Chapter 10 #2
Snatching it from him, I scanned the page.
It was the invoice for our weekly liquor order—cases of whiskey and vodka, tequila, rum, liqueurs, and champagne for the high rollers—each line adding up to a figure that made my stomach lurch.
At the bottom, the “Received by” line bore a messy yet unmistakable scrawl.
Maslow Umbric.
My lip curled in a snarl as I spun toward Rush.
“Who let that bloated bastard…”
Again, my statement petered out as logic kicked in.
Who let Maslow into the space outside the club? The broad daylight? The empty unguarded parking lot?
Who let him sign for a liquor shipment on the exact day and hour he’d always known to expect it?
And who had not thought to inform our supplier that Maslow was no longer involved in the Dollhouse’s operations?
The fault for that last one landed far too close to home.
My teeth clicked together in a hard bite.
The door we’d exited through swung out again, and Beck joined us in the lot. His tie hung askew, and his gelled hair was mussed, details that might have amused me if I hadn’t been so consumed with the horror of everything else.
“All hells,” Beck muttered, surveying the wreckage until his gaze snagged on the paper in my hand. “What’s that?”
I passed the order over while feeling simultaneously ashamed and enraged. “A love note from our favorite parasite.”
Beck skimmed the page, and his mouth hardened when he hit the bottom line. “Maz.”
“Signed his name big enough you could see it from orbit,” I grumbled. “Much like his ego.”
Refolding the invoice, Beck passed it back to Rush. “Call the supplier. Tell them we expect a refund.”
Rush shook his head. “We’ve got no grounds for that. As far as they’re concerned, we took ownership the moment Maslow signed. Whatever happened afterward is on us.”
Beck’s jaw flexed. “Then tell them we need a redelivery. Today. Nonnegotiable.”
Rush gave a brisk nod and retreated into the club, leaving me standing with Beck in the wreckage while evaporating liquor rode heatwaves through the air.
I could have apologized. Maybe should have. But I wasn’t quite ready to own this.
My ascent to club manager had been swift, and my descent could be equally sudden.
Beck had only been in charge for a few weeks, and while things were better under him, that didn’t erase the years of rot that came before.
I was still proving myself. Showing him I had value and that I could be trusted.
Taking the blame for something this obvious—a detail as simple as wiping Maslow’s name off the books—didn’t make me look responsible. It made me look careless. It was exactly the kind of short-sighted mistake that could fissure the fragile ground I stood on.
Beck ambled forward, circling the pile of ruin and doubtless wondering what had caused such a mess. I would bet Maslow had his hellhound bruisers take a couple of baseball bats to it. Shattering glass and our profit margin in one fell swoop.
With his hands in his pockets and his Derby shoes toeing at the crumpled corners of the boxes, Beck cut a somber figure. Silence stretched, and my tail swished in a restless arc until the higher demon spoke.
“We need to change our delivery protocol. No more standing orders. No more routine drop times. Everything gets confirmed by us directly.”
I nodded, though the motion felt stiff. “Rush’ll hate the extra phone calls.”
“He’ll make them anyway,” Beck retorted. “And security needs to be in the loop. No shipment left unattended.” His gaze cut to me, yellow eyes narrow. “Does the new guy know about Maslow?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll have Coll fill him in,” Beck said. “He can’t guard against something he doesn’t understand.”
Glancing at the smashed boxes, I envisioned Mercer’s body in their place, leaking blood instead of booze.
He was an average, human guy—Marine status notwithstanding—and I wasn’t certain knowledge alone would equip him to handle the pair of devilish brutes who used to bar the Dollhouse’s door.
They’d take him apart, bone by bone, and then they would come for the rest of us.
“Darby.” Beck’s voice freed me from thought. “It’s fine. Just a few bottles.”
I looked at the melting mountain of boxes and the puddles soaking into the concrete. One shipment was recoverable. Replaceable. But behind every crate I saw faces—Oz, Colt, Callum, Zephyr, and Elliot—broken already and barely on the mend.
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Just bottles.”
Beck tipped his head, studying me for a beat, then shoved his hands deeper into his slacks pockets and strode off to start making calls.
When the heavy door closed behind him, I rolled up my sleeves.
This mess needed clearing before we opened tonight, and before the other dolls saw it.
They worried enough about Maslow returning and about Beck’s takeover being too good to last. Nights were still a little rough.
Wide-eyed looks cast toward windows. Whispers traded in the wings.
Zephyr might have had unwavering faith in his new Daddy, but the rest of us were more reluctant to trust.
So I cleaned up. Lugged box after box to the dumpsters until my arms ached and my clothes were soaked and reeking. Then with a broom and dustpan, I swept glass into piles and carried it away too.
But even when the carnage was gone, the truth clung to me: bottles could be replaced, people could not.