Chapter 21
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Darby
This was nice.
Mercer was nice. Kind. Unassuming.
And having a lovely gay awakening, apparently, thanks to little old me.
I’d been in the business long enough—and been myself long enough—to know the role I often played.
I had the right parts to entice anyone or repulse them.
It was a mixed bag. More often than not, I was a one-night-only special, a sample-sized bite of ass.
A whim. A passing fancy. Try it and see if you like it.
Those encounters were awkward and fumbling, heavy with a shame I kept trying to soothe away. At first, I had the patience for it, assuring them it was okay to want me. But after a while, it wore me down, and it got harder to believe the words myself.
But this was different. It was pizza and beer, a second round of s’mores, and a movie called Stardust.
I hadn’t seen it before, and I was surprised it was Mercer’s pick.
At the club, we’d started a movie day tradition after Maslow left.
Oz was marathoning his way through the Marvel catalogue, Zephyr had a soft spot for Disney flicks, the twins were on their umpteenth rewatch of Tombstone, and Elliot swore by anything Tim Burton ever touched. I rarely got a say.
Mercer struck me as a man’s man. Rugged and no-nonsense. I’d bet good money he’d seen every Fast and Furious twice. But Stardust was cute. A little whimsical. And so obviously curated that I had to call him on it.
“Hmm…” I tilted my head at the screen. “Captain Shakespeare seems a little fruity.”
Mercer barked a laugh. “You know, I’m pretty sure watching this was the first time I ever saw a man in drag.”
“Did you think it was hot?” I teased.
“I thought it was cool.” He gestured toward the television as the good captain pranced through his quarters in a corset and red feather boa. “It’s De Niro, yanno? He was in Goodfellas. And seeing him like… I mean, pirates are badass on their own. But the fact that he’s powerful, successful, and—”
“Fruity?” I supplied, grinning.
He waved me off. “And his men love him. I thought that was cool.”
“Well, I think he’s hot.” I shrugged and settled deeper into the crook of Mercer’s arm. “Probably more the Goodfellas version, though. Or The Godfather Part II.”
Mercer leaned back to look at me wide eyed. “You’ve seen The Godfather?”
I arched a brow. “I do have a cock, you know. I like guy stuff too.”
He paused and considered until his expression grew hopeful. “Do you like… sports?”
Groaning, I threw my head back. “Okay, I have a cock, but if you make me watch football, it’ll shrink up inside me like a scared turtle.” I smirked. “That might be funny, though. Maybe even worth the risk. Are any teams playing?”
I lunged across his lap to grab the remote perched on the sofa’s armrest.
Mercer laughed and yanked it out of reach as I sprawled across him. “No!” he insisted between chuckles. “No one’s playing!”
We scrapped for a minute, arms flailing and bodies colliding, both of us pretending like it mattered. It didn’t. What mattered was the way we fit together and the fact that I could make an ex-Marine laugh so hard he nearly rolled off the couch.
Mercer won the tussle, but he didn’t gloat. Instead, he folded me into him, and we ended up comfortably tangled. He went quiet, holding me, and then his palm found the curve of my waist and began to stroke along it in a slow, soothing way.
“Let’s finish the movie,” he murmured.
I stayed exactly where I was, huddled in the baggy fabric of his clothes. They smelled like detergent and softener. Store brand, I’d bet. Basic stuff. But I was starting to love basic stuff.
We watched the screen for a second, but the silence didn’t last. It never did with me. My mind was always hopping tracks.
“Speaking of playing,” I said brightly. “I’m planning a party.”
Mercer’s head turned. “Oh?”
Scooting back, I shifted to sit upright and cross-legged across from him. “Big event.” I fanned my hands in the air. “Game night theme. You should see the costumes. The boys are dressing up as Clue characters.”
Mercer’s mouth curved in a slow-forming smile. “Sounds fun. Why Clue?”
I snorted. “Well, when the other options were the boot from Monopoly or those multicolored peg things from Sorry!, Clue was the only thing I could make moderately sexy.”
He tapped a finger to his chin. “What about chess pieces?”
“Damn it, Mercy.” I frowned. “I don’t know a thing about chess.”
“You could’ve been the queen,” he replied.
That got me grinning. I straightened my spine, threw my shoulders back, and preened. “And that would have been fitting.” I basked in the image for a moment before slumping in defeat. “But no, I’m the maid. Forever cleaning up after a pack of rowdy man-babies.”
His laugh was low and rich, and it did dangerous things to my chest. “Well, you wanted to be a mom.”
The reminder wasn’t mocking, rather matter-of-fact, and it warmed me all the more.
“I did,” I agreed. “I do.”
For a moment, neither of us said anything, but I felt the mood turn with Mercer’s frown. “Are you concerned at all?”
“About what?”
“The club,” he replied. “After what happened to the power lines. And the liquor order.”
I blew a breath upward, fluttering my bangs. “Are you asking if I’m worried about Maslow?”
Mercer nodded. “He’s a threat.”
“He’s a piece of shit.” I huffed again. “The less consideration we give him, the better.”
“I don’t think that’s wise.”
Maslow had stolen years from me, and the last thing I wanted to give him was another thought, but Mercer was right. I’d been too busy celebrating the wraith’s departure—renovating, planning parties, and flaunting my freedom—to do anything to guard against his return.
“What did he do to you?” Mercer asked.
The question felt like a hand pressed to a bruise. I looked away, unsure how much I should share.
Mercer watched me, waiting.
He even looked at me nicely.
Like he cared about the words coming out of my mouth more than when he might get a chance to come in my mouth.
So I swallowed, worked my way around to as good a starting point as any, and did my best to explain.
I told him about being bought out of Hell, and about being so grateful to stumble back onto Earth that I would have kissed the damn ground. That was a consistent theme from all the Dollhouse boys: desperation made us fools, and Maslow cashed in on it.
I told him about paying our way with our bodies. Not just onstage or on laps, but to Maslow himself, yielding to the siphoning touch that left us weak and broke our wills.
Enduring it was awful, but it hurt worse to watch.
Colt threw himself in front of Callum only to be knocked aside. Oz rebelled until the hellhound guards pinned him down. Elliot spat and swore until one day, he stopped. Seeing him surrender cracked something inside me. Something I’d only begun to piece back together.
And then Zephyr came along, fresh-faced and innocent. I tried to shield him from the fear and futility to which the rest of us had grown accustomed, but he found a more capable protector.
“I’m glad Becky’s around now,” I said, the words jagged. “I’m glad Zephyr convinced him to help us. He did in two months what I’d been trying to do for five years.”
I looked at Mercer and found his brow furrowed.
“That’s not true,” I amended. “I tried… at first. I tried for a long time.” My fingers knotted in my oversized shirt, French-tipped nails worrying the fabric. “But I think—I think I might have given up.”
The confession sat heavy in the air and heavier still inside me. It also obscured an uglier truth: I wasn’t just bitter about Maslow, or my helplessness, or my failure. I was jealous.
Zephyr had coaxed big daddy demon Beck into taking up our cause. The leggy, redheaded twinkubus got someone to fight for him and fall in love with him in the span of eight short weeks.
I’d been searching for a century. Wasted a hundred years waiting, hoping, then settling for scraps. I’d watched men come and go or futilely chased after them, only to be left behind every time.
I didn’t want a savior, but I did want a partner. Someone who would help me up instead of knocking me down. Someone who would choose me like Beck chose Zephyr.
But I knew how rare that kind of love was, and it hurt to realize that it might never come for me.
Somewhere in the midst of my confession, Mercer’s hand had stilled over my back. He pulled me in, and I lay my head on his chest as the movie played on.
We’d barely reached the witching hour when I noticed Mercer’s breathing had changed.
Deep inhales chased tapering exhales, and his body went pliable beside me as he succumbed to sleep.
I waited through the film’s ending credits, enjoying the closeness.
Finally, I pulled free of him, being careful not to disturb what seemed to be much-needed rest.
Rising, I collected our dirty plates, the empty pizza box and beer bottles, and shuffled into the kitchen.
I rinsed the bottles and tossed them in the recycling bin, then folded the box and tucked it in the trash.
The s’mores supplies were still scattered about, so I put those away too.
Lastly, I checked the fridge for something better than beer—box wine, maybe, or a hard seltzer.
No luck. With a sigh, I cracked open another beer and carried it back to the living room.
Mercer dozed while the TV idled on the menu screen. He would have been cozier with a blanket, but a cursory search yielded none. Maybe in his bedroom.
The house was a rectangle with only one hallway, so I couldn’t possibly get lost. I made my way past Molly’s room and the half bath to the door at the end of the passage. It stood open a crack, and I hesitated before nudging my way in.