Page 112 of Heart Over Heels

The bar lights glinted off the rim of my glass as I picked it up and drained the last inch of beer. Then I pulled a few bills from my wallet and left them on the counter.

Earl and Jack resumed their banter, but I barely caught the words. My mind was at the Dollhouse, lost in the hum of its lights and the hush between songs, the times Darby passed by close enough for me to feel the heat off his skin.

Outside, I drew up beside my bike and stood there, keys digging into my palm.

Even if it hurt.

Even if he never forgave me.

I’d still go.

Because sometimes showing up was the only thing a man could do, and I wanted to be the kind of man who did.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-TWO

Darby

The mirror caught me at my worst.

Eyes red-rimmed, skin dull, and face a testament to a long night and longer day spent scrubbing floors, sweeping up trash, and otherwise piecing the Dollhouse back together. The angels were thorough; I’d give them that. There was barely a corner untouched. Bathroom mirrors had been splintered, bedrooms tossed, and water left running into clogged drains.

It was miraculous, really, how good the place looked. Thanks to every doll who’d stayed up through sunrise, lugging furniture around and mopping spilled booze while swearing under their breath. Thanks to me, running on caffeine and spite. And thanks to Beck’s bank account, which had taken a serious beating to make this happen.

I should have been thankful, but instead, I was scared.

Club Daddy Beck was a businessman at his core, pragmatic and practical. Losing money wasn’t practical. He claimed to see the potential in this place, and wewereprofitable. That was why Maslow had kept us.

But if that changed? If we became more trouble than we were worth?

Beck had tried to shut the club down once. The only reason he didn’t was Zephyr, and that silk-swinging starlet could go anywhere. He had skills that could take him to an entirely different stage. Showmanship. More to sell than his skin.

I had always done this.Beenthis. A slut and a whore. Mercer said those were ugly words, but I didn’t much care what Mercer thought anymore.

With half an hour till open, I sat in my chair in the dressing room with my shoulders slumped and sponge in hand, trying to remember how to look alive. The foundation went on first, softening the evidence of exhaustion. Concealer tackled the shadows under my eyes and the splotches on my cheeks left over from a last-minute crying jag. Better to get it out now so I could deny it later. Cover it up.

Makeup covered a lot of things.

It hid bruised feelings, worry lines, and heartache.

It made me who I wanted to be.

Who I needed to be.

Because when the lights came down and the doors opened, Luxe would be on duty, andhewas fucking flawless.

I leaned closer to the mirror, dragging a fingertip under one freshly lined eye until the corner tilted just so. I put on the face—the lashes, the glitter, the smile—and I became someone else.

Capping the eyeliner, I set it down amidst the clutter of powder palettes, lip stains, and bronzers. Then I confronted the reflection that blinked back at me, still not perfect, but close enough.

The chair creaked as I pushed to my feet and assessed my outfit. My Missus White costume was crisp and pressed, a black dress fluffed with a tulle underskirt that raised the hemenough to show off my legs and give a peek of the satin thong underneath.

Lace-topped stockings rolled up my thighs, and my patent Mary Janes clicked against the floor. I smoothed the apron, adjusted the bow at the back, and stared at the person in the mirror again.

Luxe was ready, even if I wasn’t.

I exited the dressing room with a strut in my step. Outside, the air hit me with the tang of fresh paint and cleaning chemicals. The main room was packed with new and rented furniture, and the replacement lighting rig illuminated the space. Shiny black speakers were stacked, and the liquor stocked enough for one shift with more on the way.