The Road to Hell

by Jackie Kessler

I couldn't help it: I snickered. "Sweetie, you're definitely not my type. I don't do angels."

  "Then what…?"

  "I'm going to take you to a place where you can see lust at work without any Sin being committed." I smiled, already picturing the stage, the sound, the audience. "We're going to my day job. It's a strip club called Spice."

  Chapter 7

  Spice

  "Hey, Jezzie! Thought you had tonight off."

  I grinned up at Joey, the world's nicest bouncer. He was also fiercely protective of his "little sister" dancers and had been known to show customers how to fly out the door when they got too grabby. "Heya, sweetie. My friend here isn't too happy with her current job. She may be thinking about a new line of work. Thought I'd show her around, let her see what the action's like."

  I turned to the angel. "Joey here's one of the last of the good guys. He worked with me at a previous club, then after it closed, he and a few others from the old place landed jobs here along with me."

  "Spice is more posh than Belles ever was," Joey said. "More dancers. More customers."

  "More expensive drinks that are more watered down," I said with a wink.

  Joey grinned, holding his hand out to the blonde. She reluctantly took it and let him pump her arm in a hello. "Any friend of Jezzie's is a friend of mine."

  "Thank you," she murmured, staring up at his face. Something lit in her eyes, and she turned on her smile. "You have a very strong grip. Do you work out?"

  The man had the proportions of a pro weight lifter; even magic couldn't have given him that sort of body without any help. "Wasting your time practicing on him," I said to the angel. "He plays for the other team."

  She glanced at me, her mouth set in a frown. Even that was pretty. Bitch. "Other team?"

  Obviously, the cherub's shoe size was larger than her IQ. "He's gay."

  She deflated so completely that I could have folded her into a box.

  "But if I wasn't," Joey said, kissing her hand, "I'd be begging you for your phone number."

  Either his words or his smooch seemed to perk her up. "Really?"

  "Come on in, ladies," he said, avoiding her question. "Welcome to Spice."

  He stepped aside and opened the huge black door for us. Even though the sound from within the club was muted from where we stood, vibrations from the blasting rock music pounded out a backbeat, coaxing my heart to thump in time. I felt a grin spread across my face, heard my breathing quicken from anticipation.

  Honey, I'm home.

  Bless me, I loved my job. True, I didn't get to have sex with my clients. But I got something almost as good: the look in their eyes that told me just how desperately they wanted to hear me cry out their names as I let them fuck me.

  There's no greater turn-on than knowing that everyone in the room wants you.

  As I sauntered past Joey, I offered him a ten. He plucked it from my hand and tucked it away with a soft "Thanks." Even though I didn't have to tip the doorman—whether I was on shift or not—I liked to keep my posse happy. The doorman, specifically, was the customer's first contact with the club; a happy bouncer was more likely to mention my name to clients who asked which dancers were worth their while. And those clients tended to search me out for private dances in the VIP lounge or the Champagne Room. So a tip was more like investing in my career. And like any businesswoman, I appreciated a good return on investment.

  Especially when it stuffed twenties down my G-string.

  Over the muffled rock music, I heard the angel's stilettos clicking behind me as we walked down the short, dark hallway that separated the action from public view. Couldn't have little old ladies shaking their liver-spotted fingers at us for flaunting mostly nude dancers where anyone could see them. Not for their lack of trying; once I'd caught a blue-haired grandmother peeking inside, her nose pressed against the stained black glass of the front door, trying to kickstart her heart by viewing—gasp—lusty men fawning over scantily clad women.

  "What's that smell?" the cherub asked.

  I inhaled deeply, taking in the orange scent of the floor cleaner. Beneath that, the faintest whiffs of tobacco and alcohol clung, fighting against the citrus tang. The ghosts of colognes and perfumes rode the air, tickling my nose with hints of J'adore, Eternity, and Dolce & Gabbana.

  "Lust," I said with a grin, "wrapped up in negligees and five-dollar bills."

  "Oh. I thought it was Swiffer."

  I opened the thick door that separated us from the club proper. The heavy synth of The Eurythmics' "Sweet Dreams" rippled through my body, making my head bop along and my hips roll with the beat as I walked. Beneath that, an undercurrent of conversation and laughter from the men in the audience floated—sucking me in if I stopped to listen, washing past me like audible flotsam if I ignored it. On the main stage, aglow from yellow and red spotlights, a woman shimmied. Stripped down to her lacy green thong, she jiggled her small tits in time to the music, moved her arms over her body in quick jerks. Even though Kelly wasn't the best dancer at Spice, she had her avid following—based on the bills tucked into the garter on her thigh, some of her harem were here tonight. Maybe it was her Irish coloring that did it for the guys: mounds of orange-red hair, skin milky pale. Or maybe it was her blow-job lips and bedroom eyes.

  Throughout the showroom, clustered in threes around small round tables, men sat in red plush chairs, grins on their faces, happiness in their pants. Maybe thirty customers were scattered around the room, talking to or about the dancers who left precious little to the imagination. A number of the house girls were working the floor—some flashy in their spandex gowns and rhinestone earrings, others more elegant in their cocktail dresses and pearls. All wore enough makeup that they'd need to shovel it off. Hair was up, down, pinned back, curled, teased, glued with hairspray—you name it. Clashing perfumes battled above the eye-watering mix of booze and sweat that permeated the room.

  And sex, of course—beneath everything else was the spice of sex. The sex of Spice.

  Yum.

  I breathed in the excitement of the crowd, the intentions of the dancers. My nipples hardened, both acknowledging the air conditioning chugging at full throttle and reacting to the various smiles and remarks from customers waving and motioning to me as I led the angel to the bar. Kelly wasn't the only one with a harem.

  A grin stretched across my face. Men dripping with desire and trembling with unspoken passion… the promise of sex, even if that promise wouldn't be kept—ah, bliss! I blew kisses at my regulars, put an extra wiggle in my step as I sashayed to the back of the room.

  Jezebel's here, avid fans. Let the lusting commence.

  At the bar, I smiled at the lovely man who offered me his seat, then stared at his friend until he vacated for the angel. "Thanks, boys," I said, my voice husky with amusement. They seemed to think it was from wanting them: one man preened and flashed his capped teeth, and the other hemmed and hawed and made a big show of staring at the stage.

  Capped Teeth asked me, "Can I buy you a drink?"

  I winked. "Thanks anyway. But I'm here to show my friend a good time." I draped an arm over the angel's shoulders, letting my fingers brush lightly over her left boob. Already sitting ramrod straight, her spine stiffened even more, nearly popping my shoulder from its socket. She looked like she wanted to find a rock, crawl under it, and die.

  Heh.

  "Oh. Oh!" Capped Teeth seemed to get the hint. Muttering something about comfortable shoes, he led his buddy to an empty table on the showroom floor.

  "Hi, Jezebel. Thought you had tonight off."

  I pivoted in my seat to face the bartender. "Heya, sweetie. My friend here's never seen a gentlemen's club from the inside, so I couldn't resist bringing her here. Hey, Angel, say hi to Andrew."

  The angel slunk down in her seat, mumbled something that could have been a hello.

  Andrew dropped me a wink. "Seems nervous. Honey, can I get you a shot, help you loosen up?"

  She blinked her celestial blue eyes at
him. "A shot?"

  "J.D.," I told Andrew. "And make it a double."

  "She going to audition?" he asked as he poured the whiskey into a shot glass.

  Ooh, look at that. I'd never seen an angel blush before. Pretty, if you're into the whole crimson sunset sort of thing.

  "Audition?" she squeaked.

  "Doubtful," I said to Andrew, slapping a twenty on the counter. "She's too uptight. I want her to see how the other half lives."

  Chuckling, Andrew set the glass down in front of the blonde and palmed the cash. "Change?"

  "Keep it." As far as I was concerned, Caitlin was buying the drinks tonight.

  Andrew grinned his thanks, then vamoosed to fill orders from impatient waitresses.

  "I still don't understand why you've brought me here." She sat as if her panties had been starched. "If you wished to embarrass me, consider your mission accomplished."

  "Bless me, will you relax?" I motioned to the drink. "Knock that back and settle down. We're here for you to observe."

  "Knock… ?"

  With extreme patience, I said, "Drink that quickly."

  "I don't drink alcohol."

  I took a deep breath, counted to three. "Of course you don't."

  "It's not appropriate."

  "For a cherub stitching silver along the clouds? Nope. But you're not in Heaven anymore." I kept my voice low, but I didn't have to worry; even though men surrounded us, they were thoroughly engrossed by Kelly's stage show, or by the handful of dancers offering lap dances and Champagne Room fantasies. I jabbed a finger at the angel. "You're slumming with the damned and the demons now. So get off your high horse, because sweetie, you're never going to be a Seducer if you think you're above your clients."

  "But I don't want to be a Seducer," she said, her voice pleading. As heart-stoppingly beautiful as she was, the petulant whine in her voice turned her ugly, made her more real. And the fear in her voice was far more than real—it was almost orgasmic.

  Stop that. Bad former succubus. Focus on getting the angel past her fear of sex. Do your good deed for the millennium.

  Sex with no strings, Daun chortled in my mind. Naked desire, blatant action.

  No. That was the wrong approach for this. Angels didn't understand sex or lust.

  But they did understand the concept of love.

  Leaning over until we were nose to nose, I said, "You planning on running?"

  She swallowed. "No."

  "Rebelling?"

  Her fear kicked up a notch as she stammered, "Damn me, no!"

  "Well then," I said, "stop bitching and start opening yourself up to the possibilities."

  Tears in her eyes, she asked, "What possibilities?"

  "That lust isn't all that bad." Hoping that none of my former brethren were watching, I kissed the angel's soft, soft lips.

  Her mouth was supple, yielding, and I nudged my tongue between her lips—just a flick, a hint of something wicked. She gasped, then pulled away.

  I licked my lips slowly, making an ummm sound. "You taste like peppermint and gold."

  "Why did you…" Her voice died, overcome by her blushes. But I saw something besides confusion and embarrassment in her eyes, something dark, something stretching its jaws wide.

  I could reach her.

  Uber cool.

  "Feel that?" I asked, my voice low, one conspirator to another. "That tingle in your breasts, that touch of heat in your crotch?" The widening of her eyes told me I'd hit the description right on the head. Of course I had—maybe I wasn't a Seducer anymore, but I still knew how to kiss with power, magic or no magic. "That's lust."

  Her eyes shone with unshed tears. "How do you know what I'm feeling?"

  "Your nipples are erect." Pointing with my chin, I motioned toward the two bumps on her boobs that pushed against her white scrap of clothing. Until that moment, I'd wondered if angels had the anatomy of Barbie dolls—breasts without nipples, a slit with no clit. "That's not just from the air conditioning."

  She glanced down at her chest. "Oh," she said, sounding small. Sounding betrayed.

  … the softest brush of her lips on my own as she kisses me and leaves me to die…

  "My kiss made your body react," I said, killing the memory of Meg's farewell. "A reaction to an action. Did it feel good?"

  A pause, then the barest whisper: "Yes."

  "It should. Whether mortals or entities, we want to be desired, to be loved. We use our bodies to express that love. There's nothing to be afraid of."

  She clenched her teeth, flashing her pearly whites. "This isn't love."

  "It's lust," I said. "Lust is your body wanting another's touch, wanting to be loved. You liked my kiss. Imagine what it will be like when you kiss a client, when you inspire their bodies to come alive in your hands, to hear their voices beg you to love them…"

  "But lust isn't love!" She crossed her arms, hiding her body's salute to hormones. "Lust is just the flesh. God is love."

  I had my doubts about that, but I kept mum. When she didn't continue, I prompted, "So?"

  "So how can I love God when my body… lusts flesh?"

  Mental note: Angels have a God complex, and not in the all-powerful, all-knowing way.

  "Look." I pointed to the men in the audience. "See how they're watching the dancer? See how their bodies feign indifference even with hunger burning in their eyes? They want her. What's more, they want her to love them. And when she looks at them, when she smiles or winks or jiggles at them, they think, just for a moment, that it's just for them—and they ride that feeling, that desire to be loved."

  "It's not love."

  "Maybe not. But it's the illusion of love."

  "God is not an illusion."

  I was going to say that God was eternal and life was fleeting, so maybe humans only had time for the illusion instead of the real thing. Then I thought I'd sound like an ass. Bless me, I hated philosophy, even if I was trying to discuss it while sitting in a strip club.

  The song finished, and Kelly cupped her tits and wiggled as the audience applauded. The DJ asked the gentlemen to show Kelly their love, and some did—about ten men flocked to the tip rail, waving money, waiting in line to stuff their bills between her boobs and hope to cop a feel.

  The angel asked, "Do those men intend to fornicate with her?"

  "Sweetie, they can intend all they want," I said with a wry smile. "But the only action they're going to get will be their hands on their rods—and that's not allowed here."

  She frowned. "Then why are they paying her?"

  "They're tipping her because they liked how she danced. They liked how she made them feel." Leaning over, I whispered in her ear, "They liked that she made them feel wanted, loved." I darted my tongue out and licked her lobe to emphasize my point.

  She let out a startled squawk that turned into a moan as I kissed her neck, just once—just enough to feel the fine hairs of her neck tickle my lips.

  "Feel the heat pulsing between your legs," I said, gently nibbling her earlobe. "Feel the anticipation building inside you, dancing along your limbs like thousands of tiny shocks. This is lust. It's not frightening. It's living. It's being alive."

  "It's wrong," she groaned. "It's not love."

  "If it was wrong," I said, kissing her neck again, "why did God build your body so that it experiences physical pleasure?"

  "God made me an angel."

  "Yes." I sat back, stared into her wide, terrified eyes. "And then He saw fit to let you be a succubus."

  "Gentlemen," the DJ announced, "please say hello to the angel of Spice!" Next to me, the blond cherub's eyes almost popped out of her skull. Applause rippled through the audience even before the DJ continued, "Everyone, show your love to Faith!"

  Kelly wiggled her way backstage as Faith strutted forward, the spotlights highlighting the huge, feathery wings strapped to her shoulders and the creamy robe molded to her body. White-gold hair cascaded down her back like a platinum waterfall. Guitar strummed, a quick, playful tu
ne, and she bopped her hips to the melody. George Michael's voice blared from the speakers, singing the opening lyrics to her theme song, "Faith." She taunted the audience by running her hands down her breasts, her belly, her thighs. Her legs spread wide, she pumped her hips, proving that some angels wanted to be fucked.

  Even back at Belles, Faith always did have a wicked sense of humor.

  "Watch her," I said to the cherub, who was staring, transfixed, at Faith. "See how she lets the music ride her body, how she lets it seduce her."

  The angel's voice breathy, she said, "She's touching her breasts…"

  "She's showing the audience that she loves her body. She's giving thanks to God for the vessel He gave her. Her dance," I said, "is like worshiping God."

  Gak. I hadn't said the G-word this much in centuries. If I'd still been an infernal creature, I would've had to surrender my union card.

  The angel frowned prettily. Even her pout wrinkles were gorgeous. Bitch.

  On stage, Faith flounced in time to the funky guitar riff, shaking her sweet bippy and jiggling her boobs. "Loving your body, celebrating your body, is like worshiping God. And sex," I said, drawing out the word, "is like sharing that worship with another."

  "Sex isn't love," the angel said, clearly unconvinced.

  "Sex expresses love. And lust leads to sex."

  She stared long and hard at me. "Is that why you like it so much? Because sex… is like worshiping God?"

  I liked sex because it was fucking amazing. "Sweetie, with the right partner, sex can be almost holy." Not that I'd know holy if it bit me on my ass, but whatever.

  Silence stretched between us even as music and men's brassy talk filled the air. I watched the angel watch Faith dance, saw something flit across the angel's eyes. The gears were turning.

  Sweet.

  Opening my purse, I dug out my wallet and produced a ten. "I'll be right back."

  "Where are you going?"

  "I'm off to show the dancer a little love, greenback style."

  Turning my walk into something dirty, I sauntered over to the tip rail. I felt the gazes of lusty men on my back, my rack, my legs, crawling over me and into me as if seeking buried treasure.