Chapter 4
I blinked away the memory of Judd Nelson and cheap beer, clutching my wrist and demanding the tears rimming my eyes go back to the hell from which they came.
The Luscious vanity mirror was a traitor.
No amount of moisturizer or eye cream was going to fix the fucking disaster that was my face.
Skin wrinkled over my tanned forehead each time I tried to poke it back to life, and the bags under my shit-brown eyes were big enough to be check luggage.
The freckles running the bridge of my nose that followed me into the afterlife were more pronounced, and I didn’t know how to feel about it.
“Your hair is looking a little wonky too, homegirl. Just limp dick strands of razored brown everywhere. Good thing you don’t work at Luscious for money,” I grumbled. And it was true. Luscious was a cover for my real job as Lucifer’s pet hellhound.
The mirror betraying me clouded as I sighed, and the edges of it frosted into delicate shards of winter.
Cold pebbled my skin. Almost as if my thought summoned him, Luci’s voice purred in my ear. “Tick-tock, dearest Dany.”
“Get fucked, Lucifer,” I grumbled.
Though he wasn’t there physically, he’d never let me forget that he could be there mentally whenever he pleased.
Thank fuck it was less like the NSA listening all the time and more like being on a phone call.
He could hear my thoughts in person when he listened in, but he didn’t have constant access while away.
Thank Judas himself because I’d be fucked otherwise.
When he called, however, I didn’t have a choice as to whether or not I wanted to answer. There was no amount of time I owned that was sacred. Or private. Not even silent. When the devil owns your soul, he holds the very fabric of your being in an iron grip.
A grip that, sometimes, I think I wouldn’t mind around my throat before he—-
“Nope!” I pushed away from the vanity shaking my head.
“Stop it right there, Dany, you stupid harlot. He already owns your soul, don’t let him own your mind and pussy too.
” Hand on hips, I looked down at the innocent looking body part clad in cotton dotted with bunnies, gave her a pointed glare, and said, “Stay in your lane. We have a job to do tonight.”
Once a year, on the night I died, the ledger opens for twenty-four hours. I can hunt whomever whenever I like; it only counts when I deliver. The magic number was three, and those three souls bought me one more year topside.
Except every eleven years.
The sharp bite of gravel ghosted along my palms, accompanied by shallow breaths that dizzied my head.
On the eleven year marks, a name appears at the top marked in red.
A name that must be crossed out, or my deal with Lucifer was null and void and some fresh hell of his making would be imposed upon my eternity.
At least, I assumed. And assuming always felt worse than actually knowing, because if I could think of ways to torture me, I had no doubt they were child’s play to the biblical Devil.
Unlike the other demons I’d met– and there weren’t many.
Only the few I met at the mailbox in my building or dragging a dead body around to the garbage–I was the only one who cared about the quality of soul I was delivering.
I couldn’t steal a grandfather away from his precious new littles, or look into the dying eyes of a husband knowing I was the reason his wife would never see him again.
Unless, of course, their night mission was fucking unwilling women or living in the general trashcan labeled ‘men.’
What can I say? I’m a romantic.
“Twenty-four hours,” I exhaled while pushing my tits up into position and fluffing my hair. “Do what you need to do, and it’s another year living carefree.”
“What’d you say, Ivy?”
Caramel’s sweet toasted vanilla smell wiped the remnants of the past from my mind.
“Nothing to worry your sweet little head over.”
Her bouncy blonde curls appeared in the mirror beside me, and I watched fondly as she swiped bubblegum pink lipgloss across her plump lips.
Her brows dipped above baby blues eyes as she asked, “If a guy texts, ‘u up?’ before nine—”
“Run,” I deadpanned. Caramel was a hopeless romantic and couldn’t stand to be without a boyfriend, which meant she was colorblind. Thankfully for her, I had perfect vision.
“Seriously? What if he wants to get breakfast?”
Hopeless. She. Was. Hopeless.
“You’re a stripper, Carm.” I patted her on the shoulder, trying my damndest not to pity-smile at her stricken expression. “Trust me, they never want breakfast.”
“They want you to throw on some gloves and handle that morning wood, honey,” said Sapphire with a wink that looked even more saucy when she wore nothing but red nipple tassels on her giant tits.
“Whadyya all standin’ around for?” Vinny stomped into the dressing room, followed by a chorus of ‘hey!’ And ‘get the fuck out!.’ “What, ya think I’ve never seen your tits? On stage, on the floor, now!”
Though the others looked scandalized, I just laughed. Vinny and his sky-high blood pressure was a great source of entertainment in my eyes. And, he wasn’t wrong. He’d seen everything we had to offer a million times over.
One thing I could say about Vinny was that he had never been handsy or taken advantage of any of us. He may have been an asshole, but he was not a monster.
“Chill out, Vinny,” I crooned, patting his cheek before bending to lace my strappy heels. “We’ve got you covered.”
“Well you’ve all got a shit way of showing it.” He rubbed the balding spot on the back of his head and paced away muttering, “Killing me!”
I glanced in the mirror one last time, took a deep breath, and prepared myself for the night.
There was a small thread of guilt that always accompanied sacrifice night, and it was slowly weaving its way to the forefront.
I snipped that shit quick, though, as I closed my eyes, recalling the stomach-turning smell of stale beer and nicotine, letting the laughter out front of the club rub against my skin the way theirs had.
The way his had.
Wraith-like fingers scraped over my trembling skin. My bones ached where they’d shattered, and a sharp pain lanced between my legs.
The undead part of me blew a kiss of darkness and poisoned any guilt that lingered. I would find three men tonight who deserved it and deliver their rotting souls to the King of Hell.
***
“Gentlemen,” our MC, Troy, called out over the speakers. “Please stay firmly rooted in your seats and watch your ankles and wallets. Our next Luscious Lady will wrap her vines around your heart, poison your mind, and send you stumbling out of our doors penniless, clueless, and in love.”
“Pfft,” I scoffed.
“Please welcome, Poison Ivy!”
God I fucking hated that name. My hair wasn’t even red.
I proceeded into my favorite stage routine while dancing to ‘Magic Pu$$$Y’ by Dana Dentata. Cheers erupted as I unclasped my bra with a smirk, and their cheers morphed into moans when I threw it off to the side. A crowd full of predators who didn’t know they were being stalked by an apex predator.
It was easy to spot my prey.
Most men made lewd gestures, flung disgusting nicknames left and right along with wrinkled ones they’d wiped all over their balls for fun. They weren’t who I was looking for, however.
No, I was hunting the type of man who was never alone.
His intense sociopathic nature kept him surrounded by boys too stupid to think or act on their own – boys who were easy to control and do whatever he asked.
He would be the only man in the crowd who was still with too watchful eyes.
Eyes that never failed to draw women in with their mystique and dominant gleam.
That was until he had them right where he wanted them, and the sick games commenced.
There.
As I twirled around the spinning pole, a set of eyes narrowed in on me from the middle of the room.
His table was occupied with three other men who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five.
Their drinks sloshed as they jeered and pointed, knocking into one another and chanting encouragement toward the stage.
Not him.
We locked eyes, his blonde hair glinting in the light, and I let him think I was entranced. That I was dancing for him on this stage rather than luring him into tangled vines ready to watch the light leave his hateful eyes.
When the last few notes of bass rumbled across the floor, I rolled my hips into a drop squat with one arm up on the pole as my back slid down it. The wider my legs spread in front of the crowd, the more hungry his eyes became.
I crawled to the end of the stage and the front row went wild. Some threw money, others reached to stick it under the waistband of my barely-there panties.
He knew it, though…
I crawled for him.
I was submissive. Teasing. Sending silent promises and pleas that only he could fulfill.
When he lifted his glass with a smirk full of bad intentions, I knew I had him.
Let the games begin.