I made a scoffing sound, more than ready to deviate from the subject of my sex life and newfound concerns about the hellhound ransacking my suite for snacks at odd hours. But Colette was undeterred.

  “I, for one, believe you should indulge those fantasies. Or try new ones.” Her smile remained as she looked out the windshield at the line of traffic ahead. “You clearly enjoy fucking the incubus, and the thought of fucking him, and I would think such a man must give as well as he takes. Perhaps you should let him fuck you.”

  My eyes rolled toward the headliner as I drew a settling breath. “Did you forget everything I said before we left? I’m going to end things. Close my account. Pay my tab. I’m dropping off the cash and leaving.”

  I’d rehearsed a few lines too, statements that would explain my presence while garnering limited follow-up questions. When I saw Zephyr, I would take his hand in a firm shake and pin the folded bills between our palms. Then I would say something like, “Pleasure doing business with you,” or “Thank you for your time,” and that would be the end of that.

  “But,” Colette began with emphasis, “consider this. If he fucks you, then maybe he owes you? So, you kiss his dick for the two times he kissed yours, then you’re even.”

  I turned on her with a flat look. “I refuse to believe you don’t understand how gay sex works. And that’s not how prostitution works either. He gets paid for sex; I don’t. Regardless of the position.”

  Colette chuckled. “With you as a customer, no one is getting paid for sex.”

  “Which is a situation I am trying to rectify,” I retorted.

  We traveled in silence another half mile, barely outpacing the foot traffic as we made our way down the Strip.

  We were passing the blue and purple lights of the fan tail above the entrance of the Peacock Casino when Colette muttered, “The cruise would have been cheaper.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed with a sigh.

  Another half mile dragged by before we turned off Las Vegas Boulevard onto the side street that hosted the Dollhouse. The red glow of the club’s sign became a beacon as we advanced then rolled into the lot. There were few open spots to be found, so Colette squeezed the Lincoln in near the back and left the engine running.

  “We have arrived,” she declared. “Shall I wait in the car, monsieur?”

  I could usually tell how wily Colette was feeling by the number of Frenchisms she peppered into conversation. Since our chat on the drive here had been chock-full, I didn’t believe for a minute she would keep that energy politely contained while I dealt with things in the club. Like a real dog, she’d be barking and clawing at the windows in the first five minutes. Or worse, since she wasn’t a real dog, and wasn’t limited by a lack of opposable thumbs.

  I shook my head. “No chance. I’m not risking you diving in after me like a goddamn lifeguard,” I said. Then reluctantly admitted, “Besides, I might need the accountability.”

  We exited the limo and made our way toward the club’s crowded entrance, where hopeful admittees chatted and snapped selfies while the bouncers checked IDs. Colette and I queued up at the end of the line behind a gaggle of college-aged girls preening and tossing their hair like show ponies. You would have thought they were preparing to go onto a stage rather than stand in front of one.

  “Did anyone bring a Sharpie?” a busty blonde asked while rummaging in her sequined clutch.

  “I did!” Her brunette friend waved a permanent marker in the air. “I’m getting autographs.”

  The two of them looked at each other and flashed bleached smiles before announcing in unison, “On my tits!”

  They erupted in squeals and peals of laughter, and I raked a hand through my hair. My jaw clenched tight as thoughts piled up. Mostly about how I looked standing here beside these twenty-something girls in their sparkly minidresses, already high on cocktails and the thrill of tossing singles at scantily clad men.

  And I had a wad of cash tucked in my jacket and the audacity to act like I was above it all.

  Colette picked at her nails, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “So, if the incubus is a prostitute, does that make the wraith his pimp?” She fanned her fingers out for inspection while aiming a grin my way. “The kind who may want to break your kneecaps with his cane?”

  “Maz doesn’t carry a cane,” I replied, keeping my voice low and hoping she got the hint to do the same. “And where did you get that impression of pimps?”

  “I have seen many films,” she replied, and I couldn’t help but frown.

  “That happens in many films?”

  She raised a shoulder then dusted her hands down her slacks. “You’d be surprised. Regardless, I am prepared to defend you.” Tugging open her suit coat revealed the underarm holster for her revolver. The gun glinted in the Dollhouse’s red glow.

  I cringed. “Please don’t pull that out.”

  Colette closed her jacket then gave the weapon an affectionate pat. “Don’t worry. It’s called concealed carry for a reason.”

  We reached the front of the line, where I was once again recognized by the bouncers.

  “Not tonight,” I replied to the offer of VIP treatment. “We won’t be long.”

  I paid the cover fee, and we traded the shadows of night for the moody black of the club. No one escorted us this time, which left Colette and me to navigate the packed room on our own. Bodies crowded in wall to wall, every one of them angling for a better view of the main stage. Before I looked, I felt. The air hit me, thick with sweat, perfume, and the electric buzz of want.

  The lights were down low, leaving the glow of red sconces bleeding across the walls and the occasional strobe to cast everything in breathless flashes. The spotlight pointed like an arrow at the dancer dominating center stage.

  In thigh-high combat boots, hot pants, and a lot of tattoos, Hemlock moved like smoke on the pole. He was fluid and finessed, every roll of his hips coaxing breathless awe from the crowd. A remix of “Tainted Love” reverberated through the speakers, slowed down and atmospheric, like the room had been dropped underwater.

  I came to a stop with my hands in my pockets, letting the dark press in and the music crawl down my spine, wondering when the hell this place started feeling like it was under my skin too.

  I watched Hemlock’s performance, marveling at the way the strobes turned his pale skin paper white and rendered his tattoos and gratuitous black eyeliner impossibly stark. It wasn’t the kind of show to merit whistles or catcalls, but it was mesmerizing. After a moment or two, I tore my gaze away. I wasn’t here to feast my eyes on goth glamor. I had a debt to pay.

  When I broke into motion, Colette did her best to cling to my side as we dipped and weaved between fellow patrons.

  “This isn’t ABBA.” She gestured to indicate the music swelling in the air.

  “That’s more Marvel’s schtick,” I replied.

  “Who?”

  Explaining that Marvel was the broad-shouldered blond himbo with a thing for comic books and power ballads like “It’s Raining Men” would’ve made me sound way too familiar with the place. So instead, I said, “Not all nubile demon boys are the same, Coll.”

  She snorted. “If you say so.”

  Passing the bar, I spared a glance at the hipster mixologist tossing and flipping a shaker bottle with Cocktails-level flair. Glasses lined the counter in front of him, holding spheres of ice and glowing blue liquid.

  This place was profitable, Maslow had said, and I didn’t doubt it. They had perfected the art of selling spectacle rather than just skin. Everywhere I looked, there was something to experience, and I caught myself turning a slow circle, absorbing all that the Dollhouse had to offer. As the final notes of “Tainted Love” petered out, I spotted the exact offering I’d come to find.

  Zephyr was wearing nearly nothing. His sheer crop top was more sleeves than shirt, covering his arms and shoulders and exposing his toned stomach and chest. High-cut underwear arched over his hips, and his legs were bare to the ankles where his toe boots laced up. I realized I hadn’t seen his hair loose before, and I studied the way the choppy layers framed his face and spilled down the nape of his neck.

  He was delicate but strong, soft but sharp, almost too feminine to be a man but shaped with the lean muscles of one.

  It felt criminal to know I’d ever called him anything less than beautiful.

  He was surrounded too, swamped by customers who weren’t too shy to drag their hands across his abdomen or pull on his hair. While I watched, the coeds from the line outside emerged, waving their marker in his face.

  Zephyr swayed back, clearly startled as the blonde thrust the Sharpie into his uncertain grip. Her friend crowded in, stretching the neckline of her dress so low her breasts nearly spilled out.

  The momentary surprise wore off, and Zephyr recovered with a smile. His sharp teeth flashed, and his violet eyes glowed dimly. Feeding from them because they wanted him. How could they not?

  My cheeks flushed at the sight of his skin, creamy white against the rich red of everything else. Even his shoes were a deep shade of crimson, exposing toenails painted to match.

  “You’re sweating again,” Colette muttered from where she lurked at my side.

  The two of us were crushed together as the crowd began to shift. She turned, and her gaze chased mine to where Zephyr seemed to occupy a spotlight all his own.

  He signed the girl’s chest, then moved on to her friend, who boldly shouldered in. When they both bore matching black scribbles on their decolletage, they let out another shared squeal. Zephyr’s smile strained, but it didn’t break until the brunette snaked her arm around his waist and jerked him in to plant a kiss on his lips.

  The warmth—of familiarity, affection?—that had beset me moments before burned white hot. I searched the crowd for security, but the moment passed before anyone could intervene.

  The two broke apart with the girl giggling drunkenly while her friend dragged her back into the mob. Thoughts of the brash woman ingesting incubus venom came belatedly, and I decided just as swiftly that I didn’t care. Let her be enthralled and intoxicated with him. Let her be miserable that she couldn’t really have him because… because…

  Go ahead, I dared myself. Finish that thought.

  Because neither could I.

  CHAPTER

  SIXTEEN

  Zephyr

  The kiss left me reeling.

  It was my first, and I’d thought… I’d hoped that would be with Beck. At least with someone who was more than a face in the nightly swarm and a pair of breasts that now bore my signature. That was a first too.

  She was gone along with her giddy friend, but I was far from alone as I touched my fingers to my lips. I glanced at the second-floor railing where Maslow’s office loomed and checked to be sure he wasn’t there before I rubbed the back of my hand across my mouth, removing the uninvited taste.

  I’d heard they didn’t allow that kind of contact in other clubs. “Hands off” policies abounded, and any advances were at the dancer’s discretion. But things were different here, and I doubted that first surprise kiss would be my last.

  Elliot had exited the stage, taking his usual route directly to the dressing room where he would hide until his next set. He was the only one of us who didn’t mingle with the customers. I wondered how he got away with that.

  The music kicked over to Darby’s playlist, and the previously quiet crowd stirred into an uproar. Since this was his night off from VIP, he’d left me to do the rounds alone. Things had been going well until I was sent to get drinks for one of the rooms and got mobbed on the floor. With the horde now distracted by the next act, I was able to move toward the bar with the drink order scribbled on a slip of paper in my palm.

  Rush stood behind the counter, long hair pulled back and head tilted as he rimmed a glass with indigo sugar. He moved like he was casting a spell—fingers deft, deliberate. The pendant lights caught the sugar’s shimmer, but his wide-brimmed hat threw a shadow across his face, like even the light knew better than to get in his way.

  “Pretty sure you missed your calling as a potion master,” I remarked, sliding onto a stool.

  Rush didn’t look up. “Tried that once. Bad trip. Swore off cauldrons.”

  I huffed a tired laugh before setting the note on the bar top. “VIP order. Two Lustinis, one Envy on the Rocks, and a bottle of absinthe.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “They’re… very committed to making it a night.”

  Rush raised a brow as his tail snaked out and wrapped around the shaker. “You want me to garnish it with a bad decision or just a sprig of mint?”

  I shrugged. “Dealer’s choice. They’re already halfway to sloppy confessions. One of them asked if I came with the bottle.”

  He shook his head while starting to pour. “Classy.”

  “I didn’t know what to say, so I laughed. I think that made it worse.”

  “You’ve got the kind of face that makes drunk people think they’re charming,” Rush said, setting the martini glass aside. “They’re not.”

  He may have scoffed at the notion, but the way things worked around here, I was part of the package. A perk of the experience. And I didn’t get much say in the matter.

  Maslow took the adage “the customer is always right” to the extreme. If a VIP wanted attention, they got it. If they wanted to touch, they could. If they crossed a line, the line moved.

  Darby had been teaching me how to work around it. To guide hands where I didn’t mind them being and to smile while my skin crawled, but some things and people slipped past my defenses. Like autograph girl.

  Rush poured something green and glowing into a coupe, then set it down beside him. “You good, though?” he asked, quieter now. Not a bartender’s question, a friend’s.

  I exhaled, shoulders easing down. “Just need to catch my breath. Everyone’s grabby tonight.”

  Rush pushed one of the finished drinks toward me. “Take ten. Pretend you’re waiting on me.” Then he grabbed a clean glass, held it under the water sprayer, and filled it without a word. He slid the drink across the bar, and into my reach.

  I blinked at him. “You’re not going to tell me to smile and get back out there?”

  “I’m not your manager,” he said simply. “Drink the water. I’ll handle the potions.”

  The lump in my throat surprised me. I nodded and took the glass as he started on the next drink. His henna-inked fingers—those intricate lines and swirls that faded a little at the edges—tipped bottles into the steel shaker with practiced grace. He didn’t measure; he didn’t need to. And he was always so calm. I envied that.

  Thankful for the excuse to waste a bit of time, I grasped the sweaty water glass and spun away from the bar. The cold edge of the counter bit into my bare back as I reclined against it, breathing in the muggy air.

  Across the room, Darby soaked up the spotlight. He dropped to his knees in a corset top with his chest bared and legs spread, dipping low to the driving beat of an Ariana Grande song. I wanted to be there, not so far removed, but my grip strength had yet to recover since Maslow’s extraction, and any drops in my routine were likely to turn into falls.

  Sipping my drink, I cast my gaze across the crowd, letting my eyes unfocus and render the horde a faceless blur. I’d barely begun to pan across the sea of anonymity when an approaching figure came clear. Tall and broad-shouldered, with his hair swept back from features that were somehow stern and soft, Beck cut through the crowd.

  His tie hung loose against a dark shirt, the knot tugged down just enough to suggest either exhaustion or deliberate ease—or maybe both. A fine dusting of gray threaded through the stubble shadowing his jaw, catching the light in a way that made him look more seasoned than weathered. His golden eyes were fixed forward, unwavering, and trained on me.

  My heart rattled inside my ribs, and I almost leaped off the stool, so drawn to him I could have been dragged. But I hooked my heels on the wooden rung beneath me, determined not to betray my desperation.

  Not this time; I knew better.

  I kept my poise as he approached, bringing a blonde-haired woman alongside him. A jealous chill slithered down my spine at the sight of them so close. The woman was tall, especially in her high heels, and undeniably pretty. Her makeup was simple but classy: crisp black eyeliner and full red lips that pursed as she zeroed in on me.

  “Bonjour,” she greeted, squeezing Beck aside while surging into the lead and thrusting out her hand. “Zephyr, is it?”

  The foreign greeting tickled something in my brain, and my guard lowered. I wanted to ask her to say it again. Instead, I replied, “Yes ma’am.”

  Sliding off the stool, I accepted her shake, and her smile spread.

  “He has manners.” She jabbed her elbow into Beck’s ribs as he came alongside her, then addressed me again. “I’m Colette. It’s nice to put a face to the name I’ve heard so much recently.”

  When Beck’s gaze met mine, I was immediately enveloped in the honey warmth of his eyes. My heart kicked again, followed by a growl in my gut.

  At least my body understood what this was. Lust was not to be confused with longing or love. Lucas Beckett was a meal to me and a customer to Maslow, and I was a whore to him. A bill he’d returned to pay.

  But he’d returned with a woman. Did he want to settle with me or share me?

  My eyes flicked between them, conveying the question Beck answered.

  “My associate,” he explained.

  An associate wasn’t a partner—at least not romantically—and that small reassurance eased some of the tension coiled in my chest. I turned and set my water glass on the bar, suddenly aware of how exposed I was. Beck had seen me in far less, of course, but with him standing so close, the temptation to let him see, touch, and taste everything was dangerously hard to ignore.

  My stomach grumbled another complaint that I rushed to talk over. “How can I help you?”

  The question was for either of them, but Beck answered first. “I think you and I need to discuss… things.” He glanced at the mass of bodies populating the room, and his lip curled. “Is there a private area nearby?”