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 Iwaswatching 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 thecropped 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, whynota 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.
