Colette’s dark brown eyes flashed in the rearview as she cocked an eyebrow. She was wearing that stupid hat tonight and the gloves I thought we’d left in the 1800s. And don’t forget the shit-eating grin because her hellhound ears missed nothing. She’d heard every word of the conversation between Livingston and me, and she knew what I would say next.
“Take us to the Dollhouse.”
I could have tried for a bit more enthusiasm, but frankly, I was tired. This song and dance was as old as I was. Schmoozing and smiling and shaking so many damn hands. Making deals. Playing the game.
Livingston cracked a wide grin like I’d said something salacious. It certainly sounded that way. The Devil’s Dollhouse was one of many strip clubs catering to the Vegas elite, but it had a curated cast. Boys. Pretty ones, like Livingston had asked for, and they were demons to boot. I hadn’t asked my client about his preferences when it came to horns and tails, but I supposed we’d find out soon enough.
Despite the specificity of Livingston’s request, my choice of destination wasn’t entirely for his sake. Maslow Umbric, the club owner, had been begging me to come over for weeks. He had a new act. Some kind of aerial circus performer. Oh, and he was an incubus.
It sounded like a lot to me. Like Cirque du Soleil gets stripped. Maybe there was a market for that, but I wasn’t it. And besides, I didn’t waste time on sex demons. They were a sordid bunch, flirting and flaunting every asset to stoke the lustful fires that kept them warm. Parasites, really. Cock-sucking ticks.
Even if it had been a while since my last dalliance—and ithadbeen a while—they were not the kind of honeypots I had any interest in sticking my dick in.
But Livingston might enjoy it. Ideally, he’d enjoy it enough that he’d be amenable to my terms. Few things loosened a man’s purse strings as effectively as liquor and lust, and the Dollhouse offered the best of both.
While we drove, Livingston droned on. He’d played it cool since Colette and I had picked him up at the airport. His placid behavior made a stark contrast to his borderline frantic messages yesterday, peppering my inbox with his flight details before I’d even agreed to meet him.
From the airport, Livingston had given specific instructions: dinner, cards, drinks. I’d had too much of all of it, which left me massaging my temples while he monologued about stock trends. When the limo rolled to a stop, I nearly hit my head in my haste to clamber out of the car while Colette held the door for us to exit.
He drew to his full height beside me and scanned the club’s painted brick exterior where the sign buzzed in classic Vegas neon. They were going for a retro look despite having only opened for business five years ago. Itsprang to life shortly after the news about the existence of demons broke, sinking its hooks into the city and establishing itself as a spectacle for voyeuristic humans everywhere.
Hot bodies on stage never failed to draw a crowd. Sexy, otherworldly beings held an entirely new appeal and, judging by the clutter of vehicles in the lot, the novelty had yet to wear off.
“You coming?” I asked Colette, who was leaning against the limo, idly scrolling through her phone. She glanced up to ensure Livingston’s back was turned before making a gagging gesture.
I rolled my eyes in response, then reached into my suit coat for my money clip. As I recalled, the Dollhouse charged a hefty cover, and if the past few hours of traipsing from this restaurant to that casino proved anything, it was that Livingston would expect me to pay. No matter. I’d get my compensation from him soon enough.
Approaching the cordoned-off club entrance, I fixed my attention on the hellhound bouncers standing like sentries on either side of the entry. The club’s logo, a bare-bodied demon with red skin and horns, was emblazoned across the double doors. It made me snort to notice the divide ran right up the crack of the creature’s ass, admitting every guest through a gaping anus.
Livingston tilted his head at my chuckle, but I forged ahead and offered a few bills to one of the musclebound bouncers.
“Mister Beckett,” he greeted with a nod. “Will you be needing a suite tonight?”
“Of course,” Livingston chimed in, accepting the offer I’d intended to decline. The running tab in my head of his charges thus far ticked up another digit.
The bouncer tugged the door open and unleashed ablast of light and music. I’d heard the bass rumbling as soon as we got out of the car, but the actual volume of the club never failed to stun me. It wasn’t exactly conducive to talking, and I loathed the idea of shouting business and numbers over a techno dance beat, but I wasn’t about to ask them to turn it down. Colette teased me enough about being a grandpa; I didn’t need to give Livingston the same impression.
But my client was no young buck. Squinting over at Livingston, I guessed him to be pushing sixty. My human glamor was more likely to be perceived as mid-forties, sporting the beginnings of crow’s feet and a few streaks of gray in my dark brown hair. I’d tried comb-in color on my temples and beard a few months back, but I must have done it wrong. Colette nearly choked on her coffee when she saw me at breakfast the next morning.
Gray was distinguished, she assured me. It commanded respect. The way kids were told to mind their elders and gorilla communities deferred to the silverbacks.
That last part stuck in my craw. Calling me old was bad enough. Comparing me to an ape was damn near unforgivable.
The bouncer passed us off to a waitress wearing a rubber demon tail and a headband with sparkly pink horns attached. Livingston chatted her up while I lagged, taking in the gothic opulence of the club as we wandered through it.
The main stage was a raised platform all in black and veined with glowing crimson lines that pulsed as if alive. Suspended above it, a wrought-iron rigging system held lengths of fabric and poles wrapped in dark leather, everything held together with clawlike metal hooks.
Around the stage, the seating was arranged in an amphitheater style, consisting largely of plush, roundbooths. The accompanying tables were polished ebony, and their surfaces etched with infernal sigils. Chandeliers shaped like skeletal hands spilling over with red glass droplets hung from the ceiling, casting spheres of dim light. Above the ground floor, a raised second level housed the executive suites, which was where we were headed. They had an elevated view of the performers and glass doors that provided a modicum of privacy, and hopefully muffled the deafening noise.
As we were ushered into an empty suite, my attention wandered to the main attraction. Most of the performers had been the same since the Dollhouse first opened, which meant I knew them—or rather, I knewofthem. I didn’t count stage names as actual identities and, since I’d never seen any of the demons outside the club, they remained personas more than people. I imagined they preferred it that way… maintaining a bit of mystery.
Marvel, the resident beefcake, attracted the female crowd. Slicked with oil and sporting fluttering capes and utility belts, his signature move involved donning a thong with the Superman S on the crotch, then shaking his moneymaker unironically to Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero.”
Luxe fell on the opposite end of the spectrum. Petite and perky, he was the image that came to mind when Livingston mentioned pretty boys. The guy was barely over five feet tall, and he lived in ruffles and lace. Very French boudoir, and very popular with the club’s well-heeled clientele, so he rarely left the executive area. Turned out it might have been for the best that Livingston had insisted on a room.
The twin cowboys, Smolder and Spite, were currently onstage. They were a rowdy pair, whooping and stompingaround in boots with chains that jingled like spurs. The identical demons sang along to an upbeat country song while two-stepping in assless chaps.
There was a pole dancer too. Hemlock. With glossy black hair and red eyes ringed in liner, he had a unique appeal, but his performances were more skillful than sensual. While the other dancers engaged and mingled with the crowd, the leather-clad pole artist came and went in the shadows, rarely stepping off the stage.
