I patted my money clip where it bulged in my suit coat pocket. A less scrupulous demon would have taken the free goods without a second thought, and maybe that was my problem. Iwasa scrupulous demon. Or I had become one.
“You’ve changed, Beckett,”Maslow had said. That truth stuck with me. The wraith probably wished I had taken something else away from our meeting: thoughts about his new construction on Fairmont and my ability to see it through. Instead, my focus was wrapped up in my own shortcomings and the six dancers at the mercy of whatever the Devil’s Dollhouse was, or would soon become.
“You’re thinking about him again,” Colette quipped from her seat beside me. She tested her gloved hands on the wheel of the limo before tagging on, “The incubus.”
“I’d say that’s logical since I’m going to see him,” I replied.
Colette hummed. “Oui, but you don’t often sweat so much when you are being logical.”
I frowned at the implication, then tugged open my suit coat to check my underarms for dampness.
“You’ve been sweaty for days,” Colette continued. “And showering more than usual. Because you are sweaty? Or a different kind of salty?”
She smelled it, of course. The not-sweat that stemmed from an area south of my underarms. She should have been a bloodhound for how eager she was to sniff out clues about my… activities.
“It’s the desert, Coll,” I informed her. “Everyone’s sweating.”
“And showering.” Her lips pulled into a coy smile. “And taking too long in the office bathroom to do sweaty, salty things.”
There was no point in denying that jacking off had beaten out FreeCell in the list of ways I passed the time. Colette’s hound senses were too keen for such a confined space. I could get away with nothing.
“I think it’s more musky than salty,” I muttered.
“It’s both, and it’s also rather noisy,” Colette replied. If she’d provided sound effects of wet skin slapping, I might have wilted from mortification. Thankfully, she carried on, sans accompaniment. “Maybe that’s why they make the club so loud, to cover up all the… moaning.”
My narrow gaze cut over to her. “I don’t moan.”
Despite the warning I conveyed, the hellhound held my gaze without a hint of remorse. “What do you call it, then, when you say another man’s name and he’s not even in the room? Or the building?”
“Pretty sure I don’t do that either.”
She huffed a laugh. “Not when you’re awake…”
I bolted upright in my seat, causing the belt to strain across my chest. “You’d better not be coming into my room again! I confiscated your key card for a reason?—”
“I get peckish at night,” she whined. “And your minibar is so well stocked.”
“Because I don’t eat from it,” I retorted. Then added in a grumble, “Six dollars for a bag of M&Ms is highway robbery.”
“Never mind the chocolates.” Colette flapped her manicured hand. “The dream moaning is nothing to be ashamed of.C’estnaturel.”
I made a scoffing sound, more than ready to deviate from the subject of my sex life and newfound concerns about the hellhound ransacking my suite for snacks at odd hours. But Colette was undeterred.
“I, for one, believe you should indulge those fantasies. Or try new ones.” Her smile remained as she looked out the windshield at the line of traffic ahead. “You clearly enjoy fucking the incubus, and the thought of fucking him, and I would think such a man must give as well as he takes. Perhaps you should let him fuck you.”
My eyes rolled toward the headliner as I drew a settling breath. “Did you forget everything I said before we left? I’m going toendthings. Close my account. Pay my tab. I’m dropping off the cash and leaving.”
I’d rehearsed a few lines too, statements that would explain my presence while garnering limited follow-up questions. When I saw Zephyr, I would take his hand in a firm shake and pin the folded bills between our palms. Then I would say something like,“Pleasure doing business with you,”or“Thank you for your time,”and that would be the end of that.
“But,” Colette began with emphasis, “consider this. If he fucks you, then maybe he owes you? So, you kiss his dick for the two times he kissed yours, then you’re even.”
I turned on her with a flat look. “I refuse to believe you don’t understand how gay sex works. And that’s not how prostitution works either.Hegets paid for sex;Idon’t. Regardless of the position.”
Colette chuckled. “With you as a customer, no one is getting paid for sex.”
“Which is a situation I am trying to rectify,” I retorted.
We traveled in silence another half mile, barely outpacing the foot traffic as we made our way down the Strip.
