We were passing the blue and purple lights of the fan tail above the entrance of the Peacock Casino when Colette muttered, “The cruise would have been cheaper.”
“Definitely,” I agreed with a sigh.
Another half mile dragged by before we turned off Las Vegas Boulevard onto the side street that hosted the Dollhouse. The red glow of the club’s sign became a beacon as we advanced then rolled into the lot. There were few openspots to be found, so Colette squeezed the Lincoln in near the back and left the engine running.
“We have arrived,” she declared. “Shall I wait in the car,monsieur?”
I could usually tell how wily Colette was feeling by the number of Frenchisms she peppered into conversation. Since our chat on the drive here had been chock-full, I didn’t believe for a minute she would keep that energy politely contained while I dealt with things in the club. Like a real dog, she’d be barking and clawing at the windows in the first five minutes. Or worse, since she wasn’t a real dog, and wasn’t limited by a lack of opposable thumbs.
I shook my head. “No chance. I’m not risking you diving in after me like a goddamn lifeguard,” I said. Then reluctantly admitted, “Besides, I might need the accountability.”
We exited the limo and made our way toward the club’s crowded entrance, where hopeful admittees chatted and snapped selfies while the bouncers checked IDs. Colette and I queued up at the end of the line behind a gaggle of college-aged girls preening and tossing their hair like show ponies. You would have thought they were preparing to go onto a stage rather than stand in front of one.
“Did anyone bring a Sharpie?” a busty blonde asked while rummaging in her sequined clutch.
“I did!” Her brunette friend waved a permanent marker in the air. “I’m getting autographs.”
The two of them looked at each other and flashed bleached smiles before announcing in unison, “On my tits!”
They erupted in squeals and peals of laughter, and I raked a hand through my hair. My jaw clenched tight as thoughts piled up. Mostly about how I looked standing here beside these twenty-something girls in their sparklyminidresses, already high on cocktails and the thrill of tossing singles at scantily clad men.
And I had a wad of cash tucked in my jacket and the audacity to act like I was above it all.
Colette picked at her nails, oblivious to my inner turmoil. “So, if the incubus is a prostitute, does that make the wraith his pimp?” She fanned her fingers out for inspection while aiming a grin my way. “The kind who may want to break your kneecaps with his cane?”
“Maz doesn’t carry a cane,” I replied, keeping my voice low and hoping she got the hint to do the same. “And where did you get that impression of pimps?”
“I have seen many films,” she replied, and I couldn’t help but frown.
“That happens inmanyfilms?”
She raised a shoulder then dusted her hands down her slacks. “You’d be surprised. Regardless, I am prepared to defend you.” Tugging open her suit coat revealed the underarm holster for her revolver. The gun glinted in the Dollhouse’s red glow.
I cringed. “Please don’t pull that out.”
Colette closed her jacket then gave the weapon an affectionate pat. “Don’t worry. It’s called concealed carry for a reason.”
We reached the front of the line, where I was once again recognized by the bouncers.
“Not tonight,” I replied to the offer of VIP treatment. “We won’t be long.”
I paid the cover fee, and we traded the shadows of night for the moody black of the club. No one escorted us this time, which left Colette and me to navigate the packed room on our own. Bodies crowded in wall to wall, every one of them angling for a better view of the main stage. Before Ilooked, I felt. The air hit me, thick with sweat, perfume, and the electric buzz of want.
The lights were down low, leaving the glow of red sconces bleeding across the walls and the occasional strobe to cast everything in breathless flashes. The spotlight pointed like an arrow at the dancer dominating center stage.
In thigh-high combat boots, hot pants, and a lot of tattoos, Hemlock moved like smoke on the pole. He was fluid and finessed, every roll of his hips coaxing breathless awe from the crowd. A remix of “Tainted Love” reverberated through the speakers, slowed down and atmospheric, like the room had been dropped underwater.
I came to a stop with my hands in my pockets, letting the dark press in and the music crawl down my spine, wondering when the hell this place started feeling like it was under my skin too.
I watched Hemlock’s performance, marveling at the way the strobes turned his pale skin paper white and rendered his tattoos and gratuitous black eyeliner impossibly stark. It wasn’t the kind of show to merit whistles or catcalls, but it was mesmerizing. After a moment or two, I tore my gaze away. I wasn’t here to feast my eyes on goth glamor. I had a debt to pay.
When I broke into motion, Colette did her best to cling to my side as we dipped and weaved between fellow patrons.
“This isn’t ABBA.” She gestured to indicate the music swelling in the air.
“That’s more Marvel’s schtick,” I replied.
“Who?”
