Nocturnes (19 page)

“Rico tells me you’re having some difficulty adjusting to your new role in Heaven. Would you like to talk about it?”

Read: What the fuck is your problem?

I choose my words carefully. “The fiasco on Mardi Gras was entirely my fault. I couldn’t find anyone to meet the client’s video request, so I took it upon myself to ask someone I knew from upstairs. Though he’s not a club member, I trust him implicitly and was certain he’d be discreet.”

Her brow lifts about a millimeter. “Who did Rico assign for that duty?”

I do my best to cover my confusion. “No one that I know of. The client asked where the videographer was when I got there. I knew I wasn’t supposed to question him, so I went upstairs to look for help. Everyone was busy.”

“So, you weren’t informed ahead of time that you’d be filmed?” Her gaze sharpens, but the rest of her doesn’t move.

“No, ma’am. Not until I got to Heaven.”

“I see.” She stares at me for several seconds, the weight of her thoughts palpable. “I’ll speak to Rico about the incident. Rest assured, you’re not to blame.”

What?
So Rico threatened to fire me for something I didn’t even do? I blew him for
nothing
? Now I’m furious. Heat bleeds into my face to the tune of my racing heart. Gotta calm down.

Charlie tips her head to the side. “Something wrong?”

Revenge gets in the way of better judgment. Maybe if Rico hadn’t blackmailed me into sucking him off in his office, I wouldn’t be in such a tattling mood. As it is…

I expel a long breath. “I…I probably shouldn’t say.”

“Spit it out, dear. Your secrets are safe with me.”

Somehow I doubt it, but for a chance to get Rico in trouble, I’m willing to open up this once. “Rico was going to terminate my employment after that incident.”

“Oh? And why didn’t he?”

I bite my bottom lip.

“Eve?” She ducks her head to meet my gaze.

“I performed fellatio on him to keep my job. You have to understand how important this place is to me, Charlie. I want to be here. I love being here.” The words flow like sweet milk from my lips, but they curdle once they hit my ears.

No, the truth is, in the space of a week, I’ve grown to hate this place. I’m hanging on to this dream of making money in order to please my dead parents, who are…well…dead.

But how else will I ever earn enough money to buy that house in the Garden District? I’m a part-time stripper, part-time whore. I dropped out of high school. With no education and no experience aside from dancing and renting out my body to perverts, I’ll never find a career that pays as well as this one.

People like me aren’t cut out for working normal jobs. We burn brightly for the few years when our bodies look and perform best, and then we’re done. Fini. Kaput.

Hell is my only shot at a decent future, despite the toll it’s taking on my present.

Let the lies flow on…

Charlie’s expression cools. “I see.” She stands and wanders to the window, hands folded behind her back. She stares outside. Reminds me of a bird trapped in a cage. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Eve. Never be a whore for anyone but your clients. There’s a big difference between selling your body and selling your soul.” Now she turns toward me. “I know. I’ve been there.”

My eyes widen. “You?” Charlie’s the picture of stunning grace, professional composure, and classic femininity. I pegged her for a savvy businesswoman—never a woman in the business.

But it makes sense. She knows her product inside and out. She knows what sells and how to go about squeezing out the maximum profit for a minimum amount of work. Trademarks of every self-respecting whore.

She returns to her chair but doesn’t sit. With a hand resting on the tall back, she says, “I’ll take care of Rico. You take care of yourself.” Her gaze slips over me. “I understand you’re off duty in Heaven for not passing inspection.”

I nod and lower my chin.

“There’s a client who wants you nonetheless.”

My head snaps up.

“Normally, I’d refuse, but he’s offered a significant sum to have you, so I’m going to bend the rules. Your pay will be double, and there’s a good chance he’ll be a repeat customer. The choice is yours, of course.”

Rax blurs my thoughts, and I swallow as I rub my naked finger, wishing for the millionth time I’d never taken Mama’s ring off. “Did he mention what he’s…interested in?”

“For $20,000, does it matter?”

Yes. Hell yes, it matters.
“No, ma’am. I don’t suppose it does.” I look away.

“Good. You’ll meet him in Heaven tonight at ten. I’ve instructed Molly to forgo inspection. It’ll be just you and the client. And Eve?”

Biting back my scream, I swing my gaze to her and lift my brows.

“Forget about Rax. For his sake.” A touch of sadness steeps the lines around her eyes with darkness.

I start to ask how she knows, but the answer is obvious. Rico told her everything. I hate him more than ever.

“Yes, ma’am.” I stand and rush out of the office before I have a chance to change my mind.

Side A: “I Wanna Be Sedated”

“The lick after the key change needs some tweaking,” Killer Buzz Float’s new producer Griff says. “It doesn’t jive very well with the riff you’ve been playing as the overall theme.” What the fuck kind of name is “Griff,” anyway? Stupid as shit, that’s what.

I huff and then curl my twitchy fingers around the neck of my guitar, pinching the frets a little harder than necessary, and rip the pick over the strings. The result is an angry growl of a chord.

Frowning, Griff shakes his head and dismisses me with a disgusted wave.

I’m sick to death of this motherfucker nagging me. And I’d like to bitch-slap that fucking LSU ball cap off his fuzzy blond buzz cut. The walls in the studio are squeezing the life out of me. I get up and prop my ax on its stand. “I need a break.”

Toombs lifts his head and sets his guitar down too. “I’ll go with you.”

Fabulous.

Ever since our confrontation in my room, Toombs and Jinx have been watching me like a pair of hungry hawks ready to tag team a crippled snake shriveling in the hot sun.

Goddamn, I’m fucking dying. Can’t stop shaking. My stomach is a perpetual cramp with vengeful iron spikes. Vision is blurry. And I’m sweating like a hog in a slaughterhouse in Georgia summer.

It’s been eleven hours and thirty-six minutes since my last drink. A little longer since I left Eve. Both events feel like a lifetime away, yet time hasn’t dulled the pain. If anything, it’s a thousand times sharper.

“Just hitting the john,” I point toward the bathroom down the hall.

Toombs’s skeptical eyes ain’t buying what I’m selling. I can hardly blame him. But I really think I’m gonna puke.

The nearly empty flask in my inside coat pocket is doing a bang-up job on my already weakened defenses. I haven’t hit the liquid gold yet, but I’m so tempted.

If I could get one sip—one
fucking
sip—I’d be okay. I’m sure of it.

“I gotta go too,” Toombs says.

My shadow follows me down the hall. We meet Letty and Shades coming back from the drink machine. He’s loaded up with diet sodas. She swats my arm. “Where are you going?”

I scowl. “To piss. Why the fuck does everyone gotta get up in my shit today? Jesus, lay off.”

She raises her hands, hold-’em-up style. “Sor-
ry
. I know you’re going through some shit. Just wanted to say we support you.” She glances to Shades. “And we love you, man. Despite the fact you’re an asshole.”

Shades pops me with a gentle punch to my shoulder. “Anything we can do, just say the word.”

How about get your fucking nose outta my business and go stub your pity toe somewhere else?

“Thanks,” I mumble and continue into the bathroom. The door swings shut behind Toombs, and I hit the stall. My stomach is scheduled for lift off in T-minus thirty seconds.

“I know you’re pissed off, but everyone’s just trying to help.” The sound of a zipper followed by a deluge of pee hitting the water echoes off the tiles.

“Yeah, I got that.” I rub my belly and lean the back of my head against the stall. Fuck. “Toombs, I need to puke, and I’d rather do it in private if you don’t mind.”

The piss flow pauses, then restarts. “You don’t have anything in your pockets I need to know about, do you?”

I close my eyes. “You mean aside from this raging boner? No.”

Toombs laughs softly. Another zip, then the toilet flushes. Footsteps home in on my lavatory cubicle, and a pair of boots appears under the door. “Answer one more question before I go.”

“Shoot.”
Fifteen seconds till ignition.

“Where’ve you been going at night? You stay out until the wee hours ever since we…” He inhales. “You being safe?”

Not one bit. And here comes Eve again, invading my mind with those arctic ice-chip eyes, perfect, fuckable lips, and tits sweet enough to give a man diabetes just from licking them.

“I found someone.” Against my stomach’s better judgment, I slide the latch and pull open the metal panel.

Toombs leans against the frame, head braced on his hand near the top, expression neutral. “Someone permanent?” No trace of jealousy but lots of hope in his voice.

Swallowing the bitterness of truth, I say, “I wish.”

“Sorry, man.” His shoulders sag. “You’ve always got us.”

By “us,” I understand him to mean the band. I nod.

He turns away. I shut the stall and engage the lock. The bathroom door closes softly.

Heart bleeding from multiple stab wounds, I hug the toilet and heave. Nothing comes up. Stomach spasms own my body, and there’s no slowing the frightening loss of control. My head spins. My gut twists into another painful knot and expels a couple globs of pale green gunk. Saliva jets from the glands in my mouth. I shove a finger down my throat, but all I get is intensifying pain in my stomach and a growing headache from working my jaw so hard.

I sit on the floor and lean over my bent legs.

You can end this misery by uncapping the flask.

No. I won’t do it. I can power through—

Another wave of nausea seizes my stomach, holds it hostage, and forces it into a ball. I cough into the bowl. My face is covered in spit and sweat and bad-smelling green shit. The shivers return. Teeth chatter.

God, I’m dying. I’m fucking dying.

After a few more unproductive minutes, I push myself up, flush the toilet, and head for the sink. When my gaze collides with my reflection, I jump. The stranger staring back at me doesn’t look like anyone I know. He’s a haggard, unshaven mess of a man with dark bags ballooning under his eyes, pale, waxy skin, and the frightened look of a cornered, rabid animal.

I lift a hand and tentatively touch the glass. “Who are you?”

You don’t want to know. Make him and the pain he brings go away. Take out the flask and drink.

Slamming my lids together, I shake my head. “No.”

Yes. You only need enough to keep you even. You don’t have to get drunk. Just a sip will make you right as rain.

Conflicted, I stare at myself. Seconds blend into minutes. I’m paralyzed. My broken body demands I give it the liquor it craves. My head begs me not to. And my heart just wants Eve to hold me through the shakes until I can breathe again.

If only she were here.

Well, she’s not. You left her. She doesn’t want a lush like you around anyway.

Drink…

I reach into my inside coat pocket. The metal flask is warm with condensation from close contact with my whacked-out thermostat.

One shot isn’t going to hurt you. You deserve this. And you can’t play guitar for shit without it. Don’t let your bandmates down. They depend on you. You’re the lead guitarist. So, lead.

Drink…

I stare down at the container in my palm. It’s just one sip. Enough to calm my nerves so I can play again. Killer Buzz Float is working against a deadline, and every extra day we spend in the studio costs all of us money.

I uncap the lid and toss the clear liquid down my throat. Shutting my eyes, I relish the kick as it coats my esophagus with delicious, searing ecstasy. When my lids slide open again, the flask is empty. I stuff it in my pocket and wash the gunk from my face.

Reaching for a paper towel, I study myself in the mirror.

Asshole.

Yeah. But at least this asshole will be able to do his job now. I blot my face dry, sip a handful of water, and shove a stick of gum in my mouth.

A fist bangs on the door. “Rax, you ready? We’re waiting.” Jillian. Irritated.

I swing open the wood and meet her eyes. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

She rakes her gaze down my front, distrust shading her already skeptical features. Her lips smash into a thin line. A silent barrage of accusation hits me between the eyes.

“You planning on getting sober any time soon?” Her voice is low and even. She knows. Of course she does. She’s goddamn Jillian.

“I’m working on it.”

More staring. I can’t tell if she wants to snuff me out under the lava of her impending verbal eruption or high-five me. “Your guitar playing is for shit lately. My warning stands.”

I nod. “I know.”

The Queen Bitch rifles through her purse, palms a small bottle, and tucks it inside my coat pocket. She pats the spot like she’s reading it a book and putting it to bed, then points a long finger in my face. “Do what you gotta do for the band. Then get your sorry ass clean. If we weren’t so close to making it, I’d haul you out with the trash right now. You’re pissing off Griff with your attitude, which I wouldn’t mind if you were doing your job worth a damn. But since you’re not, find a way to make him sing ‘Hallelujah’ with his tongue down the back of your pants. Or else.”

Jillian’s
enabling
me? I’m floored. Fucking floored. “I, uh, appreciate your discretion,” I stammer.

With a scowl, she gives me her back and heads toward the recording booth. I scrub my face, rub my chest, and shake out my hands. I can already feel the alcohol working its magic, calming my frayed nerves, and easing the riot in my gut.