“Okay, pretty,” Colette allowed. “But bad in bed.”

  “Not bad…”

  “Not great?”

  “He bit me,” I reminded her, waving my bandaged hand and hoping that would be the end of it.

  Colette only smiled. “And before that?”

  I heaved a breath, defeated. “Not great.”

  Chuckling, Colette navigated the limo into our reserved spot in the property’s parking garage, and we parted ways. She had a room on the floor below mine, and tonight I found myself grateful for the distance.

  I didn’t want to think about failed deals or my nonexistent sex life, but as I boarded the elevator climbing to the upper levels of the casino hotel, those were the only things on my mind. Not the deal or the sex so much as how Cherry had looked curled up in the corner of his ratty bed, hugging his pillow like a child holding a teddy bear.

  Apologetic, I’d thought, in the wake of having sunk his fangs into my finger. But was there more to it than that? More to him than bumbling come-ons and adequate sex?

  I shook my head, ridding myself of such thoughts before they could take root.

  It was a hookup, and the incubus was a whore. One I would never see again because stepping into the Devil’s Dollhouse was a mistake I would not repeat. I refused to be sucked into that muddy, shitty hole because I knew what the noodlers didn’t: every time they caught a fish, the fish also caught them.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Zephyr

  The metallic tang of Beck’s blood lingered in my mouth and soured my stomach, threatening to make an untimely comeback.

  What the fuck?

  That was what Beck said after I nearly gnawed off his finger. What he should have said was why?

  He gave me what I asked for. What I needed. And I should have thanked him, not used him as a chew toy.

  His cum was still inside me, at least what hadn’t oozed out onto my mattress. I needed to scrub him off me and out of me, body and mind, because the way he hurried out after assuring me he wouldn’t tell anyone he’d stuck his dick in the sad, beggar incubus had all but guaranteed our liaison was one and done.

  It was better that way, I told myself as I tugged on shorts and a sweatshirt, then grabbed my shower tote from the top of my dresser.

  I got what I needed, and Beck got… What did he get? An injury. And probably regret.

  So, yes. Better not to go looking for a repeat performance.

  The club was closed, and the other guys would be turning in soon. If I hurried, I might be able to rinse off and get back to bed without having to explain why I missed the curtain call.

  Exiting my room, I shuffled down the hall with my ass clenched to keep the remaining fluid from running down my legs. Whatever else had happened tonight, one thing was clear: I was sated. The empty well that had been carved into my body was full at last, but how long would it stay that way?

  How long would it be before Maslow noticed and took his due?

  If the blood I’d swallowed hadn’t already made me queasy, thoughts of my boss would have. The newly constructed sex room was not the only place in the club with cameras. Maslow had eyes everywhere in the building. He would see that I’d taken a client from the executive suite and led him in the opposite direction from where I was supposed to. He would see Beck leaving after our entanglement, and he would wonder what happened.

  I’d fumbled the whole thing from start to finish. Especially the finish where I’d bloodied a man, and all but ensured he would never bring his business here again. I didn’t charge him. I didn’t even know how much to ask for. It wasn’t like we posted prices for things.

  In all honesty, Beck probably should have charged me for his medical bills.

  I clutched the tote to my chest and entered the communal bathroom to the sounds of running water and a Rihanna song.

  Steam clouded near the ceiling and fogged the mirror above the bay of sinks. Both shower stalls were occupied, with supplies hung on the doors to indicate who was inside. The boa-trimmed satin robe and powder-pink Gucci bag were dead giveaways for Darby. The music was his too, probably coming from a portable speaker in the stall with him.

  The second door was crowned with a cowboy hat, and two pairs of boots were tipped over on the damp tile floor in front of it, no doubt belonging to Colt and Callum.

  I could imagine Colt’s jokes about showering together to save water, and I wasn’t in the mood to hear them, so I didn’t interrupt. Instead, I went to the sink counter and set down my tote. Might as well rinse my mouth out while waiting for my turn to wash off.

  The music blared along with Darby’s off-key accompaniment while I lined up my supplies on the countertop and set the faucet to a dribbling stream.

  Loading my toothbrush with paste, I went to work. Foam bubbled around my teeth as I scrubbed relentlessly at my tongue. I reached as far back as I could go, hitting the same spot Beck’s fingers had touched and setting off my gag reflex. I coughed and spat into the sink, but right behind that clenching, heaving feeling came a rush of arousal. My cock stirred in my shorts.

  That was new.

  I paused for a moment, considering. Then, flipping the toothbrush to the flat side, I slid it slowly toward my throat, only stopping when I triggered another reactive gag. My ass clenched, my dick twitched, and I yanked the toothbrush free.

  I was halfway hard again.

  I made quick work of adjusting myself, then rinsed and spat before stopping to stare at the blur of my reflection.

  I felt different.

  Did I look different too?

  Besides being generally debauched, everything appeared to be in order. Still, the ghosts of sensations remained.

  The memory of fingers invading my mouth started my hands moving to the other parts of my body Beck had touched—my hips, my waist, my thighs, my neck… He’d been everywhere, skimming over my skin, leaving me warm and wanting.

  Before tonight, the idea of being groped by a stranger had been unappealing, bordering on alarming. It happened often in the club. When we weren’t on stage, we were expected to mingle. Chat with customers, give lap dances, and the like. But clothing was its own kind of shield, and it gave me a measure of control. Taking that away, removing that minute protection, made me feel so vulnerable I could hardly stand it.

  But Beck had filled me. It felt cliché to say he’d completed me, but that might have been true. I’d been deprived of something essential, something I found in him, and now I needed more. More of his smell and taste—the skin, not the blood.

  Fuck.

  Why did I bite him?

  If I hadn’t, maybe he would have stayed. And if he’d stayed, maybe he would have held me for a minute or two. Then I wouldn’t be standing in a steamy bathroom hugging my arms around myself and wishing…

  The clatter of plastic hitting the floor made me jump, and I spun toward the nearest shower stall, where Colt and Callum had been remarkably quiet until now.

  “Damn it, Colt, quit stealing my shit!” Callum’s Southern twang ricocheted off the slick tile walls, and his twin’s snorting laugh chased it.

  “It ain’t stealing. It’s sharing, and it’s real nice of you,” Colt replied. “So thanks.”

  Feet scuffled, and the Rihanna song turned up a few decibels. I capped my toothpaste and dropped it into my tote.

  “Yeah, well, maybe you oughta share with me sometimes,” Callum sassed. “Then I wouldn’t be having to use body wash on my damn hair.”

  Colt purred a sound I was surprised I could hear over the racket. “Mmm… Smells nice, though.”

  Water splashed the ceiling above the shower stalls.

  “Quit pullin’!” Callum shouted.

  The music stopped.

  “If you two want to play grab-ass, take it to your room.” Darby’s voice resounded. “I’m trying to indulge in a moment of peace. It’s wash day.”

  Wash day was a weekly tradition, and a lengthy one. It meant Darby would be primping and preening for an hour at least. And the twins’ roughhousing was as likely to dissipate as it was to escalate, turning into a show I didn’t want to see. Or hear.

  None of them knew I was in here, and I would have kept it that way if my next grab for my shower tote hadn’t knocked it cleanly off the counter, sending assorted soaps and my shaving cream and razor skittering.

  I dropped to my hands and knees and scrambled to collect everything. It was possible they hadn’t heard, but with Rihanna on mute, my clumsy ass was the loudest thing in the room.

  “Who’s out there?” Darby called before Colt poked his head out.

  The hornless twin grinned through the curtain of water running from the tips of his dark brown hair. “Oh hey, Cherry. Missed you at last call. Did Mazzy wanna show you his dick again?”

  Darby nudged open his shower door wearing a look of interest. He thrust his palm into the back of Colt’s head before turning a sunnier expression on me. “Zephyr? I lost you in VIP. Went back and you were gone. Becky too.” A grin quirked his lips. “Should I take that to mean things went well?”

  “What went well?”

  Callum peeked out from beneath Colt, prompting his brother to sway back from the tips of his spiraled horns.

  “Who’s Becky?” Colt asked.

  I knelt on the bathroom floor, fairly certain the last bit of cum had dribbled out of my ass and soaked through my shorts. Or maybe that was my own natural lubricant because, apparently, that was also something I did.

  “God, you’re wet.”

  The memory of Beck’s voice sent a shiver through me.

  I cleared my throat and clutched the bottles I’d gathered, then replied to Darby, since he asked first. “He uh… He left.”

  Darby batted his lashes expectantly. “Did he leave satisfied?”

  All three of them gawked at me like groundhogs drawn from hiding until Colt tipped his head back. “Oh, I get it,” he said, then winked. “You were lookin’ at a dick, all right.”

  My face ignited with shame as I scooped up the last of my belongings and shoveled them into the bag.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I told Darby. “Didn’t ask for a review.” My smile faltered, and I ducked away. “Well, I can see you guys are busy, so I’ll just rinse off in the morning. Goodnight.” I stood but didn’t turn. This graceless exit was bad enough without showcasing the wet spot on my ass.

  In an effort to retain a scrap of dignity, I scuttled backward, bumping into the door at the same time Darby called after me.

  “Zeph, wait! Are we still on for yoga?”

  I cringed because I’d forgotten. Darby had suggested I do a few classes for the other guys as a kind of icebreaker. Bonding time.

  Hanging halfway out of the shower, Colt glanced between Darby and me.

  “Yo-what?” he asked.

  Darby stabbed a finger into his shoulder. “You heard me, cowboy, and don’t try to weasel out of it. It’s mandatory.”

  “Says who?” Colt arched a defiant eyebrow.

  “Says me,” Darby replied. “It’ll be good for you to learn how to be a little more flexible.”

  Colt’s lips curled. “Bullshit. I’m plenty flexible. I can touch my toes, lick my nose, and Cal’s too. Watch me.” He looped both arms around his brother’s neck, then dragged him into the shower’s spray.

  The two of them disappeared to the sound of Callum’s giggling protest, leaving Darby staring me down in tense silence.

  “Yeah,” I confirmed. “Yoga. Soon.”

  I slunk back to my room, dropped my tote inside the door, then toppled into bed. It took a bit of maneuvering to dodge the blood and cum spots on my sheets, but I managed, fluffing my pillow then trying in vain to straighten the blanket before resigning myself to shoving it to the foot of the bed and lying uncovered and uncomfortable.

  Light painted the ceiling, shifting in lazy stripes of neon and shadow. I watched the colors change while my body hummed with thoughts and sensations I couldn’t shake.

  I had not been prepared for the intimacy of sex, and not just the part where I let someone enter my body. It was this afterward, the knowing that while I had gained so much, I’d also lost. In giving away my virginity, I’d destroyed the last barrier between myself and Maslow’s designs. What was novel now would soon become mundane, and I would be every bit the whore he bought out of Hell.

  The lights bled from red to gold to electric blue while I squirmed, trying to ignore the dull ache in my ass and the stickiness on my skin. Contorting around the soiled sheets, I rolled onto my side and curled inward.

  For better or worse, I’d done it. It was over.

  So why did I feel like something had just begun?

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Beck

  Sometimes I wondered why I paid for office space.

  Long before the call, chain of emails, and dreadful visit from Ewing Livingston, my business had been in a downward spiral. I wasn’t the only demon who could do what I did. Not in the United States, and certainly not in Las Vegas. I was the most established, which had become more of a hindrance than a help. Young people liked to deal with other young people. They shared similarly lofty ideas and risk tolerance. My methods were proven over centuries, but according to some, they were also antiquated.

  Slowly but surely, I was being outmoded.

  I’d considered retirement. I had the money and means to hole up somewhere for the next century, perhaps trading the Nevada desert for the Florida coast. Or I could roam the world for a while. Colette fancied the idea of a sabbatical and had amassed a collection of cruise brochures she used to litter my desk, highlighting destinations like the Virgin Islands and Mexico.

  She’d left one out today, in fact, advertising a Hot as Hell Singles Sailing that claimed it would help cruisers “Get Forked on the High Seas.” It was not subtle, and it was also not happening.

  Wadding up the pamphlet, I tossed it into my under-desk trashcan, then swiveled toward the window to consider the view outside my third-floor office. A couple argued near the crosswalk, their voices muffled by the grimy glass, and a man lingered outside the pawnshop next door, counting bills with the jittery paranoia of someone who had more debts than time.

  In the distance, the Strip gleamed like a mirage—bright, towering, and utterly indifferent. I’d always thought Vegas looked best after dark. Night veiled the harsh realities that daylight laid bare. Chief among them was the truth that had kept me anchored here for a hundred years: this was a city where people came to lose.

  I reclined in the creaky wooden chair and inhaled the perpetual stink of old paper and dry rot. Behind me, Colette scratched a pen against a crossword, filling in answers that were probably wrong.

  “What’s a nine-letter word for having leaves year-round?”

  The interruption made me realize how long we’d languished in silence; I wasn’t sure either of us had spoken a word since lunch. Sitting up straight, I turned toward her.

  The hellhound sprawled on a faded green couch. The dilapidated piece of furniture should have found the dumpster years ago, but Colette pled a case for it, claiming nothing else would be as comfortable. That was probably true considering the sagging cushions and busted springs were permanently molded to the shape of her ass. She spent most days stretched out there with her shoes off and a ballpoint pen in hand, butchering the Games & Puzzles section of the Las Vegas Review-Journal like she had something to prove.

  I considered her question before replying, “Evergreen.”

  Her pen tap, tap, tapped across the paper, counting the boxes. “I think it’s perennial,” she said.

  “That’s when they come back annually,” I explained. “They still lose their leaves. It’s definitely evergreen.” Craning my neck toward the window again, I peeked through the dust-caked blinds to check the status of the sidewalk couple. The woman ripped what must have been a ring off her hand and flung it to the ground, sending the man scrambling. I winced on his behalf.

  “It fits.” Colette gave her pen a click.

  “What does?”

  “Perennial,” she said. “Nine letters.”

  I ticked them off in my head. Sure enough. But no. Still wrong.

  “That doesn’t mean…” When I looked back, she was already writing it in, so I shrugged. “Sure, go with it.”

  We lapsed into quiet again.

  It had been three days since my visit to the Devil’s Dollhouse, and I hated to admit the hot-bodied incubus had been living rent-free in my head ever since.

  Not that I’d actually admitted it. To anyone. Hell, I barely admitted it to myself. For one, I didn’t know where to start. And two, it felt ridiculous to realize that the so-called “adequate” sex had since been the subject of all my dreams—and more than a few daytime fantasies.

  Matters were not helped when the Strip-adjacent billboard advertising the club got an unexpected facelift. The old image featured the club’s logo beside a group pose of the five headliners, but it had been updated to include the newest addition: the redheaded devil who seemed determined to haunt me.

  It was a flattering picture. Maybe retouched. I thought back to the dark club and the gloomy bedroom, trying to recall Cherry’s face. Had his hair been quite that richly red? Did his eyes really sparkle like faceted amethysts? Had he smiled the way he did for the camera, showing a hint of his sharp teeth?

  He had a cute fucking smile, even if the sight of it made my finger throb.

  “What are you grinning about?” Colette asked, bringing self-awareness that punched the air out of me.

  “Nothing,” I said quickly. Too quickly.

  Colette leaped up, newspaper forgotten, and went to the window. Parting the blinds, she scanned the horizon while I braced for her inevitable deduction.

  “New kid.” She turned, wearing a smile that was far too perceptive for my liking. “He is pretty, Beck.”

  “I know.” I gave my computer mouse a nudge, stirring the thing to life.

  Colette continued staring through the glass, making appreciative sounds that grated on me. “Look at those lips,” she murmured. “Cheekbones… Magnifique.”