Darby?” Rush stood by, patiently waiting for me to answer his summons. He didn’t usually interrupt rehearsal unless… Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember a time he’d interrupted rehearsal at all, which renewed my sense of urgency.
I wished Elliot good luck then hurried after the bartender as he led the way toward the rear of the building.
The Dollhouse had two back doors. One was the designated smoke hole, and the other branched off the bar area and was largely reserved for receiving supply shipments. That was where Rush took me, shouldering ahead through the heavy steel door and letting in a blast of daylight.
Outside, the narrow edge of the parking lot curved around, creating enough space for a delivery truck.
There was no truck, though, just a patch of blistering asphalt and stacks of what had once been boxes.
Now they slumped like ruined sandcastles, sagging and disintegrating under the tide of liquor that bled from their seams, melting the cardboard to pulp.
Beneath them, puddles spread across the pavement.
“What the hell…” My words trailed off as I took in the wreckage.
Rush reached into his pocket, drew out a folded sheet of paper, and flicked it open with a snap. “This was taped to the door.”