Nocturnes (7 page)

You can be as filthy as you like on the inside as long as you’re fresh and clean and flawless on the outside.

I try to thumb away the grime, to no avail. “I gotta go home. I
have
to get clean.” My voice, like the rest of me, is ruined. Now I understand what Kristina meant about enjoying a few days off after a session in Hell. I almost wish I could take a permanent vacation. But vacations don’t pay for dreams.

Struggling to my feet, I smooth my outfit over my thighs and wipe my tears. The mask falls into place, and I lower my head as I make my way out of the alley into the throng of boozed-up tourists, diehard Mardi Gras natives, and sinning serpents. When I reach the corner, I glance over my shoulder. The neon Nocturnes sign blazes down the street, inviting the vipers into its den. For a second, I wish that camera guy had whisked me into a taxi. Maybe hold me through the night and see me off to dreamland where bad things don’t matter.

Despite his incessant propositions, he was the only one in that room who felt safe. The only one without fangs. My only link to normalcy. Sad that my anchor to sanity was a total stranger who wanted to fuck me just as badly as the men who paid to be there did.

I shake my head and keep walking.

* * * *

My phone wakes me the next morning. I lift my head from the pillow and fumble around for the insistent device.

Rico’s face fills the screen, and the word “Satan” appears with his number at the top. I sit up straight. “Hello?”

I go to twist Mama’s ring around my finger, but it’s not there.
What?
Panic quickens my pulse. I look beside me and pat the bed.

“Lola. You’re awake. How did it go last night?” The rush of wind between teeth tells me he’s smoking a cigar.

“Great. No problems,” I lie.
Please tell me you’re calling to confirm the money has been deposited, and that’s all. Hunky-dory. Easy-peasy. Please.

I stand and rifle through the covers.

“The client seemed pretty satisfied.”

I heave a relieved sigh. “Glad to hear it.”

“I need you to come to Nocturnes in an hour. I have a few things I need to talk to you about. Don’t be late.” As always, his voice is even. Unreadable.

I squeeze my lids shut. “Something wrong?”

“Just be here.” The line clicks dead.

Pulling the phone away, I stare at his picture and mentally draw horns on his head. “Great.”

And now, my ring is missing.

Oh,
shit
. I never got it back from video boy last night. I bailed in such a hurry, I forgot to ask for it. Fuck.

Maybe he returned the ring to someone before he left. I don’t think he would have kept the ring on purpose. I made it pretty clear how important it was.

Shit. Nothing I can do about it now but ask Rico when I get to Nocturnes. Another worry I don’t need.

Though I took a shower the instant I got home last night, I still feel dirty. Must get clean.

While under the spray, I press gently on the tender flesh between my butt cheeks and wince. There was some blood last night. Hurts much more this morning. Careful not to aggravate the tears down there, I lather up and work a washcloth around the area. Rinsing is a total bitch. I clench my teeth and bite back the pain.

The bruises on my breasts and sternum look much worse than my ass feels. I’m covered. Might actually be a week before I can go back to dancing. I heal quickly, but the marks are profuse and very ugly. And nobody wants to see a stripper wearing anything but perfection. Especially in Nocturnes.

After drying and dressing, I measure out three-quarters of a cup of zero-fat, high-fiber cereal and one cup of skim milk for breakfast. I’m not allowed any more than that. Can’t afford to gain even a single pound, so I stick to my strict regimen. Always. I wolf down the food, follow up with a glass of water, and head for Nocturnes.

Today, the Quarter is the antithesis of what it was last night. Fairly quiet, peaceful, and very hungover. I snag a spot at the parking lot on Conti Street and walk a couple of blocks toward Royal, steeling my nerves for whatever awaits.

When I get to Nocturnes, Rico’s waiting for me in his office, feet propped on his messy desk, hands folded across his chest. I shut the door. The room reeks of stale cigar smoke. He gestures to the empty chair. I sit.

“Duane tells me he had a problem with a douchebag tourist last night.” He lowers his snake boots to the floor and straightens. Scowling, he shuffles through the papers before him. He produces a printed picture of my videographer, most likely taken by one of the many security cameras hidden in Nocturnes’s crevices. “You recognize him?” He passes the image to me, his gold front tooth catching the low light from the banker’s lamp on the desk.

Oh boy. I take the paper and nod. “Yeah, I talked to him in the VIP room. Duane escorted him out.”

“That the only place you talked to him?” There’s the grin I hate. The one that says,
I know everything,
even when he doesn’t.

My heart races. Forcing myself to keep cool, I shrug. “I saw him on my way downstairs. A fight broke out, and Duane had to ditch him to deal with it.” Technically, I’m not lying.

Rico eases into his chair, and rests his clasped hands behind his head. “Who’d you get to video?”

My throat tightens and blood pressure soars. Now I’m officially fucked. He totally knows I pulled in an outsider. If I tell the truth, he’ll fire me. If I lie, he’ll prove me wrong and then fire me. This angel is damned if she does and damned if she doesn’t. Nothing to do but await my punishment.

Dreams of my house in the Garden District splinter and shatter before my eyes.

Hands shaking, I rest an elbow on the arm of my chair. “Okay, it was him. But I can explain—”

Rico snaps forward like the spring on a mousetrap. “What did I tell you when you signed on for duty with me? Huh? You remember my words, Lola?” He rounds the desk.

I lower my gaze to my lap. “I remember.”

He jerks my chin up and forces me to look at him. “Say the words.”

“Never give up Heaven’s secrets to outsiders.”

His cold brown eyes narrow. “Or?”

“Or you’ll make my life hell.”

Condescension thickens the set of his jaw. He pats my cheek and returns to his fancy leather chair behind the desk. A drawer opens, and he produces a fat cigar in one hand, a gold Zippo in the other.

“You knew the rules, but you broke them anyway. Do you have any clue how much people pay to be members of Heaven?”

I shake my head.

“Five million to get in and another mill to renew every year. Our elite monthly newsletter hits two hundred inboxes around the country.” He slips the cigar between his front teeth and bites down. The top of the Zippo flips, a flame erupts, and he puffs a few times until the entire end glows red. “You see where I’m going with this?”

Okay, so I’m beyond screwed. In a matter of seconds, my goal for this meeting has shifted from trying to salvage my job and find my ring to walking out of this room with both legs intact. “Yes, Rico. I fucked up. Big time. Will you at least hear me out?”

He slams his palm to the desk with the loudness of a bullet. “I’m not finished.” A fat cloud of smoke billows from his mouth with the words.

I won’t say I’m sorry. He’s trying to intimidate me. It’s working. But I still won’t apologize.

He sets the cigar on the rim of an ashtray and slicks back his shiny black hair. “We ask only a few things of our Angels in Heaven. You don’t talk about it to outsiders. You don’t have sex with outsiders. And you submit fully to insiders. Three simple rules, and you broke number one.” He holds up a document with my signature on it. “You signed a contract for employment with all of these rules clearly stated. As of last night, you’re in violation. This is grounds for termination. Get your shit and go. You’re not welcome at Nocturnes anymore.”

My breath catches over the hard knot in my throat. He can’t do this to me. “Please, Rico. Give me another chance. Upstairs was insane last night. There were fights. The bartenders were backed up. Waitresses ran around like headless chickens, trying to keep up with customers. Every dancer was onstage except for me. I looked
everywhere
for someone to help me, but it wasn’t in the cards.

“The client was waiting in Heaven, and he was in a hurry. I couldn’t hold him off any longer, so I grabbed this guy I knew. He swore he wouldn’t tell anyone what went on down there, and I’m confident he won’t.” Shit, I’m digging a deeper grave with every lie falling from my lips, but this may be the only way to save myself.

“Plus, we both know that sometimes clients bring in outsiders as part of their entertainment package, so I thought it would be okay just this once. I swear I had no other options. You said the customer is always right. This guy didn’t seem interested in waiting. I did the best I could.”

“You should have called me. I would’ve taken care of it.”

“You said you didn’t want to be bothered,” I remind him. I’m sure he was busy coking it up at his mansion with his personal stash of silicone crack whores.

“For the client, I can always put aside pleasure. I’d have had someone there within five minutes.”

“On Mardi Gras? I don’t think so.”
Too bold, Eve. Don’t push him
. “Given the circumstances, I didn’t see a better option. I made a call based on the information I had. Maybe it was a bad one, but I stand by it.

“I’d really appreciate it if you could give me another chance.” I meet his cold eyes and swallow. “Please, Rico. I’ll do whatever it takes to win back your trust. And Charlie’s.”

His lip twitches at the mention of our boss. “Charlie’s not here right now. You’re dealing with me, and me alone.”

“What can I do to convince you?” Thoroughly disgusted with what I’m about to suggest, I lock down the overworked emotional power plant of my brain and drop my gaze to his belt. Bile surfaces at the top of my throat as I plaster a pair of imitation balls of steel to my loins.

A wry grin props his cheeks. “You think fucking me will absolve you of your sins, angel?”

I stand. “No. I’m not allowed to fuck nonmembers of Heaven.” Thank God. “But I’m told I suck a mean dick. I won’t tell if you don’t.” I step around the desk, grasp the arm rails of his chair and spin him to face me. I poke out a pouty bottom lip. “Please?”

His gaze slithers from my mouth to my breasts. Hating myself almost as much as I hate Rico, I lay a hand on the bulge in his pants and squeeze.
Do not throw up, Eve. Do
not.

His talons seize my wrist, and he roughly urges me downward. “Looks like we might be able to renegotiate the terms of your contract after all.”

I stare up at him, my blood churning with raw, toxic venom, and my lips curled into a submissive smile. He stretches his back into the leather and puffs the disgusting cigar as I unlatch his belt buckle, the gold cold between my fingers.

“Anything for you, Rico.”

Side A: “Money”

I’m not sure if my hard-as-a-rock boner or my throbbing head hurts worse, but either way, I’m awake. I swallow over the foul-tasting cotton coating my mouth. Smack my lips a few times to get the salivary glands pumping again.

“Toombs?” I pat the bed beside me. The dream fades. My vision clears. Reality kicks me in the balls. Again. He’s been gone for a week, yet every day, I wake up expecting him to be here.

Toombs ain’t coming back, homeboy. Neither is Jinx. Move on to the liquor cabinet. It’s always open for business, and it’s loyal, unlike your “friends.”

Muscles aching, I struggle to sit, and then rub my swollen eyes. I wince at the pain from the slow-healing bruises on my face.

Memories of Toombs beating the shit out of me in this very room resurface. Funny how our roles reversed. Before that night, I was always the one who did the hitting. Toombs gets off on pain. Me? I get off on inflicting it—physically, mentally, emotionally. As long as someone suffers, I’m happy. Just goes to show, what comes around goes around.

Karma and all that.

It’s a good thing he and Jinx weren’t around for Mardi Gras. Not sure I could’ve stomached any more of their pity. Or those gag-worthy puppy eyes they constantly make at each other.

I guess their flight from Atlanta must’ve landed by now. Not that I’m keeping track. Just trying to figure out what our recording schedule’s like for the rest of the week.

I toss the covers off my legs, shove my disrespectful cock down, and roll out of bed with a groan. My bones creak in protest. Naked, I head to the bathroom for a piss. When I get there, I don’t bother looking at my reflection. It gets uglier by the day, and I’m not interested in seeing what new lines popped up over night.

The toothbrush does its thing, and I feel 23 percent human again.

After slipping on a pair of sweats and sneaking a swig from the bottle of vodka tucked under my bed (hair of the dog), I wander downstairs to the kitchen. My bandmate Letty is hunched over a bowl of cereal, shoveling brightly colored processed food balls into her mouth, staring at the newspaper. She glances up. “Hey.”

I grunt and open the fridge. Wonder if there’s any tomato juice. A Bloody Mary would be fucking awesome right now.

“What did you do last night?” she says.

No tomato juice. I open the cabinet, and then my brain has a recollection spasm.

Shit. Lola. How the
hell
did I forget about her?

Drunk.

Right.

My back to Letty, I reply, “Usual.”

She appears at my side and reaches around my waist to drop her empty bowl in the sink. “So, you got shit-faced, spray-painted a barn with a lovely shade of Exorcist-green puke, fucked a donkey while you were there, and started a fist fight with a recovering, meth-addicted nun and her lovechild who were reenacting the nativity scene?”

“Yep. That about sums it up.”

“Sounds like a damn fine night, my friend.” She slaps my shoulder and returns to the table.

I toss a couple of Pop-Tarts in the toaster and lean against the counter, waiting impatiently for the
ding
. What a royal clusterfuck last night was. Roller coasters have nothing on my life. The peaks and valleys race me up and down so fast, I can barely hold on.