COMING NEXT TO THE STAGE…
SINFUL NIGHTS & NEON LIGHTS
Double or Nothing
CALLUM
I’d never been accused of being overly assertive.
Never wanted to be. Drifting was easier—floating along and letting the current take me wherever it pleased.
Some folks mistook it for trust, but really, it was more like surrender.
Other people had plans and opinions and voices that carried. Mine… didn’t.
Colt was one of those people. He had plans and plots that I was often, unwittingly, part of. That was how I felt now, as our cab pulled up in front of a Fairmont Street property that looked more like the shell of a building than an actual destination.
Beside me, Colt’s green eyes shone as he leaned forward to take in the skeleton of a structure. I gave it a narrow squint, which was the best I could muster in the face of crushed hopes.
“Is this it?” I asked.
“This is it,” he confirmed and flashed a wicked grin.
That smile rarely meant anything good.
The car rolled to a halt, and Colt lunged for the door handle, but I caught his arm.
We’d passed half a dozen actual businesses. Real ones. With lights and doors. Las Vegas wasn’t exactly known for ample parking, so maybe we’d only pulled over here to walk the rest of the way to the “surprise” he’d promised.
“You said we were going to a new place,” I reminded him, but he just kept beaming.
“Hell yeah, I did. It’s so new they haven’t even taken the tags off yet.” He pointed to the COMING SOON signs stabbed into the rocky dirt. Beneath the bold proclamation, a smaller line of text explained, Future home of Purgatory.
Panic surged so fast it stole my breath. I pressed back into the bench seat and wished I could disappear into it.
“Colt,” I hissed. “This is M-Ma-Maz-zz-zy’s club.”
His forehead crinkled, annoyance flickering. “Aw, shit, don’t start that already,” he whined. “Ain’t nothing even happened yet.”
Undeterred, he scooted forward, digging a folded wad of bills from his pocket and flipping through them. Then he wedged himself between the front seats, edging closer to the driver as the man shifted into park.
“Hey, partner, you ever been a getaway driver?” Colt asked.
The driver glanced at the neat fan of twenties pinched between Colt’s thumb and forefinger, then shook his head. “No, sir.”
Colt’s eyebrows bounced. “You wanna try?”
“Colt,” I hissed while dread puddled in my stomach. “What’re you doing?”
He shot me a sideways look—wily, bright, and entirely too pleased with himself. “Covering our asses. Gotta have plans for coming and going.”
“I ain’t go-goin’ in there.” I tugged on his arm again. “No way in hell.”
Colt pushed the cash a little closer to the driver, who looked like he couldn’t decide if this was a prank or a robbery.
I wasn’t sure either.
“Look,” Colt told him, “all you gotta do is keep the meter running and, if you hear screaming, give the old girl a little gas.” He thumped the passenger headrest. “After Cal and me get loaded up, of course.”
“Screaming?” I echoed. My stomach plummeted. There were no construction workers around or anyone else on the property, which left only a few possibilities for who might be doing the screaming.
Less than a few. Exactly two.
“Colt—”
“Relax, Cal.” He cut me off with a flippant wave. “We’re just here to take a peek. Amateur recon. A vibe check. Whatever you wanna call it.”
“I wanna call it a terrible idea.”
Colt scoffed. “Did you bring your phone? You said you wanted to take some pictures.”
“Not of this.” I dragged the last word out in a miserable whine as my gaze cut toward the building again.
Unfazed, Colt turned back to the driver. “So, you in?” He flapped the cash. “All this just to keep your foot near the accelerator.”
The driver glanced at the money, then at Colt, then at me.
I wanted to warn him off, but I also didn’t want to get stuck here. When it was time to go, I wanted to leave quick, fast, and in a hurry.
Without input from me, the driver looked at Colt again. “Sir, I don’t want any trouble.”
Colt winked. “Buddy, trouble’s coming whether you want it or not. Just say you’ll stay put.”
The driver grimaced then nodded. When he reached out to take the bills, Colt clasped the poor guy’s hand and pumped it in an overzealous handshake that rattled the whole car.
With the deal sealed, Colt spun back around and grabbed the door handle. “Pop the trunk for me, why dontcha?” he called to the driver.
The soft click of the trunk lid unlatching chilled my blood.
I knew what was in there, and it should have been my first clue.
Why would anyone, even Colt, insist on hauling a duffel bag of unknown supplies to a surprise destination?
I was sheepish to acknowledge that I’d first thought he’d had Ozzy pack us a picnic.
A cab ride meant a rare trip off the Strip, and I’d fantasized, foolishly, that Colt had his sights set on a sunny patch of grass somewhere.
We could have spent the afternoon just me and him, sprawled out on a blanket, making shapes out of clouds and eating sandwiches.
Instead, Colt bounded out of the cab and I lagged behind, giving him a wide berth as he darted around to the rear of the car and yanked the trunk open.
I swallowed hard.
Whatever was in that duffel… it wasn’t sandwiches.
Colt hauled the bag out, slung it over one shoulder, then dropped the trunk with a flat-palmed thump. He tipped his hat to the driver then started toward the construction zone without so much as a backward glance.
Fine. Let him march off into this madness. If the driver could wait, then so could I. I could even play lookout in case Maslow decided to make an untimely appearance.
Colt didn’t slow, and when he veered toward the entrance that was more of a gaping hole where a door would eventually go, I realized I was already moving to catch up.
I hit his heels right as he crossed the threshold, and the moment we stepped inside, I sucked in a breath and held it.
The place was enormous—empty, echoey, and dark.
The walls weren’t fully built yet, just skeletal grids of wood studs marking out rooms and hallways.
Bare cement stretched in every direction, littered with sawdust and stray nails.
The whole interior smelled like wet concrete, raw lumber, and the faint metallic tang of iron.
Above us, three stories of open space loomed. Steel walkways circled the upper levels, with half-installed platforms jutting out. Metal catwalks crisscrossed as though inspired by an M.C. Escher drawing. Every sound we made—bootsteps, breathing, the shifting of Colt’s bag—seemed to ring in my ears.
On the ground floor, multiple stages were taking shape.
They were nothing but raised frames for now, with roughhewn steps leading up and down.
Here and there, rough outlines of bar counters jutted from the floor, plumbing guts exposed like veins.
Coils of wiring dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly in the occasional draft.
It wasn’t a club yet, more like a monster mid-build. And walking through its bones made the hair on my arms stand up.
“Colt?” I wasn’t sure why I bothered to whisper as I squeezed in close to him.
He didn’t answer. Just turned toward one of the half-assembled walls, dropped his bag with a heavy thump, and knelt to unzip it.
Curiosity got the better of me. I leaned in, squinting into the dark bag in the darker room, hoping to make some sense of it.
Bottles came first. Big ones. They were clear, sloshing with fluid, and labeled plainly enough that even in the dimness I could read them.
Vodka?
Then came the tools—two metal crowbars and a long-handled sledgehammer. I’d seen those lying around the Dollhouse while they were repairing the damage done by Antonella Rossetti’s goons. Which raised the question of how long he’d been planning this criminal escapade.
Last, he dragged out a wad of something that looked like fabric but sounded…wet. He held it at arm’s length, and his face twisted in disgust as drops of liquid splattered to the cement.
“What’s that?” I asked, making a similarly scrunched face.
“Damn bottles leaked,” Colt grumbled. “Rush musta not had the lids on tight enough.”
At the mention of the Dollhouse’s mixologist, something fuzzy and warm hit the back of my neck. I shifted, trying not to think about Rush’s long, strong arms or his stupid dimples or the little eyebrow lift he did when he caught me staring at either.
I cleared my throat, hoping I didn’t look as guilty as I felt.
“Did he know you were packing ’em in a bag?” I asked. “It’s different than just sitting on a shelf.”
“Hell no,” Colt snorted. “He’d have wanted to take ’em outta inventory or whatever it is he’s always doin’ with that notepad and the pen.”
“Inventory,” I confirmed with a nod.
Colt grunted. “And then he woulda wanted me to pay for ’em.”
“So… you stole them.” I nudged the sledgehammer with my toe. “The hammer too?”
Colt straightened, and his chest swelled with pride. “I reappropriated it. Temporarily.”
“For what?”
He swept a hand around at the cavernous construction site. “We’re gonna deconstruct some shit.”
I blinked at him. Then at the unfinished bar counters.
Then the skeletal stages stretching far into the dark.
The place was massive—three times the size of the Dollhouse, maybe four.
Our club wasn’t small, but it was… curated.
Intentional. This looked like it would take dozens of performers to staff.
A small army. Would they be demons too? Plucked out of Hell like we had been?
And would Maslow treat them the same way he had us?
Using our energy to satisfy his appetite and growing fatter and meaner by the day?
I looked at the two stolen bottles again. “Okay, but why the booze?”
“In case I get thirsty.” Colt gave me a mischievous smirk.
I stared back, unimpressed.
He lost none of his enthusiasm as he fished into his back pocket and dug out a Zippo lighter. “Vodka’s real flammable, y’know.” With a flick of the wheel, the flint struck and the wick caught with a blinding spark.