Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
Darby
After five years of working at the Dollhouse, the boys and I had our routines down pat, and not just the dancing kind. My favorite by far was the after-hours nosh we called the Backstage Banquet.
Banquet was often an overstatement. Most nights it was a group raid on the fridge and pantry, then leftovers and packaged snacks spread out in a hodgepodge buffet.
Ozzy was a miracle in the kitchen, though, so lately I’d taken to scheduling his last set earlier in the evening.
That way he could duck out, don a pair of oven mitts, and work his magic over the stove instead of the stage.
Tonight was one such lucky occasion. He wore an apron printed with an oiled, musclebound torso that looked suspiciously like his own. He’d also changed into sweats and gone shirtless, so the illusion worked from all angles.
He cranked a pepper mill into a steaming pot while the rest of us waited at the dining table.
To my right, Elliot hunched over a square of origami paper, fingers forming quick, precise folds.
He always showered the second he stepped offstage, so now he was clean and casual in a hoodie and joggers with his black hair damp and glossy.
The twins were decidedly less fastidious. They shared a seat—Callum wriggling in Colt’s lap while holding a book aloft. Colt sprawled, stripped down to fringed chaps, a thong, and his hat. Callum was only slightly more modest in a pair of denim cutoffs and a neckerchief.
After another bout of squirming, Callum settled in with his back against Colt’s chest while Colt peered over his shoulder at the book. His interest waned after a few seconds, and he took to nibbling Callum’s ear instead, making his brother giggle and twitch.
Beside them, Zephyr rolled a lollipop around in his mouth while studying Elliot’s paper creation in progress. Since moving out, the incubus did his showering at home, which I refused to believe was anything other than an excuse to get hot and soapy in Beck’s proximity.
The oven door swung open, and Oz pulled out a baking sheet that he whisked over to the table, where a trivet was already laid out.
“Hot pan!” he announced.
Callum closed his book, and Elliot tucked his paper away as Oz returned to the range to grab a pot of mashed potatoes and slide it in alongside the baking sheet.
I recognized the potatoes, topped with diced chives and a pat of butter, but the crispy, brown and beige discs on the pan were less easily identified.
Colt must have thought the same because he jabbed a finger at them.
“What the fuck are those?”
Oz peeled off his mitts and dropped into the empty chair beside me. “Cabbage steaks.”
Zephyr, our spoiled vegetarian, made a happy sound as he stabbed his fork into one of the discs and transferred it to his plate.
Colt wrinkled his nose at the food. “I’ll say it again. What the fuck—”
“You cut a head of cabbage into thick slices and drizzle them with oil,” Oz explained. “Add seasoning and bake.”
“Should’ve known it from the smell,” Elliot muttered while reaching for the potatoes. He dished himself a hearty scoop then passed the pot to Callum.
Colt continued to gawk. “Are we just puttin’ words together now? Cabbage steak?” He scoffed. “I can do that. Carrot burger. Lettuce lasagna. Corn hot dog—”
“You mean corndog?” Callum asked while piling potatoes onto their shared plate.
Colt paused, squinted, then groaned. “Aw, shit. I love corndogs.”
Zephyr perked up from where he was dutifully cutting his cabbage into cubes. “You might like cabbage steak too.”
I was just waiting for him to spear a piece and offer it out like a mother bird, but Colt was already retreating.
“Go to hell, Cherry.” He slid out from under Callum and stood. “I’m ordering a pizza.”
“At four in the morning?” Beck asked, having appeared out of nowhere to stand framed in the doorway Colt had angled toward.
Vegas had a lot of things, including twenty-four-hour pizza delivery, but Beck wasn’t a fan of us opening the doors after hours. Considering the liquor shipment fiasco a few days ago, I couldn’t blame him.
Thwarted, Colt propped a fist on his hip in a full-blown pout.
If Beck was ever startled by our varying degrees of undress, he didn’t show it. His gaze didn’t so much as twitch toward Colt’s thong, which was barely doing its job of concealing the essentials. Instead, he glanced over at me.
“Darby, have you seen the new guard?” He raised a letter-sized envelope with Mercer’s name scribbled across it. “I need to give this to him.”
I stood, tugging the sides of my robe closer and cinching the tie. “Pretty sure he went home.”
Beck frowned and considered the envelope again. “I was hoping he could get this in his bank before the weekend. Zephyr mentioned he was looking for direct deposit forms, and we also forgot to have the guy fill out a W-2. So I’ve cut him a check in the meantime.”
He crossed the room to where Zephyr sat, slid a hand around the incubus’s cheek, and pulled Zephyr’s head affectionately against his hip.
Beck’s eyes softened as he chuckled down at the incubus. “Running a real tight ship, aren’t I?”
“Aye-aye, Captain,” Colt agreed. He was elbow-deep in the freezer, rooting for something he could prepare with the only kitchen appliance he knew how to operate: the microwave.
Oz and Callum diced up their cabbage steaks while Elliot proceeded to make a meal solely of mashed potatoes. My stomach growled at the sight.
“I can give it to him.” I nodded toward the paperwork Beck held.
He arched a brow. “So can I, but the bank will be closed by the time he gets here tomorrow.”
“Why wait?” I shrugged. “I’ll deliver it first thing in the morning.”
“That’s charitable of you.” Beck’s tone dripped suspicion, and rightly so. Playing errand boy across town for the sake of payroll wasn’t exactly my style. But I had my reasons.
“He may be due a windfall after the mint he dropped on dinner the other night,” I admitted.
Beck’s head tilted. “He paid for the dinner? I thought that was a business outing.”
“It was!”
My protest only made his expression twist more. “Darby, he’s your colleague, not your client.”
I shot him a look then flicked my gaze to Zephyr, who had melted into a puddle of affection against Beck’s side. “Don’t tell me you’re instituting a policy about workplace relationships, Becky. Because you’d be the first in violation.”
That got me a frown and nothing more. So I thrust out my hand. “I’ll get soldier boy his check. And you said something about a W-2?”
Beck hesitated only a moment before handing the envelope over. “It’s in there.”
With a satisfied smile, I slipped the papers into my robe’s pocket then slid back into my seat, letting my stomach remind me I had other priorities—namely, dinner.
Beck glanced down at the incubus plastered to his hip. “You about ready, Beauty?”
“Ozzy made cabbage steaks.” Zephyr pointed at his plate, prepped with care then ignored because he’d been too busy mooning at Beck.
“That explains the smell,” Beck muttered.
From behind his mountain of potatoes, Elliot gave a mute but emphatic nod.
Zephyr turned toward Oz with a hopeful tilt to his head. “Can I take it to go, Oz?”
Oz was already on his feet, headed for the cabinets and our mismatched collection of Tupperware. “I’ll pack it up,” he replied then glanced at Beck. “You want some, Boss?”
Colt swung the freezer door shut while triumphantly brandishing a frost-covered box of pepperoni Hot Pockets. “You can have mine.”
Beck gave him a flat look. “I think I’ll pass.”
Oz returned to the table with a battered Tupperware and carefully packed Zephyr’s leftovers.
Once loaded, Zephyr ducked under Beck’s arm and bid us goodnight.
Watching him go was always a little bittersweet.
Not that he ever strayed far. A trip to Beck’s hotel suite was basically a sleepover. They’d both be back by lunch tomorrow.
The microwave hummed, and conversation resumed, but my attention drifted.
I plucked the envelope from my pocket and ran a finger under the envelope top.
Beck hadn’t asked how I planned to track Mercer down, but I’d already decided.
Better to catch him at home, off guard, and see the man where he lived.
About time, really. He was at my house every night.
Pulling the papers out, I unfolded them to inspect the name and address fields. Of course, Beck had prefilled everything. All of Mercer’s details were printed in crisp black ink.
He was a better ship captain than he gave himself credit for.
And I was a good manager. Apparently, the kind that now made house calls.
Maybe my newfound freedom under Beck’s rule was going to my head, because it thrilled me a bit to venture so far from the club. I tipped my head against the window, watching cars whiz by and the landscape shift as my Uber driver sped along the freeway.
All the while I couldn’t help but think the ride to the sunny Vegas suburb would have been nicer on the back of Mercer’s motorcycle.
The neighborhood was modest. Stucco houses lined up like rows of crops, topped with brown or red tiled roofs. Gravel, cacti, and the occasional palm stood in for lawns. Typical for the desert.
I pried open the flap of the envelope in my hand and double-checked Mercer’s address as the car crept along. This was the kind of place you could get lost, winding down roads and dead ending into cul-de-sacs eternally.
I’d started to slump, gone blind to the blur of earth-toned structures against an endless blue sky when at last we arrived.
The driver turned in his seat, waiting for me to move, and I caught myself wishing I’d asked Colette for a ride instead.
I would have, if she’d been available. But the club was still quiet when I’d crawled out of bed at 11:00 a.m., determined to have this task completed before Beck arrived. Maybe he’d give me a pat on the back. Or a thumbs up. Or that CEO promotion…
“You want me to wait?” the driver asked.
I squinted out at the sunbaked scenery. “Circle the block. I might be a minute.”