Page 128 of Painted Scars
She surprises me, her arms coming around me in something resembling a brief and awkward hug that’s rusty and out of practice. I catch the flicker in her eyes before she masks it behind walls of ice that may be starting to crack.
“That’s all you got?” I tease as she pulls away and flicks her head.
“Get your ass inside to defrost.” She motions for us to enter a possible war zone.
“Keep us out of sight, Murder Spice,” August warns her, low and edgy.
“You’re in my house now, Daddy Patrol,” Harper says, tossing her curled hair like she’s bored with him. “Try to keep the murderous scowl to a six before the staff thinks you’re here to shoot up the place.”
“Right back at you,” August fires back without missing a beat, refusing to drop the bodyguard act and tugging me in behind him.
She closes the door after us and steps closer, her heels clicking on tile, voice dropping to a sweet note laced with a threat. “Take care of my girl, or they’ll be fishing your body out of the river in pieces.”
Part of me wants to run interference before the jabs escalate. The other part sits back and lets them find their own uneasy truce. They’re both telling me they’ll love and protect me in their weird ways.
I go with grinning at them both and subtly warning them to stay civil for my sake. “God, I love watching you two try to out-threaten each other. One’s a loaded gun and the other’s a concealed blade. But I’m calling a temporary truce.”
Harper snorts and puts down her blade for me. “This way, cupcake. Before I throw you in the river with him.”
The inside of the Velvet Viper is burlesque opulence meets the shadowy underworld. Walls are clad in silk damask wallpaper, mahogany paneling with gold crown molding, and myth-inspired frescos lit by soft spotlights. The ceiling is coffered with gold leaf insets and crystal chandeliers. Jewel-toned velvet curtains in sapphire, emerald and crimson hide sound-proof material along the walls and create shadowy alcoves. Seating is a mix of intimate booths with high backs for privacy and round cabaret tables for front-row viewing of stage performances.
In the corners, men in sharp suits sit at dark wood tables and whisper over glasses of expensive amber liquid. Scantily clad women of every size and shape deliver drinks, take orders, and sell powder of the non-cosmetic kind. The music shifts to a sultry bass as a woman in thigh-high boots leads a man to a curtained back room where they don’t sell conversation.
I’ve known Harper since college, and I don’t think she’s the kind of girl who sells herself. She calls this place “fun.” Her kind of people. Stage shows that pay well. Maybe that says more than I want. Up until twenty-four hours ago, I thought I knew everything about her, until August hinted that my best friend has secrets. Knowing Harper, they’re the kind you don’t dig into without getting your fingers bitten off.
The raised stage is framed in gilded scrollwork with lush red velvet curtains and ceiling-mounted fixtures that project soft patterns on the performers. A grand piano sits in front of the side wings. Charlie and I have been here a few times, but not recently, since Harper hasn’t invited us.
Damn August. He’s sowed doubt. Maybe Harper’s moonlighting as a showgirl. Maybe she’s a mafia princess. Or dating a made man. God, that would explain so much.
Harper doesn’t take us through the main club, guiding us down a narrow corridor lined with mirrors framed in neon, which opens up to a space just as decadent.
“This is backstage,” she announces. “Only performers and stage staff come back here.”
Behind the velvet curtains is a performer’s den, complete with rows of vanity stations, wardrobe section, and a lounge for the dancers to relax between sets and sink their bare feet into Persian runners. The polished hardwoods are worn down in spots from traffic by stagehands, performers, musicians, and the stage manager. Feather boas, sequined gowns, and burlesque corsets spill from costume racks. The atmosphere is rich and smells of hairspray, perfume, the metallic tang of stage makeup, champagne, and smoke.
Dancers idle on chase lounges, exhaling lazy trails from slim cigarettes and sipping at crystal glasses of bubbly before their performances. Others apply finishing touches to their makeup or costumes before the last stage call.
August’s eyes are everywhere, tracking exits, calculating lines of sight, reading every shadow. He mutters about someone popping out from behind a vanity mirror with a gun.
I’m caught between the intoxicating glamor and the low thrum of danger being surrounded by seedy characters and sin. We’ve been living in fight mode for so long, every muscle clenched, every breath measured, that I want him to remember what it feels like to be human.
“Want a drink?” Harper asks us, going to the mini bar they have along one wall.
“No,” August says before I can blink.
“Sex on the Beach, please,” I reply.
My bestie smirks and prepares my drink anyway. “Don’t worry, Kelly. I’ll keep away the wolves so you can let your hair down and have something called fun.”
“I have fun.” He rolls his shoulders and checks the corridor again.
“Yeah? What? Alphabetizing your ammo? Matching your Kevlar to the day of the week? Taking your guns out for romantic walks?”
I giggle into my palm, enjoying them sparring like old friends. I’m not sure which is more shocking—that he’s letting her in or that he’s giving her a peace offering for me.
Last night, I gave Harper the barest rundown of what happened between us, and she let on that she already knew who he was but went along with it because I seemed happy. Now, every barb she throws is packed with the promise she won’t forgive him or let him forget that he hurt me.
August glances at me with the barest of quirks of his mouth that says he’s earned this and will take it. I’ll jump in the ring if it doesn’t settle.
