“Make sure he takes care of you,” Darby added, and I blinked.
It was a startling realization, though perhaps not a logical one. I felt safer in a bathroom stall with my pants down than I had anywhere else in the club. Was it because of Beck? Or because I was getting the sustenance my demonic nature craved?
I could have asked Darby, but I wasn’t sure he would understand. I was different from him—different from all of them. While their vices were mere temptations, mine was a primal need.
“He…” I looked down at the tile floor chilling my bare toes, then muttered, “Yeah.”
Darby wandered to the mirror and checked his reflection, adjusting the way his hair curled around the spirals of his horns. With a finessing tug on the hem of his white satin jacket, he faced me again.
“Well, if Daddy Beck gives you any shit, tell me, and I’ll make sure he never darkens our door again. Got it?”
I didn’t ask how he would do that, but I also didn’t doubt it. I’d witnessed enough while shadowing him in VIP to know he had contacts outside the club and customers who would do almost anything for him. Watching him work, I sometimes wondered who was performing for whom.
“Got it,” I told him while trying to work the kinks out of my smile. “Thanks.”
I expected someone to ask why I’d bailed on yoga, but by the time I’d scavenged a late breakfast, showered, and changed, the others had already moved on. Oz and Elliot were in the weight room. Darby was holed up in the DJ booth, sorting through tonight’s set lists. The twins… well, I rarely knew where they were, and it was usually best not to ask.
That left the stage—and my silks—open. The thought sent a ripple of relief through me. I was ready to get off the ground for a while.
I stepped out of the dressing room and onto the club floor. As expected, the place was quiet. Mostly. Near the stage, beneath the dark lattice of the ceiling rig, Maslow stood gesturing upward, in mid-conversation with one of the bouncers.
I’d never thought of Maslow as classy, but lately, I measured everyone against Beck—and few fell so spectacularly short. His pinstriped suit was rumpled, and the buttons strained across his gut. Wisps of thin hair clung to his scalp beneath a sheen of sweat, and he punctuated his words with a cigar, scattering ash like confetti.
The hellhound bouncer beside him was a mountain of a man, with his arms folded across his chest in an intimidating pose. A black shirt stretched across his pecs, and a clear earpiece curled around his ear like a snake. He didn’t speak, just nodded while Maslow prattled on.
I was tempted to retreat. I’d made steering clear of Maslow a matter of course. But with my silks beckoning, I decided to cut a wide angle around the pair.
“Bump the red gels and turn that spot three degrees to the left,” Maslow muttered. “I want them looking like the devils they are, not high school theater rejects.”
I weaved around a booth toward the stage steps,believing I was beneath my boss’s notice until he called over.
“Zephyr, baby?”
A chill crept up my spine as I turned slowly to find him aiming his cigar-bearing hand toward me.
“Get up there and strike a pose,” he said. “Show us what you’ve been giving all our high rollers.”
Both he and the bouncer tracked me as I gave a quick nod then hurried up the steps. The stage was farther from Maslow, after all—out of his range. I could cock my hip or wiggle my ass to appease him, then carry on.
It was easier to move these days. Everything flowed. Gone was the way my blood used to crawl through my veins like sludge. Now I felt light, graceful, like I was rediscovering a part of myself I’d thought lost.
Stepping into the spotlight felt like slipping into joy. I widened my stance, turned one leg out, and slid a hand beneath my shirt. The hem rose slowly—just like Beck had done. I imagined it was his hand instead of mine, inching higher, tracing fire across my skin.
“Enough!” Maslow shouted, though I’d barely begun.
The wraith strode toward me, stomping up the steps in his leather loafers. As he approached, I took a swaying step backward before he caught my arm to prevent further retreat.
“That was nice, baby boy,” he said, his breath choked with smoke. “Maybe you could show me a bit more backstage?”
He said it like a question, but it was definitely a command, and one I knew better than to refuse as he squeezed my bicep then tugged me toward the curtains at the rear of the stage.
Fear spiked, and I glanced toward the DJ booth to find Darbywatching with his brows pinched. He didn’t say anything, just watched as Maslow hauled me into the darkness and out of sight.
Backstage was the least polished corner of the Dollhouse. The narrow, utilitarian space had been clearly overlooked in the club’s otherwise meticulous design. The walls were scuffed black drywall, patched where someone—probably Colt—had kicked through it, and the floor was a dangerous tangle of gaffer tape and cables. A single strip light buzzed overhead, casting more shadow than illumination. Through a worn doorway, the dressing room offered a little more light and a lot more chaos. At night, anyway. Everything was quiet during the day. Vacant, which was what I imagined Maslow counted on by bringing me here.
He slung me around so I was pressed flat against the wall. I braced for the assault. Maslow never smelled like lust, but I had to assume that was what he wanted. It was what everyone seemed to want—to touch, taste, and feel—but in the wraith’s case, I was right about only one of those things.
Maslow took a final drag of his cigar then flicked the butt away to die on the wooden floor.
