Page 143 of Heart Over Heels

Kickass Marine.

Sexy on a motorcycle.

Closet full of medals.

Responsible homeowner.

Lined up like that, it didn’t sound half bad.

CHAPTER

FORTY-ONE

Darby

After ten long days, the LVPD cleared the club, and we returned to find the Dollhouse not quite the place we’d left behind. Everything had been scrubbed, sanitized, inspected, and taped off for so long that it barely smelled like home anymore. Not to mention the replacement equipment and rented furniture that made everything a little uncanny.

Still, it was good to be back.

Word drifted through the grapevine about the body they’d pulled from our cooler. Some card shark had waded too deep into gambling debt and ended up worth more dead than alive. Throat slit, blood pooling inside that black garbage bag—ugly business, and not ours. Proximity could be guilt if the law wanted it to be, but this time, they didn’t. Or maybe they couldn’t. Lack of evidence and all.

Our tip about the angels breaking in also hit a dead end. The detective jotted a few notes on a steno pad, nodded in that tired, patronizing way people do when they don’t believe a word coming out of your mouth, and that was that. The case was closed before it ever opened.

Antonella and her brood remained untouchable. They were kingpins in the Vegas scene with their holy fiefdom built on threats, debts, and wings dipped in blood. And they had their sights on us, no question.

But Beck was right.

We didn’t go down easy.

Now that we were back on our own turf, we stood a little taller. We had our feet set and defenses strengthened, ready to withstand whatever came next.

Speaking of standing taller, that was precisely what I was doing, both literally and figuratively. My spine felt straighter than it had in days as I stepped into Beck’s office, taking a break from restoring the upstairs bedrooms to something resembling normal. The dolls and I had spent the morning unboxing linens, hanging curtains, and trying to make the place feel lived-in instead of crime-scene adjacent. It was mind-numbing work, but it gave me time to think.

Now I was here to talk to Club Daddy about my roles at the Dollhouse—both the job he’d given me and the one I’d assigned myself.

The higher demon sat behind his desk, scrolling through the charges added to his account during the time the dolls and I were crashing at Mercer’s. I didn’t have his black card in my pocket anymore, but I still had it saved to my Amazon wallet.

What a world, right? Demons and angels roamed the streets, but the real miracle was same-day delivery.

Beck must have arrived at the total because his expression suddenly soured. He clicked the mouse a few times then looked again, no more pleased than before.

“Can you explain a few things to me?” he asked while rubbing at his temple. He didn’t wait for my response before starting down the list. “Fog machine?”

“Ambiance,” I said, completely serious.

“Life-sized Aquaman standee?”

“Emotional support.”

“A beanbag shaped like a croissant?”

“Cheaper than an air mattress,” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

I shrugged, and Beck paused.

“Bulk pack of glitter-infused oils?” he asked.