She searches my face, the lightness thinning.“You have left me,” she says, quietly.
“I know darling,” I tell her, knowing I can’t guarantee it won’t ever happen again.“But, no more silence while I’m away.”
Her shoulders ease a notch.“Promise?”
“I don’t make promises I can’t keep,” I say, and kiss her knuckles.“This one, I can keep.”
“We match,” she says, tapping the silk.I draw her in and kiss her until her fingers curl in my lapel and the room goes quiet around us.
“Let’s go,” I murmur against her mouth.“I have a surprise for you.”I help her into her coat, take her bag, and do one last sweep to check windows, latches, and lights.I lock the door to our room and the front door and then rest my palm at the small of her back all the way to the car.
Outside, daylight thins to copper and heat lifts off the asphalt in sighs.Kids lick the last of their ice cream on the curb while a bachelorette troop in colored sashes trades sunglasses for lashes.Valets start their whistles.You can feel the click when Vegas pulls on its second skin—sequins and shadow, bright smile, sharp teeth just behind it.
The first neon pops; more follow like dominoes.The Strip inhales cold casino air out the doors and the sidewalks pick up a new kind of footstep.The day promises you you’re still you; the night offers an alias and swears it won’t tell.
Melinda watches the switch with editor eyes, catching where truth leaks through.I watch her watching it.
Miragewaits ahead, red script and gold smoke warming to full glow.I pull to the curb, kill the engine, and step out first.I open her door before the marquee can finish its wink.My hand finds the small of her back again.
We step through the doors.Miragesmells like orange oil on polished wood, warm lights, a nick of lingering cigarette, champagne fizz, and the faint sweet of baby powder and hairspray.Amber lamps throw soft halos; a blue wash sleeps on the main curtain.Pinspots blink like star maps across the ceiling.
“Evening, Mr.Ashenheart, Mrs.Ashenheart, welcome in.”The host drops the rope.At the rail, security nods.A bartender clocks us mid-shake and lifts his chin, tins clapping shut like applause.Vince, the stage manager, touches his earpiece and slides off stage-left.Alma, the general manager, gives the smallest chin lift, and the lane opens like the room decided to move around us instead of the other way.
After I dropped Lindy from lunch, I came straight here.I met with Alma first and then fired anyone she flagged as an issue.Everyone left was told their job depends on their ability to listen to Melinda, that her word isn’t ever to be tested, and that it always outranks mine.The days I was gone I was on a job, but I could’ve been home before Tuesday.I wanted to walk the floors before tonight, sit with every staff member one by one, and make sure every blind spot is mapped, every corner visible by camera.I needed to know there wasn’t a single man here that’d make her flinch, not a single woman who’d be left unsupported.I should’ve told her.I should’ve come home.That guilt rides shotgun.
But tonight I’m putting the keys in her hand.Mirageis hers.If I did any of this right, the not-coming-home and the silence will be worth the look on her face.I want to build a city where doors open before she touches them.
I kept my name off the paperwork, but Vegas isn’t stupid.The Ashenheart rumor mill, like the city, never sleeps.The people here don’t have to believe it when they hear the whispers about me,ghost, fixer, killer,they just have to fear the possibility of its accuracy enough to stay in line.
Onstage, the feather fans breathe with the band.Plumes shiver on the snare, then glide with the bass.They sweep up to hide a smile, break at the wrist, and pour down a hip.One bare shoulder leads, bare spines answer, and the fans follow every movement like they’re sewn to the dancers’ bones.
Behind the bar, citrus peels come off in long ribbons; a bottle upends in a clean six-count; a bartender mouths an order across the counter and gets it back without a spoken word.Steam curls up from fresh ice.A flame kisses an orange twist and the oil snaps in the air.Coupe glasses fog at the rim; a strainer hisses; tins crack and pour.
Every table has its own little sun: a low amber lamp with a silk shade.The light pools perfectly on black lacquer tables while brass RESERVED tents catch the glow.Velvet banquettes curve along the walls, and a mirrored column throws back a hundred little constellations of sequins and glass.
Servers, men and women, move like choreography.Satin waistcoats, black hosiery, slick shoes.Trays ride high on one palm, loaded with highball glasses and narrow flutes; the other hand drops a black napkin with the goldM, then the glass, then the smile, all in one motion.They pivot on a heel, reload their tray, skim lemon and lime from the bowls at the bar, and never break their count.
Melinda’s eyes drink and measure.Heat lifts under her skin, and the room’s pulse finds hers.Goosebumps kiss her arms and there’s a flicker in her eyes that I’d bet money is wonderingam I allowed to love this much heat?She decides she is and if I didn’t already adore her, the look on her face now would do the trick.The sex here lives out in the open.The rawness we all beg for in secret but rarely have the nerve to ask for screams within these walls.She’s in love with the high and trying to fight it.
“It’s okay to love it,” I whisper, kissing her temple.
Melinda’s eyes flick to mine, ignoring that for now.“They know you, me, by name?”
“Part of your surprise,” I say, easy, and keep moving, steering us to the corner table that sees everything.Water arrives without a word.My arm rests along the back of the seat, palm close enough to touch while the room keeps breathing with her.
“I bought it,” I say.
She takes her eyes off the stage and plants them on me.“You what?”
I take the black folio with the Ashenheart seal pressed deep from my jacket.Keys on a brass ring.Two keycards.Codes.
“This is a transfer of control,” I tell her, voice low.“The club’s fully operational as you know.My name never touches it.You don’t owe me an hour or a dollar.You can sit in a corner with a book and let it sing to you, or you can run it, book the acts, rewrite the rules.Your call.”
She studies the keys, then me.“Why?”
“Because my father put a studio in my mother’s name once.It’s a warehouse we use for poker now,” I say.“The only thing of hers he didn’t try to control.”I tap the folio.“I’m not him.I hated him.But I kept one lesson from him; if you love a woman, you put the keys in her hand.Don’t keep a spare.Don’t ask for them back.I’m possessive, yes, but not of this.I want you anchored somewhere that’s yours, money and all.If you walk tomorrow,Miragestill belongs to you.”
Her fingers hover.“Cassius…”
