Still. Money was money. And rent in New Orleans was at an all-time high.
“Alright,” I said, pushing off the brick wall. “Let’s go sell some feelings.”
The girls fell into step around me like glittery, foul-mouthed bodyguards. Lolly popped her lollipop back between her lips with a loud smack. Burgundy adjusted her breasts so they sat even higher in her bodysuit. Dahlia threw an arm around my shoulders, her skin warm and slightly sticky from the heat.
“You’re gonna kill it, babe,” she murmured. “Just remember: eyes up, tits out, and if anyone gets too handsy, you scream for Remy. Or me. I bite.”
“I bite harder,” Burgundy added cheerfully.
We pushed through the back door and the noise of the club hit us like a wall — thick bass, low laughter, the clink of glasses,and the unmistakable sound of money being made in the private rooms. The lights were low and purple, casting everything in that expensive, sinful glow.
I smoothed my hands down the front of my tiny slip, feeling the hem ride up again. Whatever. Let it ride.
We’d barely made it ten steps inside when the energy in the room shifted.
The front doors opened.
I saw a group of men strutting in — tall, loud, and spelling out ‘danger’ in letters woven of leather and tattoos. The whole club seemed to pause for half a second.
“Shit,” Burgundy whispered. “Trouble just walked in.”
“I thought they had at least another two months to tour?” Lolly mused, watching them shake hands and clap backs with every important Silicon Valley expat and finance mogul.
“Heard Brett broke his wrist — couldn’t drum no more,” Burgundy added. “Had to cut it short.”
“That must’ve cost them a fortune,” Lolly said.
“Go big or go home, as they say,” Burgundy muttered. “And they — as we all see it — went home.”
“Which means they’re gonna spend even bigger tonight.”
“And will get stupid drunk.” Dahlia’s arm tightened around my shoulders, and I could feel her smile before I even looked up at her. “Perfect timing, baby girl,” she said, low enough that only I could hear. “Consider this your baptism.”
Baptism? Yeah, I was way past that. Because I recognized their lead, and not from the posters stapled to every telephone pole in the city. Behind the dark hair, the piercings, and that sharp, beautiful face that looked like sin carved into flesh, was a name I’d seen attached to multiple generous tips on my OnlyFans. Saint Cross.
Naturally, I had thought whoever was using it was using as a bit. A joke, you know. That it wasn’t the real Saint Cross.
But with the way he was looking at me right now, I wasn’t so sure anymore.
The Gilded Lily smelled like home — expensive whiskey, a cocktail of girly perfume, and so fucking many bad decisions I didn’t know where to begin. Exactly what I needed after six months of stale tour buses.
I was already buzzing hard when we walked in. The flight back home had been a long one, and I had started emptying the old JD well before the plane had pulled off the tarmac in LAX.
The second we stepped through those tall, frosted glass doors, the whole club seemed to tilt in our direction. People whispering, women smiling — the usual rockstar greeting.
Black Psalm was finally back where it belonged.
I was halfway through scanning the room for our usual table when I saw her.
She was standing there in the middle of the purple haze, wearing almost nothing, that tiny black slip barely covering her ass. Same soft mouth. Same wide green eyes I’d watched roll back while she rode a neon orange dildo. Same body that I’d pictured under me since I had found her OnlyFans page.
Baby Doll.
In the flesh.
No pink wig. No heavy makeup. Justher. Looking nervous and edible and so goddamn real it made my cock twitch.
“Well, goddamn,” I muttered under my breath.
