Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Darby
“Darb? What the hell are you wearing?”
Colt’s shrill whistle preceded the question. I whipped around to find him in the doorway, stripped down to boxers and boots with his shower tote tucked under his arm.
I had overtaken the bathroom counter, crowding the area around the sinks with picks and combs, a flat iron and curling iron both radiating heat, and a roll of wig tape.
The wig itself was already affixed to my head, white like my own hair but with extra fluff on the sides where a pair of buns sat nicely atop my horns.
It made my head look a little oversized, but that was cute, right?
Babies and those anime characters Elliot liked were big-eyed and bobble-headed.
It made them look innocent, which was exactly the vibe I was going for.
I’d chosen to get ready in the bathroom out of sheer convenience. Outlets were close at hand, and it eliminated the need to trek back and forth between my bedroom and the downstairs dressing room. But the look on Colt’s face had me regretting that as he wandered closer while openly staring.
“That better have been a whistle of appreciation,” I warned. “And it’s a dress, dumbass. You know that.”
I smoothed the denim mini dress, hoping it passed for “real casual” as Mercer had described.
He hadn’t given me much else to go on, so I did my own research.
An internet inquiry yielded pictures of several VFW Posts, and I was pretty sure I’d found the one we were headed to.
According to their social media account, Bingo Night was a regular occurrence, as were chili cook-offs, potluck dinners, and something called Bunco.
The dress was a last-minute add since most of my wardrobe leaned… let’s say spicier than what seemed appropriate for a room full of octogenarians and good old boys. But my problems weren’t limited to my clothes.
Demons were still a novelty on Earth, and not a popular one.
Sin City made sense as a capital for the damned, but in the suburbs, a warm welcome wasn’t guaranteed.
Not to mention that the VFW crowd was primarily older folks who were set in their ways and unlikely to roll out the red carpet for a demigirl demon in ruffles and garter socks.
So I toned it down. Made myself more digestible for… mature palates.
“I meant the thing on your head,” Colt said, having abandoned his shower plans in favor of needling me. His boots scuffed against the tile as he came closer and then set his tote on the counter.
His nose wrinkled. “It looks like a lil’ dog. What happened to your horns?”
I snagged a comb off the counter while leveling a glare at him in the mirror. “Says you?”
His lips twisted as he nudged the brim of his hat, feeling for the stumps of his own horns hidden in his chestnut curls. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t…” His frown deepened. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s just a costume,” I replied. “We wear them all the time.”
The comb was put to use smoothing flyaways as Colt crossed his arms and slouched against the counter.
“Customers ain’t gonna like it,” he said after a moment. “They dig the demon shit. It’s niche.”
I nearly choked on the irony. He wouldn’t have known the meaning of that phrase if I hadn’t explained it to him, along with the rest of the dolls. Fetishizing our differences was preferable to apologizing for them. But I was not in a place to prove that point right now.
“Don’t preach my gospel back at me!” I snapped, giving my right bun a squeeze. “And this isn’t for the customers.”
Colt’s brows jumped. “Now it’s even weirder.”
Before I could tell him exactly where he could shove his opinion, Callum wandered in.
“Colt, did you take the…” His green eyes flicked from me to the counter full of beauty carnage, then his mouth tipped up. “Cute dress.”
I shot Colt a look and pitched my voice syrupy sweet. “Thank you, Cal.”
Colt made a scoffing sound. “Shoulda got a poodle skirt to go with the poodle hair.”
Callum edged closer and began rummaging through the shower tote Colt had abandoned.
Colt squinted at him. “Whatcha looking for?”
Callum flicked me an apologetic look before muttering under his breath, “Lube.”
“Oh yeah?” Colt’s lips split in a wolfish grin. “Gonna slip yourself a finger? You can borrow one of mine.” He raised his hand with digits spread, and Callum flushed scarlet.
He was still blotchy from Colt’s jab when he turned toward me and latched onto the first lifeline he could find. “What’re you getting pretty for, Darb?”
“Bingo.”
Colt blinked. “Like with the cards and daubers?”
“Is there another kind?”
He tilted his head, genuinely baffled. “Just doesn’t seem like your crowd is all. They got prizes?”
Dropping the comb, I bared my teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Oh, there’s a prize, all right,” I said. “Winner gets his dick sucked courtesy of yours truly.”
Colt’s eyes bugged. “Serious?”
“Would that make it my crowd?”
He frowned like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to argue or call my bluff. Finally, he shrugged. “I dunno, man.”
I dropped the comb and checked my reflection, turning my head from side to side and wondering if I should have gone with a black wig instead of white. Actually, from what I’d seen of the VFW crowd, I’d fit right in.
“What’s eatin’ you?” Colt drawled after a few seconds had passed. “Did I step on your tail or something? Where is your tail, anyway?”
I hiked the side of my skirt, flashing my thigh and my tail coiled around it.
Colt gave another whistle. “This is some deep undercover shit.”
“It’s a costume,” I reiterated before yanking my hem down. “And I’m a performer. No different than what we do every night.”
Colt tilted his head, his face shadowed by the brim of his Stetson. “If you say so.” He turned away, shifting his interest to Callum, who was wrist-deep in their shower tote. Damn thing must have been like Mary Poppins’s purse for how long and hard he’d been searching.
The moment of peace was interrupted when the bathroom door swung open and Oz and Elliot tromped in. Fresh from the gym, both were dripping with sweat.
In a clingy tee shirt and shorts, Oz loomed head and shoulders taller than Elliot, who wore joggers and an open-sided tank that exposed the black and red flower tattoos crawling down his arms and across his back.
I puffed out a breath at the intrusion and started unplugging my hot tools from the outlet. “Now arriving at Grand Central Station…”
“Darby, your date’s here,” Elliot announced. He adjusted the drawstring backpack slung over one shoulder, probably stuffed with soap and clean clothes for the shower he was clearly eyeing.
Oz frowned at those of us gathered at the sink counter then corrected, “He didn’t say it was a date…”
Elliot stopped mid-stride, lips twitching, and threw me a look over his shoulder.
“Guy shows up after hours with combed hair and a clean shirt? That’s a date.
Plus, you two give each other more attention than you do the actual paying customers.
” His gaze drifted upward, where it caught on my wig. One brow hiked.
I planted a fist on my hip and glowered. “Have any more insights to share, wise ass?”
Elliot’s smirk was tight and sharp. “Not a one.” He headed for the showers, ducking into one stall as Oz claimed the other.
With only two showers to share between the six of us—five since Zephyr had traded up for Beck’s rainfall and massage jet paradise—it didn’t take much to book up the place.
“Damn it, I was here first!” Colt barked after them.
The showers swished on, one then the other. I needed to wrap this up before the humidity sapped the strength out of my hairspray.
“Found it!” Callum crowed, holding up a bottle of lube. He spun away with his tail waving and darted out of the bathroom.
The door had barely started its swing toward closed when Colt broke into a grin. His emerald eyes flashed as he turned, already on his way out after his twin. “I’m gonna go help him with that.”
With them gone, I finally had peace. Well, as close to it as I was likely to get in this place.
Leaning on the counter, I took a long look at my reflection.
The fitted denim dress hugged where I wanted it to, kitten heels promised I wouldn’t regret walking by the end of the night, and I’d tied a pair of bows into the buns of the wig, hoping they would distract from the sheer size of the thing.
I still looked like myself, just dialed back a notch.
As Colt had reminded me, fetish was a selling point.
People loved a quirk, a gimmick, an experience they could write home about.
But being a sideshow attraction wasn’t always fun.
After a while, the spotlight started to burn.
The glare became too harsh and the eyes beyond it too many.
Even for a self-professed attention whore.
Casual sounded nice.
Low-key.
Normal.
Those were things I’d never been, but I could fake it. Perform like I did every night.
I packed up my mess, shoving the hot tools into my bag and kicking it under the counter. I’d come back for it later when my hands weren’t so shaky. The mirror was beginning to fog by the time I slipped out of the bathroom and headed for the stairs.
The last time our resident soldier had picked me up, Beck and Colette had been on standby. This time, Mercer stood alone inside the club doors, looking a little stiff. Shiny. Maybe he put something in his hair? And he’d shaved. Pity. I liked the scruff.
He straightened when he saw me, shifting from at ease to attention in a heartbeat. My grin came out nervous, which might’ve been the first time I’d put a name to the flutter in my gut. The uncertainty about why I’d agreed to put myself in such a dangerous situation.
The threat wasn’t physical. I wasn’t worried about a bunch of blue hairs committing a hate crime over Bingo. Looks couldn’t kill, but they could cut. And while I could paste on a smile as easily as a Band-Aid, that didn’t stop the scars from piling up.
As I drew near, I wondered what, if anything, Mercer had told them about me.
Did my presence come with a disclaimer?