Explaining that Marvel was the broad-shouldered blond himbo with a thing for comic books and power ballads like“It’s Raining Men”would’ve made me sound way toofamiliar with the place. So instead, I said, “Not all nubile demon boys are the same, Coll.”
She snorted. “If you say so.”
Passing the bar, I spared a glance at the hipster mixologist tossing and flipping a shaker bottle withCocktails-level flair. Glasses lined the counter in front of him, holding spheres of ice and glowing blue liquid.
This place was profitable, Maslow had said, and I didn’t doubt it. They had perfected the art of selling spectacle rather than just skin. Everywhere I looked, there was something to experience, and I caught myself turning a slow circle, absorbing all that the Dollhouse had to offer. As the final notes of “Tainted Love” petered out, I spotted the exact offering I’d come to find.
Zephyr was wearing nearly nothing. His sheer crop top was more sleeves than shirt, covering his arms and shoulders and exposing his toned stomach and chest. High-cut underwear arched over his hips, and his legs were bare to the ankles where his toe boots laced up. I realized I hadn’t seen his hair loose before, and I studied the way the choppy layers framed his face and spilled down the nape of his neck.
He was delicate but strong, soft but sharp, almost too feminine to be a man but shaped with the lean muscles of one.
It felt criminal to know I’d ever called him anything less than beautiful.
He was surrounded too, swamped by customers who weren’t too shy to drag their hands across his abdomen or pull on his hair. While I watched, the coeds from the line outside emerged, waving their marker in his face.
Zephyr swayed back, clearly startled as the blonde thrust the Sharpie into his uncertain grip. Her friendcrowded in, stretching the neckline of her dress so low her breasts nearly spilled out.
The momentary surprise wore off, and Zephyr recovered with a smile. His sharp teeth flashed, and his violet eyes glowed dimly. Feeding from them because they wanted him. How could they not?
My cheeks flushed at the sight of his skin, creamy white against the rich red of everything else. Even his shoes were a deep shade of crimson, exposing toenails painted to match.
“You’re sweating again,” Colette muttered from where she lurked at my side.
The two of us were crushed together as the crowd began to shift. She turned, and her gaze chased mine to where Zephyr seemed to occupy a spotlight all his own.
He signed the girl’s chest, then moved on to her friend, who boldly shouldered in. When they both bore matching black scribbles on their decolletage, they let out another shared squeal. Zephyr’s smile strained, but it didn’t break until the brunette snaked her arm around his waist and jerked him in to plant a kiss on his lips.
The warmth—of familiarity, affection?—that had beset me moments before burned white hot. I searched the crowd for security, but the moment passed before anyone could intervene.
The two broke apart with the girl giggling drunkenly while her friend dragged her back into the mob. Thoughts of the brash woman ingesting incubus venom came belatedly, and I decided just as swiftly that I didn’t care. Let her be enthralled and intoxicated with him. Let her be miserable that she couldn’t really have him because… because…
Go ahead,I dared myself.Finish that thought.
Because neither could I.
CHAPTER
SIXTEEN
Zephyr
The kiss left me reeling.
It was my first, and I’d thought… I’dhopedthat would be with Beck. At least with someone who was more than a face in the nightly swarm and a pair of breasts that now bore my signature. That was a first too.
She was gone along with her giddy friend, but I was far from alone as I touched my fingers to my lips. I glanced at the second-floor railing where Maslow’s office loomed and checked to be sure he wasn’t there before I rubbed the back of my hand across my mouth, removing the uninvited taste.
I’d heard they didn’t allow that kind of contact in other clubs. “Hands off” policies abounded, and any advances were at the dancer’s discretion. But things were different here, and I doubted that first surprise kiss would be my last.
Elliot had exited the stage, taking his usual route directly to the dressing room where he would hide until hisnext set. He was the only one of us who didn’t mingle with the customers. I wondered how he got away with that.
The music kicked over to Darby’s playlist, and the previously quiet crowd stirred into an uproar. Since this was his night off from VIP, he’d left me to do the rounds alone. Things had been going well until I was sent to get drinks for one of the rooms and got mobbed on the floor. With the horde now distracted by the next act, I was able to move toward the bar with the drink order scribbled on a slip of paper in my palm.
Rush stood behind the counter, long hair pulled back and head tilted as he rimmed a glass with indigo sugar. He moved like he was casting a spell—fingers deft, deliberate. The pendant lights caught the sugar’s shimmer, but his wide-brimmed hat threw a shadow across his face, like even the light knew better than to get in his way.
“Pretty sure you missed your calling as a potion master,” I remarked, sliding onto a stool.
Rush didn’t look up. “Tried that once. Bad trip. Swore off cauldrons.”
