Page 38 of Heart Over Heels

I was tempted to make a comment about him wanting to stay and make eyes at Rush a while longer, but I bit that back and said instead, “Knock first.”

Callum blushed redder then bobbed his head.

“Tell him to meet us out back,” Rush advised.

With another wobbly nod, Callum made his getaway.

Oz’s number was wrapping up, which made Rush’s timing impeccable. The bartender stood by while I offloaded my clipboard onto a neighboring chair, then stood and swept my hands down my velour shorts.

“Ellie, you’re up next,” I called toward the corner booth. “Go ahead and get started. I’m not sure how long I’ll be.”

With a grunt, Elliot hauled himself to his feet, fussing with the sleeves of his emerald rayon suit. The material was cheap, but it had the sheen I couldn’t match with anything else. I already knew when the spotlights hit him, my grumpy baby was going to glow.

“I’m gonna fall on my ass,” Elliot groused as he walked toward the stage. “Or on my head. Got no fucking grip in this monkey suit.” He shrugged his shoulders, and his tail gave an agitated shiver.

“Then it’s a good thing you’ve got that cute cummerbund and hot pants on underneath,” I replied.

Elliot puffed a breath up into the inky fringe of his hair. “‘Cute’ and ‘cummerbund’ are two words that should never exist in the same sentence. Or on my body.” He slid a thumb underthe folded fabric around his waist and gave it a tug. “Feels like I’m wearing a fucking girdle.”

“Then ditch it.” I grinned. “Throw it into the crowd. Make the ladies scream. I trust your instincts.” I gave his outfit a final once-over, hesitating on the black leather fingerless gloves that would have looked better on a biker than on a snappy State Department employee.

“While you’re at it, lose the gloves too,” I told him.

Elliot’s shoulders came up, and he clenched his fists like I might try to yank the gloves off him. “I need them.”

“For what?”

He scowled, and his eyes blazed red. Paired with the all-green ensemble, the crimson glow was almost festive. Like a pissed off Christmas tree.

When I only shrugged, he snapped, “Unless you’re gonna hike your skirt and get on the pole, then maybe you should leave me to it.”

“Darby?” Rush stood by, patiently waiting for me to answer his summons. He didn’t usually interrupt rehearsal unless… Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember a time he’d interrupted rehearsal at all, which renewed my sense of urgency.

I wished Elliot good luck then hurried after the bartender as he led the way toward the rear of the building.

The Dollhouse had two back doors. One was the designated smoke hole, and the other branched off the bar area and was largely reserved for receiving supply shipments. That was where Rush took me, shouldering ahead through the heavy steel door and letting in a blast of daylight.

Outside, the narrow edge of the parking lot curved around, creating enough space for a delivery truck. There was no truck, though, just a patch of blistering asphalt and stacks of what had once been boxes. Now they slumped like ruined sandcastles, sagging and disintegrating under the tide of liquor that bledfrom their seams, melting the cardboard to pulp. Beneath them, puddles spread across the pavement.

“What the hell…” My words trailed off as I took in the wreckage.

Rush reached into his pocket, drew out a folded sheet of paper, and flicked it open with a snap. “This was taped to the door.”

Snatching it from him, I scanned the page. It was the invoice for our weekly liquor order—cases of whiskey and vodka, tequila, rum, liqueurs, and champagne for the high rollers—each line adding up to a figure that made my stomach lurch. At the bottom, the “Received by” line bore a messy yet unmistakable scrawl.

Maslow Umbric.

My lip curled in a snarl as I spun toward Rush.

“Who let that bloated bastard…”

Again, my statement petered out as logic kicked in.

Who let Maslow into the spaceoutsidethe club? The broad daylight? The empty unguarded parking lot?

Who let him sign for a liquor shipment on the exact day and hour he’d always known to expect it?

And who had not thought to inform our supplier that Maslow was no longer involved in the Dollhouse’s operations?