Page 24 of Heart Over Heels

Then came the verified beefcake the announcer introduced as “Marvel.” He was tall, blond, and broad, wearing glasses with a red satin cape, blue underwear, and posing in front of a stylized “S” projected onto the curtain behind him. The combination had me perplexed.

Wasn’t Superman a DC character?

It didn’t bear scrutiny.

As the night wore on, I waited for someone in particular. Luxe. His card had been tucked in my wallet since he gave it to me. Too many times, I’d pulled it out and admired his little smirk. Studied the color of his eyes, like burnt honeycomb. Wondered how someone so small could have such an enormous presence.

I imagined he would command the stage. Cause a damn riot with his frills and heels and the sway of his hips. I could almost see it: supple brown skin bared from his neck to his navel, tapered waist, flat stomach, maybe a belly button ring? And when he stripped, what would remain? Shorts? Panties? Even less?

“Alors, mon grand.” Colette’s voice sliced through my thoughts, rich and amused. “How goes it?”

My gaze snapped to the line snaking through the cordons. The man at the front was glowering, ID in hand and arm extended toward me. I wasn’t sure how long he’d been waiting.

Colette leaned over, her perfume trailing through the air as she unhooked the red velvet rope from its stanchion and swung it across to block the line.

She offered a trite smile to the man still flashing his ID. “Sorry, we’re full.”

The man’s scowl deepened as he stepped aside and muttered something under his breath.

Colette sidled up to me, her gaze sweeping the queue as she counted heads. There looked to be about twenty left, and since she’d roped off the entrance, a few stragglers were already peeling away toward their cars.

I’d been posted here for hours, watching people stream in and out while the sun slid below the horizon. Now it was fully dark—or as dark as it ever got on the Strip. I’d always thought the city was at its best like this, neon flashing like multicolored stars and the traffic flowing past in bright ribbons of tail and headlights.

“I’ll ask again,” Colette said, clearing her throat. “How is it?”

Pulling the tally counter from my pocket, I glanced at the number. Almost three hundred guests so far, which was paltry by Basilica standards, but with the Dollhouse being only a fraction of the casino’s square footage, capacity must have been somewhere in the low hundreds.

“Busy,” I replied, which might have been an understatement.

Patrolling the casino required a lot of movement. Walking the circuit, making my rounds. Here, I was mostly stationary, yet so much more active. Looking ahead and looking back, watching for trouble in what felt like multiple dimensions. It was hectic then loud again as the door swung open behind me and the entirety of a bachelorette party stumbled out.

No penis hats. I’d checked.

Despite the flurry of activity, I’d had time enough to fantasize, and the presence of mind to wonder what I was missing now that the doors were closed to newcomers.

I tipped my head toward the building behind us. “Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“There’s no room inside,” Colette replied. The club’s red devil sign tinted her blonde hair and cast ghoulish shadows across her face as she grinned. “Or weren’t you listening?”

“I heard.”

“Bien.” She nodded. “I’m here to relieve you. You can take a break. Get a drink if you’d like.”

A break sounded nice. And it made for a timely excuse to see who was coming next to the stage.

With a quick thanks to Colette, I slipped inside.

Thus far, my time at the Dollhouse had been like putting together pieces of a puzzle.

During my interview, it had been quiet and lifeless, almost dull. When I arrived for my shift, the place was waking up—dancers drifted across the floor and the air hummed with anticipation. The owner, a stoic middle-aged man who’d introduced himself as Lucas Beckett, shook my hand and then left me to it. The entire onboarding process had been so informal that I wondered if I’d be getting a paycheck at all, or if this was the sort of place that paid cash under the table.

Now, with the building packed to the gills, the Dollhouse had a heartbeat. Strobes flared and a disco ball spun overhead, scattering droplets of light across the crowd. Between sets, the chatter swelled, people leaning close and shouting over the relentless music.

Waitresses—all human from what I could tell and sporting demon horn headbands and rubber tails—weaved through the throng. Behind the bar, the bartender was a show unto himself, slinging drinks in a blur, filling four, five, six orders at once while the counter stayed lined with customers three deep.

I made my way in that direction just as the next dancer was announced.

“From shadows to spotlight, he commands the pole. Give it up for Hemlock!”