“What’d you say about a bus?”

  Elliot waved his gloved hand toward the street where a towering, two-story vehicle idled at the curb. Some people filed off while others hurried to board, and our group was angling to be among them judging by the way Darby picked up the pace, holding on to the brim of his hat so it didn’t fly off.

  He boarded the bus ahead of the rest of us and met the driver’s request for tickets with a blinding smile.

  “What do you say I sit in your lap, and we call it even?”

  The driver gaped as Darby passed his bag to Oz, then slid into the narrow gap between the driver’s thighs and the steering wheel. He wiggled his ass the way I’d seen him do with the VIPs, men who grinned and groaned while their cocks stiffened. The bus driver was less prepared for the advance, but he gave no further protest as the rest of us piled on and shuffled toward the open space at the back of the bus.

  What I meant to be a hurry felt slow, and the realization that I had boarded a legitimate, moving vehicle dawned. A bus that would take me to parts unknown. Possibly strand me in an unfamiliar place in this sprawling city.

  I could get lost. Left behind.

  The bus lurched into motion, and I staggered. There were no open seats, so I took a cue from the other guys and grabbed one of the straps hanging from the low ceiling. Too late to turn back now, but my empty stomach gurgled with nausea.

  Callum bumped into me as we hit a dip in the road. He peered at me through his fringe of brown hair.

  “You wanna hold my hand?”

  He sounded like his brother, his voice honeyed with a Southern drawl I used to find grating. That was because I heard it most often from Colt, and I’d learned it was more his personality that was grating than his accent.

  Callum’s hand hung in the air, and it took only that second for his twin to grumble, “It’s just a damn bus.”

  Callum leaned around me to scowl at Colt. “Yeah, and he ain’t ever been on one before.”

  Caught between them, my head whipped from one side to the other. I rarely saw Colt without his Stetson—Elliot called it his redneck security blanket—but the missing hat exposed the nubs of Colt’s horns almost hidden in his mess of hair. Less than nubs, they were stumps, almost flush to his scalp and flat. Filed off. I compared them to Callum’s long, twisted ones, wondering and probably staring too blatantly when Callum snagged my free hand and raised it with an air of defiance.

  Colt rolled his eyes.

  “Don’t be jealous.” Callum’s sour look turned sweet as he added in a lower voice, “I’ll hold your hand later.”

  Colt scoffed, then turned his attention to other things, which freed me to do the same.

  If I thought I’d smelled sweat before, it was ten times worse in here. Soaking into the seats and wafting off the passengers who were crammed into the massive vehicle. People sat silently, most engrossed in their phones while a few stared out the filmy windows. At the wheel, Darby honked the horn then tittered a laugh that the driver joined in on.

  But the bus was only a distraction from the big picture outside. I stared, slack-jawed as buildings blurred by. A few I’d seen from a distance and others that were entirely new. Buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, fronted by grassy lawns or stands of palm trees. Ahead on the left, a massive pond spouted jets of water. Pedestrians lined the sidewalk in front of it holding signs and shouting at passersby. I couldn’t hear what they said, but the posters I glimpsed bore messages like DON’T GAMBLE WITH ETERNITY and YOU CAN’T BLUFF YOUR WAY INTO HEAVEN.

  Callum held my hand the whole ride, and I should have thanked him for it. But I didn’t think to before the bus rolled to a stop beside a casino entrance topped with a fan of feathers in shades of purple and green with lights spelling out the word “Peacock.”

  Darby whistled shrilly, spurring our crew to spill toward the exit and off the bus. Outside, and farther from the Dollhouse than I’d ever been, I looked around.

  I was already so discombobulated I could have been dropped into another world entirely, though I knew we’d only gone a mile.

  The others didn’t pause for me, and neither did the stream of foot traffic weaving around us like fish following an unseen current. Callum broke free and kept his promise to grab Colt’s hand. The pair trotted side by side toward the neighboring building, done up in hot pink and black and labeled The Crowndell.

  I stayed at the back of the pack, torn between playing this stressful game of follow the leader and processing the assault of sights and sounds that only intensified when we entered the casino.

  Noise was constant at the Dollhouse. Songs we rehearsed day after day, then performed night after night. It was music and light and every bit the bustle I walked into now, but the darkness there was like a cushion, softening all the things that were suddenly sharp.

  Everything shimmered—mirrors, glass, sequins. My flip-flops caught on the edge of the carpet, and I stumbled. No one looked back. The five of them were already moving, weaving through the clatter and clang like they belonged here. Like they’d been doing this forever.

  I scrambled to keep up, trying not to stare at the walls, or the floor, or the ceiling that somehow felt too low and too high all at once. Someone laughed too loudly to my left, and I flinched, my pulse jumping. Slot machines chirped and sang. Mechanical voices announced wins and losses. It felt like being inside a pinball machine.

  People bumped me. Shoulders. Elbows. No one said excuse me. They didn’t even pause. I was invisible and too visible at the same time.

  When the elevator bank came into view, I focused on it. Silver doors. Small spaces. Somewhere I could breathe.

  Darby pressed the button to call a car down. When the door opened, a stranger cut between me and Oz, and I stumbled into his back in my hurry to board. The man shot me a look, then muttered something about tourists. My rasped apology was swallowed by the ring of a nearby machine hitting a jackpot.

  The six of us plus the unnamed stranger packed into the elevator, where I wedged into one corner and put my back to the mirrored wall. The stranger disembarked on the fifth floor and left us to ride the rest of the way to the rooftop. It was quiet with the guys toe-tapping and jabbing each other with their elbows, and I took the chance to reorient myself before we arrived on the eleventh floor.

  Oz held the door until I made it off, and we broke into daylight once more. On the Crowndell’s roof, I was higher than I’d ever been, and struck dumb.

  It wasn’t just a pool; it was a playground.

  White cement framed half a dozen bodies of water. Square soaking tubs formed a perimeter around larger areas designed for paddling or floating. Massive palm trees soared overhead, casting shade over hot-pink lounge furniture. With the midday glare reflecting off every ripple, the water looked crisp, inviting, and as blue as the sky.

  We paraded onto the rooftop as if it were a stage. Here, the sun was our spotlight and the hotel guests our audience. I kept my towel up while the other guys stripped down, tugging off shirts and tossing them onto available chairs. Darby was the star, though. Front and center, he flaunted a bikini so skimpy it was practically theoretical. The sun hat covered more of him than his clothes did, and he kept that on, prancing on his toes so his legs and ass flexed.

  Our arrival was enough of an event to turn heads, including the man in the white seersucker suit who’d been lounging against the poolside cabana.

  Vaughn Ashford looked different in the daylight. His dark skin glowed with a warm sheen, and his white teeth flashed as he smiled, already moving toward us. In just a few strides, he targeted Darby at the front of our group.

  “Good to see you, sweetheart,” Vaughn crooned, slipping smoothly into Darby’s orbit. “Glad you made it. And you brought your friends.”

  Darby preened under the older man’s attention, batting his lashes and curving his lips in a demure smile. “I thought they’d give some ambiance to your little slice of paradise. Hope that’s all right.”

  Vaughn bobbed his head. “Not a problem at all. They’re welcome to stay.” He raised his gaze over Darby’s head to address the rest of us where we hung back. “You boys help yourselves to something from the bar while you’re here. On the house.”

  Elliot headed for the cabana bar while Colt, Callum, and Oz took off for the nearest pool. I waited, debating over which way to go while listening to the tail end of Vaughn and Darby’s conversation.

  “Baby, you’re too kind,” Darby said, his voice breathy and low.

  Vaughn’s smile widened. “Don’t I know it?”

  They both laughed as Darby glanced toward the pool. His orange eyes glimmered with interest. Then Vaughn’s arm hooked around his waist, reeling him in so he had to tip his head all the way back to see past the floppy brim of his hat.

  Vaughn bent in and dragged a hooked finger across Darby’s cheek. “Why don’t you sit with me for a while?” he asked. “Spend a little quality time.”

  Momentary tension fled Darby’s body, and he smiled in a perfectly practiced way. “Of course,” he said.

  As I watched them walk off, I recognized the carefully crafted charm on Darby’s face as he engaged the other man. This wasn’t a day off for him. It was just the same job in a different setting. He’d been right when he told Colt he was the one on the guest list. He was also the one paying the cover charge.

  If this was a gift, I didn’t want to waste it, but I wasn’t sure where to go. Colt, Callum, and Oz were causing a splash, roughhousing in the pool like overgrown teenagers. Their chaos had already driven the few other swimmers to seek quieter waters.

  Instead of diving into the mess, I drifted toward the shade, where Elliot was lounging with a drink in hand, isolated in a pocket of calm.

  As I lowered myself onto the chair next to his, Elliot plucked the garnish from his glass and held it out with a look of contempt.

  “Never eat these things,” he said in reference to the skewered cherries and orange slice. “Fruit that’s been sweating on a bar top for six hours isn’t a snack; it’s a health code violation.”

  Leaning over, he stabbed the skewer into the potted base of the palm tree beside him, then wiped his fingers on his pants. He sipped from the cocktail, then set it aside to pull a pack of cigarettes from one of his many pockets.

  After ferrying countless orders to and from the executive suites, my drink knowledge was rapidly expanding, but I didn’t have much taste for the stuff. Even the ones that looked pretty burned my throat and made my eyes water. Rush said I was too light for hard liquor. That didn’t stop the VIPs from insisting on me taking sips of their martinis and getting tipsy on wine, hoping I’d let them get handsy.

  Elliot dumped a cigarette and lighter out of the pack and fired up, then took a long drag. “Why aren’t you in the pool?” He waved the cig toward the trio making waves in the water, then he shot me a side-eye. “Are we having an itsy-bitsy bikini moment?”

  “A what?” I didn’t realize he’d seen my borrowed suit, though the strings tied around my neck must have indicated what I was hiding.

  He smirked, then took another drag. “You should get out there. No sense in being shy. Your body’s practically a tourist attraction. Might as well advertise.”

  “C’mon, Cherry, we need a fourth!” Colt shouted from the pool. I turned to see him waving. “Darb’s busy slutting it up, and Ellie’s too afraid I’ll drown his sad ass to play.”

  “Go to hell, Colt!” Elliot barked.

  Colt splashed the water, sending out a spray that splattered on the pavement at our feet. “Tried it,” he replied. “Wasn’t for me.”

  I watched them for a moment. Oz dipped under the water’s surface while Callum paddled forward. He climbed onto Oz’s shoulders and hung on as Oz rose to standing, forming a two-man tower.

  “A fourth for what?” I called over.

  Callum beamed. “Water chicken!”

  Glancing back at Elliot, I asked, “What’s that?”

  With the cigarette pinned between his teeth, Elliot replied, “Dumb game. But a good excuse to kick Colt in the dick if he drops you.”

  “Do you want me to kick him in the dick?” I asked.

  Elliot smirked around the cig. “It would be the highlight of my year.”

  From the pool, Colt bellowed again. “Don’t go poisoning him against me, you damn viper!” He flashed a toothy grin. “I’m looking forward to having his pretty thighs wrapped around my head all nice and snug. Makes a man feel at home.”

  Elliot made a gagging sound while I shook my head and stood.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

  Shedding the towel spurred a catcall from Colt, and I fought the urge to bundle back up. But I was used to this—the attention, the display, the stares coming from people scattered across the rooftop. Subtle wafts of lust carried on the breeze and caressed my bare skin.

  Nothing had changed, like Darby said. I was just a pretty man in a bikini, and I was hungry enough to let them want me. Even Colt eye-fucked me all the way into the water while Callum shot him a filthy look for it.

  It felt good. I liked the spotlight, after all. Riding on Colt’s shoulders in tiny clothes wouldn’t earn me applause, but it dulled my hunger and gave me something else to feel. Something good. Something hopeful.

  Away from the club and its cloying dark, the air tasted different. The sun was hot on my skin, and the sky seemed close enough to touch. For the first time in this life, I wasn’t performing. I was just… living.

  The afternoon skipped by far too quickly, and Darby rounded us up for a swift return to the Dollhouse. I got a seat on the bus ride back and practically pressed my face to the window, committing every sight to memory.

  Just before dusk, we climbed up the knotted sheet and spilled into Colt and Callum’s room soggy, sunburned, and satisfied.

  As we filed out into the hall, heading to our separate bedrooms to get changed for club opening, Darby caught my attention.

  “How was that, Cherry?” he asked. “Did you have fun?”

  I’d lost track of him at the Crowndell. For a while, he’d been cuddled up with Vaughn on a big round daybed in a remote corner of the rooftop, then they’d disappeared. I should have checked on him, and felt a little guilty for only thinking to do so now.

  “I did. Did you?”

  He gave me that same smile, rehearsed and a little bit fake, then nodded. “Of course.” He adjusted the bulky beach tote slung over his shoulder, then tapped his finger on the tip of my nose. The touch hurt a little, which was explained when he said, “Meet me in the dressing room in five. Mazzy won’t believe you got that pink sitting inside all day.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-ONE

  Beck

  Ten days after the first time I snuck Zephyr out of the club, I felt like a man possessed. Visits to the Dollhouse had become a nightly occurrence, as had trysts in the limo, courtesy of the building’s unguarded rear entrance. I’d grown accustomed to the incubus’s smell in my nose, his taste on my tongue, and his fingerprints stamped on my skin.

  I needed an intervention.

  A goddamn exorcism.

  At least some straight talk.

  I was fucking a stripper. Granted, a fancy one who could bend in all the right places and whose violet eyes burned like he saw no one but me. Even so, he was a professional whore paid to entice and excite, and damn if he hadn’t done a job on me.

  We seemed to be getting away with it too. The subject of Maslow hadn’t come up again, so I’d put my curiosity aside. Still, it was strange how voracious Zephyr was. He met me every night with greedy hands and pleading eyes, ready to suck and fuck and sate his hunger. And I indulged him. Couldn’t deny him.

  Taking him into my lap afterward, where he lay curled up and content, had become the highlight of my days. Those quiet, stolen moments were spent nosing into his hair and stroking the soft planes of his skin, until duty called him back to the club. Back to reality. Away from the stretch Lincoln that had become a sanctuary for us both.

  There, in that temporary refuge, I could deny the truth that I was likely just one in a string of lovers. A customer. Though I never did pay him.

  That was the line we hadn’t crossed. He said he didn’t want money, and I didn’t offer because the second it became transactional, whatever we had would lose its meaning. The feelings I tried to suppress would be cheapened. And I was already skirting too close to something dangerous.

  Because the only thing worse than fucking a stripper was falling for one.

  It was too soon for that. Maybe it would always be too soon. I’d told Zephyr he was a businessman, but the truth was, the gap between us felt enormous. Having him on my arm in public would invite stares, judgment, cruel assumptions. That he was a toy. That I was a lonely man grasping for something he couldn’t have.

  So continued the denial.

  But I could keep nothing from Colette.

  She sat across from me in a corner booth in the Grecian Hotel lounge, basking in old-world glamor. Along the wall behind her, ivory columns sprouted from the polished floors, each carved with scenes from myth—Apollo chasing Daphne through curls of laurel, Hades pulling Persephone into the underworld, and Dionysus laughing with his wine-guzzling entourage.

  Ceiling panels depicted the vault of Olympus: deep blue scattered with starry constellations. And above the bar, a mural of Eros and Psyche with wings unfurled and bodies entangled in a kiss loomed like a promise. Or a warning.

  Colette swirled her martini while I nursed the smoked bourbon monstrosity the waiter swore I’d love. When I glanced up, the hellhound was watching me with a half-cocked grin.

  “What?” I asked, shifting under her gaze.

  “You’re glowing.”

  “I’m not glowing.”

  “You are,” she insisted. “Positively radiant. Like you’ve been kissed by a man who believes gravity is optional.”

  She meant Zephyr’s aerial routine, which she’d managed to see the same way she’d managed to accompany me to the club, despite being banned. It turned out a hat and sunglasses made for an effective enough disguise, and Maslow’s security measures weren’t as strict as he likely believed.