Chapter 19
CHAPTER
NINETEEN
Darby
Mama raised me better than this.
She told me ladies didn’t hide their faces or wear their shame. They shrugged it off like an old coat or shed it like a skin they’d outgrown. Most of the time, I was a lady. Or at least Luxe was. But this time, I was just tired and sad.
I could have called an Uber, but as much as I wanted to get away, I didn’t want to abandon Mercer. So I yanked off the wig that was making my scalp sweat, shucked my heels, and parked my ass in the gravel bed around the corner of the VFW Post building.
I didn’t want to consider what was going on inside, didn’t want to hear the uproar. Poor Mercer had likely found himself at the end of a firing line of questions, taking the bullets I’d sought to dodge for just one night.
Was it too much to ask?
There wasn’t much good press about demons. People assumed we must have been despicable in life to become damned, and maybe I had been. Unplanned pregnancy. Unwanted child. The son of a whore with a body for hire.
I was born other, lived other, and died other—only to become other all over again.
In the distance, cars trawled the highway with their headlights slicing through the night.
It was so much darker here than on the Strip.
Back there, LED signs and casino buildings blocked the sky and blotted out the stars until you almost forgot they existed.
But in the desert, constellations burned bright, crowding a horizon painted in the colors of dusk.
Purple gave way to blue gave way to black that climbed until it framed the pale face of a half-moon.
It was quiet too. Quiet enough I could hear the crunch of boots on the gravel as someone approached.
Mercer’s stride was unmistakable, the faint hitch in his gait betraying the hours he spent on his feet, circling the Dollhouse like a watchdog.
By the end of a night, he always seemed to favor his right side.
He hadn’t been gone long. Maybe the fallout from showing up to Bingo night with a demon hadn’t been as bad as I feared. Or maybe he was running, same as me. I wouldn’t blame him.
When he rounded the corner, I raised my head. I must’ve looked pitiful, tucked against the wall with my tail draped across my thighs and the wig heaped on top of it like a mangy carcass. Or a dead poodle. Fucking Colt.
Mercer stopped short, and my gaze lifted to the box in his arms. The nearest lot light illuminated the text and photo printed on the outside.
He’d brought the toaster oven.
Traitorous heat pricked my eyes. I hadn’t invited any tears to this pity party. Mama insisted ladies shouldn’t cry either, though some nights I’d heard her sobbing behind closed doors when she thought no one heard.
I tightened my jaw and pasted on a weary smile.
“Is that for me, Mercy?”
His mouth curved as he held the box out. “Only if Oz is willing to share.”
“He’d better be.”
Mercer bent to set the oven into my lap, and I hugged my arms around it, absorbing it into my ball of misery.
Slowly, Mercer turned and slid down the wall to sit beside me. I rested my chin on the glossy cardboard box and let my gaze return to the stars.
“Are they readying their pitchforks?” I mumbled at last.
“What?”
I puffed out a sigh. “Should we go?”
He grunted then shook his head. “Not unless you want to.”
We fell quiet with no movement or sound except for the desert air weaving around us, until I felt a faint brush near the tip of my tail. Feather-light. Careful, like the way Molly had patted it at the mall. Curious.
I glanced over to watch Mercer’s thumb trail along the scaly skin, reaching the barbed end and testing its sharpness like one might a blade.
“You didn’t want them to know,” he murmured. “Why?”
I looked away, searching the sky until I found the dotted line of the Big Dipper drawn on the blanket of night.
“People need to define things,” I said. “And I don’t always like the way they define me.”
“How would you define yourself?”
The question struck like a match, flooding me with irritable heat as I rounded on him. “Why should I have to?” I demanded. “Can’t I just be? A person? A body with a heart and a brain?”
Mercer’s thumb kept moving, slow and steady over the length of my tail, coaxing shivers out of me I couldn’t stop.
“I think you’re strong,” he said.
The fire coursing through me surged into my throat, and I squirmed, trying to deflect. “You’re the strong one. You were a soldier. A fighter.”
“You fight too,” he answered simply. “It’s brave just to exist sometimes. Bold to live so… honestly.” His eyes swept over me the same way they had when he’d told me I was pretty—his expression intent like he meant every word.
That shamed me all the more. Because even before I bolted out of the Bingo game, I’d hidden under a stupid disguise, pretending it was a performance when really it was just a lie.
I plucked the wig out from where it had been buried beneath the toaster oven and held it out. The buns were smashed, and the fibers were worried into a frizzy ball.
“This wasn’t very honest,” I admitted. “The boys looked at me like I’d grown a third eye.”
“Even if you did.” Mercer shrugged. “What’s another accessory?”
What was it with people throwing my own lines back at me tonight?
Mercer settled against the outer wall of the VFW building, facing out into the desert.
I searched his profile, his strong jaw shorn of stubble, his high and tight haircut, and his full lips that softened the rest. He was good-looking. Maybe better than average.
Before I could think better of it, I leaned in and brushed a kiss to his cheek.
He went still, visibly stunned. I started to pull back, but his hand caught and held me inches from his face.
My eyes fell to his throat to catch the hitch of his swallow, then traced upward to where his lips fell apart.
They did look nice, didn’t they?
Such a soft place to land.
Dipping in, I caught him breathless. It was awkward with the cardboard box jammed between us, but then he leaned in too, and our mouths sealed fully together.
His lips moved against mine, tentative at first then hungrier, sucking lightly, his tongue feathering at the seam of my mouth in a request for more.
I let him have it. Then I let myself have a taste of him, something sweet I gladly swallowed down.
He pulled back first, leaving me licking my lips for the essence that remained.
When our eyes met again, his pupils were blown wide and his nostrils flared. His hand cradled my face, and when I nuzzled into his palm, I didn’t need the lot light to know he was burning up with blush.
“How about we take this back to your place?” I murmured, lids low and voice sultry.
Mercer blanched. “Take… what?” His expression was so stricken, so lost, that I burst out laughing.
“The toaster oven, of course.” I gave the box in my lap a thump.
Relief flickered across his face. “Oh! Sure, yeah.”
He rose while I tugged my heels back on, then he offered his hand and hauled me to my feet. The wig was left on the ground as I shifted the oven box in my arms. It was bulky and a bit heavy, but I carried it with pride as Mercer led me toward the motorcycle.
“What’s the point of these things?” I asked, hugging the box closer. “We already have a toaster and an oven, but Ozzy gets a little gourmet sometimes…”
“They’re pretty good at making s’mores,” Mercer replied.
Excitement sparked in my chest. “Do you have marshmallows?”
His head shook, and my grin drooped into a frown.
“We could stop for some?” he offered.
“Deal!” My tail gave a happy wag, and I jutted my chin toward the bike. “You drive.”
Mercer paused, brow cocked like he wasn’t sure if I was serious.
I slung my hip into him while snickering. “It was a joke, Mercy.”
When we pulled up beside the Victory, I eyeballed the seat, the saddlebags, and the ridiculous little appliance in my grasp. Mercer crouched beside one of the bags and started digging around inside.
“Seriously, though,” I added after a moment. “How are we getting out of here with this?”
Mercer straightened from the saddlebag with a bungee cord in his hand and a smile on his lips. “Carefully,” he replied.