Page 17 of Heart Over Heels

“I was referred here for the security position?” I wasn’t about to mention Luxe. Surely the job was posted somewhere. No need to bring up my contentious encounter with a member of their staff.

When the woman didn’t respond, I thrust out my résumé and added, “I was told you were hiring.”

Her head rocked back in an exaggerated nod then she gave me another once-over. I probably should’ve changed out of my work uniform before showing up here. I’d spent so much time worrying what Antonella and the Basilica crew would think of me crossing to the infernal side of the street, it hadn’t occurred to me that the demons might feel the same.

Was this woman a demon, though?

Without horns curling from her head or a tail flicking somewhere behind that door, I could only assume she was human. Though with the way she looked at me, I wasn’t sure.

Taking the offered résumé, she skimmed over it. “Je m’appelle Colette,” she said while folding the paper and tucking it into her slacks pocket. “Pleasure to meet you, Monsieur James.”

“Likewise.”

She glanced over her shoulder then stepped back and swung the door open wider. “Would you like to come inside?” she asked. Her accent was pronounced, but she was clearly far more comfortable with English than I was with French. “The best part of my job is only having to stand outside after dark,” she added, already pivoting back into the building. “The sun is a cruel bitch.”

My attention caught on the revolver nestled under her right arm, snug in a shoulder holster. It wasn’t unusual—every security officer in the city carried some kind of firearm—but where most favored sleek, modern pieces, hers looked like solid, no-nonsense steel. Practical. Reliable. Much like its owner, I suspected.

“Yes. Thank you,” I replied in answer to her initial question, then fell in behind her.

The shift in atmosphere hit the second the door closed. Outside was noise, heat, and neon. Inside the club, the air was cool and dim and startlingly quiet.

Colette led the way down the short entry hall that opened into the club’s main room.

Tables and chairs were scattered across the floor, and curved booths lined the perimeter walls. Overhead, the ceiling dipped and swooped in artful arches painted deep crimson, catching the low light and giving everything a hellfire sheen.

It seemed a bit haunted. Full and empty all at once. There was no one else in sight. No dancers or other members of staff, but I could almost hear the echo of heels on the stage and feel the phantom bassline under my skin.

Colette cut across the floor toward the bar. Situated on the right wall, it was a sleek, sprawling stretch of dark wood and burnished metal, and the bottles behind it gleamed like trophies. There, I spotted the bartender, a South Asian man who moved so quietly he could have been a ghost. He had a notepad in hand and looked to be taking inventory.

Like Colette, he easily passed as human. Average height, slim build, and with no otherworldly accoutrements. Though his dark eyes did assess me as Colette and I straddled barstools, and he raised a brow in mute interest.

Still without a word, he set his notepad and pen on the bar and turned to start making a drink. Since I hadn’t ordered anything, I could only assume he was fixing something for Colette.

Colette reached across, snatched the bartender’s abandoned notepad, and clicked the pen.

I straightened my back, speech at the ready. It was the same introduction that had made Antonella’s eyes gleam. It enumerated all my tours, deployments, and commendations. Antonella loved the ribbons, the awards I had buried in my spare bedroom closet. She loved what they meant while I only saw them as reminders of who I’d been. Who I wasn’t anymore. Who I never would be again.

The woman sitting across from me now didn’t look like she gave a damn about ribbons. She leaned back on the stool, legs crossed, notepad held aloft and pen twirling between her fingers.

“All right, Monsieur James,” she began.

“Just Mercer is fine,” I cut in, quicker than I should’ve. I would never have dared correct Antonella like that.

She paused with the pen in midair. Then she jotted something onto the notepad.

It was probably nothing. A reminder. But the slight tilt of her head and the way she tapped the pen once before looking up again made me second-guess whether I’d already failed.

Her expression remained impassive as she moved on.

“You’re stationed at the front door,” she said. “A bachelorette party shows up. They’ve brought many penises. Some are being worn as hats. What do you do?”

My mouth fell open.

My practiced speech went out the window.

I’d expected her to ask about my employment history. My strengths or weaknesses. My reasons for applying. Instead, I had a question for her.

“You mean like… human penises?”