Page 10 of Heart Over Heels

Darby

Heaven was a black card.

I might’ve drooled a little when Club Daddy Beck pulled his no-limit credit card from his wallet and handed it over. There were conditions, surely, but I didn’t hear a single one. I was too busy prancing my happy ass out of Beck’s office and down to the floor to find my favorite strongman, Oz.

I’d just been given the keys to the kingdom, which was exactly the pick-me-up I needed after my brush with the worst the Basilica Casino had to offer. Unsurprisingly, Graham called to apologize for landing me in holy hot water. I only wished he’d shown his face at the club so I could’ve sicced Colette on him. Our resident hellhound wasdyingto flex her newfound site security muscles with something more hands-on than checking birthdates on IDs.

Colette might not have loved guarding the front door, but damn did we need her. Business was booming, and it was a lot for one person to manage alone. I hadn’t been kidding when I told that square-jawed softie at the Basilica we were hiring. Not that I wantedhimhere. The angels couldn’t wait to scrub myhellish stain off their white marble floors, and I didn’t want their castoffs in my club.

But yes, Graham called. And texted. And left a few groveling voicemails. But from the security officer who asked for my number I got nothing but radio silence. I saw the shift in him the moment he realized who—and what—I was. His lizard brain took over, and it was like he saw me in a whole new light.

His interest wasn’t sleazy, but itwasobvious. I knew the signs. Pupils dilated despite the glaring Nevada sun, sweat glistening at the shaved sides of his hairline, cheeks dusting with pink. He’d seemed like a decent guy, and I appreciated him sparing me whatever nastiness his coworkers might’ve had planned.

But he hadn’t called, and he hadn’t come by, and that was fine.

I had a kingdom to run.

Besides bouncing badly behaved guests on the nightly, Colette served as our daytime chauffeur. I knew Becky was a pretentious son of a bitch, but the private limo was next-level snobbery. That didn’t stop me from enjoying it, though, and sizing up exactly how many bags and boxes I could cram into the stretch Lincoln’s spacious interior.

I turned to my shopping companion, who lounged across from me like a golden retriever in human form, all sunshine and muscle.

“All right, Ozzy-bear,” I began. “We are men on a mission. And what is our mission?”

Oz held up the list I’d given him. It was a veritable scroll, crammed margin to margin with everything from costumes and makeup to tea strainers and curtain rods. Mammon’s Mile offered the best local shopping, and I was the best shopper I knew.

“You have the map?” I asked.

With a solemn nod, Oz produced the pamphlet I’d picked up a few days ago. It listed every store in the mall along with the food court offerings. I’d marked our route with a bright pink highlighter, and Oz had added a fat red X at the Asian place he wanted to hit for lunch. I didn’t trust mall sushi, but since he’d agreed to be my pack mule for the day, I owed him. Lunch was the least I could do.

Leaning forward, I peered into the limo’s minibar. It was a sleek little compartment lined with crystal-cut bottles, miniature cans of tonic, and a set of glassware. To one side, a bottle of red wine rested in a cradle, begging for attention.

“You know,” I said, lifting the bottle from its nest, “Becky’s been doing a lot for us lately… and by doing, I mean buying.”

Oz shot me a side-eye. “He’s beendoingstuff too.”

I waved him off. “He’s a supervisor. An overseer. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. But I appreciate him, and I think we should do something to give back. Say thanks.”

I passed Oz the bottle and a corkscrew.

“Maybe a card? Chocolates?” he offered as he got to work. “Or flowers? Some guys like flowers…”

“I’m thinking something flashier,” I replied. “Something that will earn back a bit of the money he’s been so graciously throwing our way.”

The cork popped loose, and I snagged a glass from the rack then held it out for a pour.

“How do you feel about a theme night?”

Oz’s eyebrow arched over the frames of his glasses. “What’s that?”

He filled the glass halfway before I gave him a “keep going” motion. It wasn’t until the wine flirted with the rim that I signaled him to stop.

I sipped it down just enough to avoid sloshing merlot all over my outfit, then scooted back on the bench seat and kicked one leg over the other.

“We can frame it like a reopening,” I explained. “Under new management. Make it a party. How’s this for a slogan? The Devil’s Dollhouse: Come Play with Us!”

I snickered at the innuendo while my brain conjured images of promo posters, custom drink menus, and new setlists. I could deliver a night like the Dollhouse had never seen. Club Daddy would be so impressed that he might promote me again. I wasn’t sure what title came above manager, but I’d always been partial to CEO.

While I fantasized, Oz twisted the wine bottle in his big hands.