“You coming?” I asked Colette, who was leaning against the limo, idly scrolling through her phone. She glanced up to ensure Livingston’s back was turned before making a gagging gesture.

  I rolled my eyes in response, then reached into my suit coat for my money clip. As I recalled, the Dollhouse charged a hefty cover, and if the past few hours of traipsing from this restaurant to that casino proved anything, it was that Livingston would expect me to pay. No matter. I’d get my compensation from him soon enough.

  Approaching the cordoned-off club entrance, I fixed my attention on the hellhound bouncers standing like sentries on either side of the entry. The club’s logo, a bare-bodied demon with red skin and horns, was emblazoned across the double doors. It made me snort to notice the divide ran right up the crack of the creature’s ass, admitting every guest through a gaping anus.

  Livingston tilted his head at my chuckle, but I forged ahead and offered a few bills to one of the musclebound bouncers.

  “Mister Beckett,” he greeted with a nod. “Will you be needing a suite tonight?”

  “Of course,” Livingston chimed in, accepting the offer I’d intended to decline. The running tab in my head of his charges thus far ticked up another digit.

  The bouncer tugged the door open and unleashed a blast of light and music. I’d heard the bass rumbling as soon as we got out of the car, but the actual volume of the club never failed to stun me. It wasn’t exactly conducive to talking, and I loathed the idea of shouting business and numbers over a techno dance beat, but I wasn’t about to ask them to turn it down. Colette teased me enough about being a grandpa; I didn’t need to give Livingston the same impression.

  But my client was no young buck. Squinting over at Livingston, I guessed him to be pushing sixty. My human glamor was more likely to be perceived as mid-forties, sporting the beginnings of crow’s feet and a few streaks of gray in my dark brown hair. I’d tried comb-in color on my temples and beard a few months back, but I must have done it wrong. Colette nearly choked on her coffee when she saw me at breakfast the next morning.

  Gray was distinguished, she assured me. It commanded respect. The way kids were told to mind their elders and gorilla communities deferred to the silverbacks.

  That last part stuck in my craw. Calling me old was bad enough. Comparing me to an ape was damn near unforgivable.

  The bouncer passed us off to a waitress wearing a rubber demon tail and a headband with sparkly pink horns attached. Livingston chatted her up while I lagged, taking in the gothic opulence of the club as we wandered through it.

  The main stage was a raised platform all in black and veined with glowing crimson lines that pulsed as if alive. Suspended above it, a wrought-iron rigging system held lengths of fabric and poles wrapped in dark leather, everything held together with clawlike metal hooks.

  Around the stage, the seating was arranged in an amphitheater style, consisting largely of plush, round booths. The accompanying tables were polished ebony, and their surfaces etched with infernal sigils. Chandeliers shaped like skeletal hands spilling over with red glass droplets hung from the ceiling, casting spheres of dim light. Above the ground floor, a raised second level housed the executive suites, which was where we were headed. They had an elevated view of the performers and glass doors that provided a modicum of privacy, and hopefully muffled the deafening noise.

  As we were ushered into an empty suite, my attention wandered to the main attraction. Most of the performers had been the same since the Dollhouse first opened, which meant I knew them—or rather, I knew of them. I didn’t count stage names as actual identities and, since I’d never seen any of the demons outside the club, they remained personas more than people. I imagined they preferred it that way… maintaining a bit of mystery.

  Marvel, the resident beefcake, attracted the female crowd. Slicked with oil and sporting fluttering capes and utility belts, his signature move involved donning a thong with the Superman S on the crotch, then shaking his moneymaker unironically to Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero.”

  Luxe fell on the opposite end of the spectrum. Petite and perky, he was the image that came to mind when Livingston mentioned pretty boys. The guy was barely over five feet tall, and he lived in ruffles and lace. Very French boudoir, and very popular with the club’s well-heeled clientele, so he rarely left the executive area. Turned out it might have been for the best that Livingston had insisted on a room.

  The twin cowboys, Smolder and Spite, were currently onstage. They were a rowdy pair, whooping and stomping around in boots with chains that jingled like spurs. The identical demons sang along to an upbeat country song while two-stepping in assless chaps.

  There was a pole dancer too. Hemlock. With glossy black hair and red eyes ringed in liner, he had a unique appeal, but his performances were more skillful than sensual. While the other dancers engaged and mingled with the crowd, the leather-clad pole artist came and went in the shadows, rarely stepping off the stage.

  And now there was a new kid. Maslow hadn’t told me his name, but I figured it’d be pretty obvious when someone came out in tights doing acrobatic bullshit.

  The waitress reached a break in her conversation with Livingston, which gave me a chance to cut in.

  “Is Luxe working tonight?”

  The girl turned toward me, then tittered a laugh. “He works every night.”

  “Where?” I gestured to the other glass-fronted rooms. I didn’t spot the dancer at a glance, but that was no surprise given tonight’s crowd.

  The waitress giggled again. “I’ll send him your way. Can I get you some drinks while you wait?”

  Livingston edged into the conversation, brushing against me and assaulting me with the musky smell of his cologne.

  “What do you recommend?” he asked.

  Wrong question while I was footing the bill. But Livingston nodded blithely along while the waitress spouted off details about the club’s bottle service, signature cocktails, and the Seven Deadly Sins flight that got his mouth watering.

  “We’ll take that,” he said.

  Another upcharge.

  My jaw ticked.

  The waitress smiled. “Anything else?”

  “God, I hope not.” My grumble caused her cheer to fade while Livingston went to take a seat on the curved couch inside the suite. There he sprawled with his legs spread, as if anticipating having a body between them.

  I turned back to the waitress, who was waiting. I shouldn’t have wondered what for. Everyone, everywhere, had their hand out, and I’d been hemorrhaging cash all night.

  I pressed a bill into her hand, hoping it was enough to cover the undoubtedly overpriced flight, and she was off at a trot.

  With another heavy breath, I turned from the Western showdown on the stage and faced my client. He was really settled in, eyeing the table in the center of the room with a pole running through it.

  It was quieter in here, and I could hear my own thoughts again. Besides the couch and pole, a small side table held the drink menu, and a corded phone was mounted on the wall. The colors were all jewel tones, and mostly dark. People tended to prefer anonymity when feasting their eyes. Livingston was brazen, and I was vaguely concerned about what I’d gotten Luxe into by calling him up here.

  But the sassy twink knew how to maintain boundaries. I’d seen him run more than one handsy customer out of the club, and it was amusing as fuck. I wouldn’t have hated it if Livingston was the next aggressive asshole to be shown the door, but I needed to get to the matter at hand first.

  It hadn’t just been a dry spell since my last sexual encounter. It had been a long while since I’d cut my last deal too. Blame it on increased competition in the field or my own decreased interest. Either way, I was overdue, and since Livingston had practically thrown himself at me, this was as good a reason as any to get back in the game.

  “So, Ewing,” I began, drawing the other man’s attention. “It’s been a long night. You must be eager to discuss what brought you all the way out here. It seemed urgent.”

  Livingston’s mouth bent in a frown, and his previously relaxed posture stiffened. “It is,” he admitted. “A bit. I find myself facing potentially harmful allegations.”

  That could mean literally anything. From infidelity to embezzlement, I’d been called upon to soothe every kind of scandal. When PR companies failed and people refused to be paid off, I stepped in to pull the strings of the universe.

  Between Livingston’s barrage of emails yesterday and his arrival today, I’d done a bit of digging into his business. He was the founder and chief shareholder of Argus Intellisec, a high-tech security company that recently branched into AI-assisted surveillance. It had made big news, so articles had been plentiful. It had also made Livingston a mint from early-bird investors, causing the stocks he’d monologued about for half our drive here to soar.

  The other man twitched, looking itchy, already giving guilty cues for a crime he had yet to name.

  “Someone believes… they found some information, internal records, transaction logs…” He cast a glance toward the stage, where Smolder and Spite were taking their bows. “Supposedly, they have evidence we sold software to private military firms, and they’re threatening to blow the whistle.”

  I was a little surprised the informant was well enough to be a concern. And by “well,” I meant alive. Part of me admired that Livingston hadn’t hired a hitman instead of a demon. But maybe what he wanted was more specific than a kill order. Some tasks required finesse rather than brute force.

  “Do you know who the whistleblower is?” I asked.

  At that, the other man looked pained. He nodded slowly before replying, “My son.”

  My next breath escaped in a cough. So, Livingston Junior caught Daddy glad-handing with mercenary groups, and he didn’t approve. Finesse, for sure.

  The waitress returned toting a black mirrored tray. It was long and rectangular and lined with a set of shot glasses. Smoke rose from the tray—stemming from a bed of dry ice—as she rested it on the pole table. Leaning forward, I inspected the folded cards labeling each drink: Pride, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, and Wrath.

  As soon as the waitress left, Livingston lunged for the Gluttony shot and guzzled it. We demons had a firm grasp of our vices, but humans were rarely so self-aware. After spending the evening with the man, I could attest that gluttony suited him.

  I eyed the Pride shot, amused by its placement at the front of the line. Judging by the ingredients listed on its name card, it was a spinoff of a French 75. The gold rim was a mess waiting to get on my lips, but it wouldn’t be a strip club without a bit of glitter.

  If I was paying for this indulgence, I might as well get my money’s worth. Enjoying a few drinks would give me time to mull over Livingston’s problem and decide whether I wanted to make it my own.

  Tipping back the shot, I caught vaguely floral notes as the cool liquid tingled on my tongue and then slid smoothly down my throat.

  Livingston reached for another shot—Greed. I predicted it before his hand twitched in that direction. Humans may not have been self-aware, but they were predictable. He’d fallen quiet, and I found I liked him better that way. Let him stew in his troubles for a bit. The more dire he believed his situation was, the more likely this would work out in my favor.

  Adjusting in my seat, I looked outside the suite, hoping to see some sign of Luxe incoming. When the house lights flashed to purple and the spots targeted the stage, my attention was drawn there instead.

  Music kicked on. Far from the country rock that accompanied the twins’ act, this was theatrical and dramatic. I watched and waited until a length of fabric spilled from the ceiling above the stage. It unwound rapidly, spinning and twirling until it took shape. Long and hanging perpendicular to the floor, it looked like a cocoon opening to unveil a redheaded man I’d never seen before.

  Hello, new kid.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Beck

  He was unbound and tethered all at once, simultaneously secure and cut loose as he hung then spun around the length of fabric. An aerialist was close enough to an acrobat, especially by Maslow’s standards. They were practically interchangeable. Until they weren’t.

  The music swelled as the dancer—no, not really… Stripper? Not that either—bound himself in swaths of cloth. Then, he flew.

  I studied him. Not his body so much as the way he moved up the curtain like it was a ladder, then threw himself fearlessly backward, head toward the stage with no safety net or crash pad in sight. But he stayed aloft, suspended by one arm or leg while his lean muscles drew taut.

  And then I was watching his body. Some fine craftsmanship went into that one. All slopes and smooth lines; I could easily imagine what wasn’t already on display in the cropped top that might as well have been painted on and the shorts that barely covered his ass. His feet were perhaps the most concealed part of him, wrapped in some kind of toeless boots that made his legs look impossibly elegant.

  I’d seen aerial performers before. Silks, I remembered them calling the length of fabric he turned into ropes and ribbons that slid across his skin. But they hadn’t been like this. They weren’t like him.

  The song must have lasted four or five minutes, but it passed in a matter of breaths. The young man landed to the applause of an appreciative crowd, and he grinned so widely I spotted the extra set of canines that sharpened his smile. Then his eyes flashed ultraviolet, their glow not masked by the spotlight.

  I’d forgotten about that.

  He looked so nearly human that I’d overlooked what he was and what he was doing here. He smiled like a shark, a predator who smelled blood in the water. And now he was drinking us all in.

  Blinking, I turned away from the spectacle in time for Livingston to give a wolf whistle.

  “Hot damn,” he chortled.

  His interest didn’t surprise me, but the aggravation that prickled up my back did. I brought the man here to conduct business, and now I wished I hadn’t. Not to mention he must have noticed me shamelessly ogling the young, hard-bodied incubus so fresh out of Hell he probably had brimstone on his heels.

  I groaned.

  Why a fucking incubus?

  The answer was obvious. In a place built on the platform of pleasure, why not a creature created to inspire the lecherous thoughts currently running amok in my brain?

  As moments passed, they became less thoughts and more a stream of prickling heat that dropped straight to my groin.

  “Your son,” I said, making my bid to rein in the conversation that had escaped my control.

  Livingston had the good sense to look abashed as he too turned away from the stage.

  “What do you want me to do about him?” I concluded.

  At a glance, this was not the kind of trouble I was inclined to involve myself in. Sparing crooks the consequences of their actions was a younger man’s game, and familial squabbles could be handled by a demon more desperate than me. But Livingston had already robbed me of a fair amount of time and money. I wouldn’t pass up the chance to earn a bit of it back.

  My client didn’t get a word out, though, because someone else spoke first.

  “Is that you, Becky? It’s been a long time.”

  I recognized the voice before I swiveled to find the petite demon standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips. He tipped his head and grinned, his lips stained burgundy in the field of his umber skin.

  “Mister Beckett,” I corrected. “Or Beck is fine.” An obligatory smile stretched my lips thin as I motioned to my client. We’d been waiting for this, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. “Mister Livingston, this⁠—”

  “Must be Luxe,” Livingston purred. He slid past me to grab Luxe’s hand, then tugged it to his lips to place a kiss on the dancer’s knuckles. “Call me Ewing.”

  Luxe gave an affected laugh. “Pleased to meet you, Ewing.”

  Dressed in black and white, the Dollhouse’s premier dancer was every inch the “pretty boy” Livingston requested. He wore patent Mary Jane shoes and lace stockings under a pair of pleated shorts. With a waist binder and a ruffled top that gave the illusion of feminine curves, he was as stunning as I’d expected, and Livingston was clearly taken aback.

  With my client on his heels and my thoughts circling the deal I was trying to make, the floor was open for Luxe to direct the conversation.

  “What can I do for you gentlemen?” he asked. “I got your call and came straight away.” His tail twitched, making the barbed end sway through the air behind him like a cobra dancing for a snake charmer. Livingston watched it, entranced, while I cleared my throat.

  “We’re actually in the middle of something. If you don’t mind waiting.”

  Luxe’s white-lashed eyes turned on me with a hint of irritation. “I bill by the hour,” he cautioned.

  Up went Livingston’s tab. Several ticks this time.

  “I know,” I replied.

  Luxe’s mouth pursed into a coquettish smile. “Then by all means.” Prancing over to the couch, he sank dramatically onto the cushions, then posed, stretching out to make his small body look long and inviting.

  Livingston might as well have been an owl for how cleanly his head swiveled, tracking Luxe’s every move as the dancer lifted one of the shot glasses from the flight tray and gave it a swirl.

  “Ewing,” I said. “I need you to focus. Your son is in a position to burn your empire to the ground, but would he really do that? I assume your business is his legacy.”

  Focus, indeed. That earned me every bit of Livingston’s attention and a fair amount of his annoyance at being distracted from the bite-sized bombshell in the room.

  “I wanted it to be,” Livingston admitted. “But I’m not sure he wants it. Not anymore.”

  Maybe not, since his father had added a heaping dose of corruption to the mix. Tainted the whole pot.