Page 3 of Heart Over Heels

The car eased to a stop, and the hum of the engine faded. I heard the door beside me open, admitting sunlight that warmed my skin and slipped under the edges of the mask. Straightening, I smoothed my hands over my thighs as the dry desert heat crept in along with the low murmur of afternoon traffic.

“Come on, Luxe,” Graham said, taking my hand in a steady grip.

He didn’t know my real name. None of my clients did. Real names were for real problems, and this wasn’t real. It was expensive make-believe.

I followed his lead, stepping out with nothing but faith to guide me. My heel caught the edge of the curb, and I stumbled hard enough to spike my pulse. I recovered quickly, masking the slip with a toss of my head and a breath through my nose.

Graham chuckled and tugged my arm through the loop of his elbow. “You good?”

“Of course,” I replied, slipping back into character.

Luxe was always good. Great, in fact. That polished persona had taken years to perfect, starting long before I walked through the doors of the Dollhouse. Most of the other dancers had been thrown into the job with no training or skills to speak of. Our old boss, Maslow the wraith, didn’t care. He’d selected us like candy from a jar and came out with five different flavors of sin, ready for his customers to sample.

He didn’t realize he’d picked a professional.

From a Chicago brothel in life to a Sin City strip club in death, I’d been making fantasy into fact for as long as I could remember. In a way, Luxe was more real than I was. He showed up when I couldn’t. He smiled when I didn’t feel like smiling. And right now, he walked with confidence while I cringed behind the blindfold.

I moved forward with a healthy measure of trepidation. Sidewalk cracks were hazardous for stiletto heels, and the black satin mask that had been cool and comfortable in the car had become stifling. My eyelashes raked over it with every blink.

I lifted my hand toward the mask, but my fingertips had barely pinched the edge when Graham stopped me.

“Not yet,” he said, tone full of promise. “I swear, it’s worth the wait.”

I sighed and dropped my hand again. “I’ll take your word for it.”

With a laugh, he guided me along the sunbaked pavement. We didn’t travel far, but I couldn’t shake the thought of how absurd I must look being marched along Las Vegas Boulevard in broad daylight, tail twitching with agitation I couldn’t entirely contain.

Then came the steps.

I heard Graham start up them and hesitated long enough to register the incline.

Stairs. In heels. Blindfolded.

I pasted on a smile.

“Little heads-up next time.” I kept my tone playful as I found the railing and locked on, trusting the metal bar to stand between me and a very unglamorous faceplant.

Graham didn’t answer, just gave my hand a squeeze and tugged me up one step then another. My calves tensed as my balance shifted, making every movement more complicated than it should’ve been. I felt like a newborn foal finding its footing for the first time.

But no one watching would’ve known. I kept my posture perfect, my lips curved, and my chin tilted to suggest I was enjoying myself. It was a performance—gliding through awkwardness like it was part of the show—and I was nothing if not an expert performer. At least here, no one was shouting over raucous music or palming my ass while I tried to balance a drink tray.

The final step brought with it a wash of cool air, and suddenly we were inside. The distant ringing of slot machines and chattering voices clued me in to our mystery destination.

If Graham wanted to impress me, he would have to do better than a casino.

But the gaming floor wasn’t the endgame. Graham was not the kind of man to be wooed by penny slots or low-bid tables. He led me on, venturing deeper into the building. Thankfully, there were no more stairs, but we wound through enough turns and corridors that I started to feel disoriented. I walked halls I couldn’t see and passed machines that shrieked with jackpot alarms while the world spun behind satin.

Graham talked, but I’d stopped registering his words. My senses were off-kilter, focused on everything but the fantasy he was trying to build.

The creak of a door opening brought me to a halt as the unease that had been simmering finally boiled over. This was definitely not fun. It was claustrophobic and exhausting.

I yanked my arm free of Graham’s grip and tore the mask off in one smooth motion.

Sight rushed in like a blast of fresh air.

We stood in a wide corridor, lined with plush carpet and lit by wall-mounted sconces. In the warm golden glow, it didn’t take long for my eyes to adjust. I blinked then scanned for any clue as to which den of sin I’d been led into.

White and gold abounded. Not the signature style of most demonic establishments. We leaned toward decadent dark velvet with pops of lustful red or moody purple. This building was every bit the opposite. Brass gleamed. Ivory glowed. Crystals glinted. And if that wasn’t evidence enough that I was very much out of my element, there were wings oneverything.