by Faith Hunter
And sure enough, there she was, in an old issue of L.A. Days, a free daily that was more advertisement than actual news. THE PARLOR IS A GAMBLE, the headline read. It went on to talk about how the club had been investigated as the common denominator in the disappearance of a couple of out-of-state businessmen who were seen to enter but never to leave.
“Which is just defamatory,” says club owner Ariana Weaver. “Of course they left. The police have been through The Parlor from top to bottom. If the men had stayed behind, someone would have located them. I don’t see where my mail goes when it’s picked up, but I trust that it’s not still hiding out in my mailbox.”
My heart started to beat faster, as if my body was trying to tell me what my mind was smart enough to figure out for itself—that this was important. There was a picture of Ariana, standing beside her glass-block bar, just as I’d seen her today, in the wraparound aviator shades, but this time in a black satin jacket with a hood lined in red pulled up around her face, making her seem mysterious, as if she had something to hide. Probably that was the impression the photographer had been going for, given the headline and the direction of the story. But the really telling thing was that she didn’t look a day older last night than she’d looked in the picture, and the article was dated fifteen years ago. I wondered what she was hiding behind those aviator shades besides maybe crow’s-feet.
I looked around for other news of the case and found a reference here and there to the missing businessmen, but as far as I could tell they’d never been found. For anything more in-depth, though, I’d be scrolling through old microfiche at the library. I didn’t think that was going to be necessary. My Spidey senses told me that The Parlor had been involved with the missing businessmen. Just like Gareth? I wouldn’t think that way. He would be found. I was on it.
I made a decision and picked up the phone to call Apollo. It rang four times and I’d resigned myself to voice mail when he finally answered and grumbled into the phone, “No. Whatever it is, no. Unless you want my body, in which case you can get over here and tell me in person.”
He hung up. Just like that. I’d never been good at taking “no” for an answer. Well, he’d issued the invitation. I did want his body, just not quite in the way nature—or Apollo—intended.
—
I’d been to Apollo’s home exactly once, when he’d saved me from a watery grave and I’d woken from oblivion to find myself unclothed, with a big, buff, nearly naked sun god sharing his body heat and quite willing to share a whole lot more. In his defense, I had been one step away from hypothermia and he had stopped when I’d . . . reluctantly . . . called a halt to things. I didn’t really want to tempt fate again by dropping in unannounced, but he’d left me no other choice.
I came with peace offerings from Duffy’s—pastries, croissants, chocolate croissants, those little bite-sized cherry and apple pies, and both coffee and espresso, since I wasn’t sure which he preferred. I’d loaded my bag down with every kind of creamer and sweetener known to man and hoped for the best.
The doorman, it turned out, not only remembered me, but succumbed to a bribe of coffee and cream puffs and let me into Apollo’s apartment without buzzing him, although he did consult a list first, probably of crazy stalker chicks to keep out and crazy hot stalker chicks who were allowed to disturb Apollo’s rest. I was glad I fell into the latter category, even if I didn’t agree with the final analysis.
I shut the door to the penthouse apartment behind me with a bump of the hip, since my hands were full, and heard Apollo cry out, but I couldn’t tell if it was at the intrusion or something in his sleep. I’d find out soon enough. I followed the sound and my memory toward his room. Light filtered in through semi-sheer curtains, but it hadn’t woken Apollo, who lay tangled in his sheets, his bedcoverings spilling all over the floor, as if he’d had a rough night. His deeply tanned chest rose and fell more rapidly than normal, and as I entered he thrashed about, still fighting whatever battle his bed linens had lost. I set my bag and coffee tray down on his entertainment center across from the bed and approached cautiously, well aware from my own night terrors that one good thrash could mean a black eye, and there would go my tips for the night.
I called to him softly as I approached, hoping to wake him from a distance. “No, Tori!” I heard him call, and thought I might have been getting through, but then he followed it up with “Don’t!”
As I reached the bed, he lashed out suddenly, grabbing blindly at my hand and yanking me down, then rolling on top of me to pin me beneath him. I looked up, half afraid, into his blind eyes and called, “Apollo, it’s me!” I grabbed for one of the hands that held me pinned and pinched him hard to snap him out of it.
It took another pinch before the veil of sleep cleared his eyes and he looked down into mine, and another second before I thought he was actually seeing me.
“Tori?” he asked. “What . . . what are you . . . Tori, you’re in danger.”
“So I gathered, but that was only in your dreams,” I said, trying to squirm out from under him, but his grip just tightened as he tried to make me understand.
“Lucid dreams,” he said, his turquoise eyes staring intensely into mine. “God of prophecy, remember? Did . . . did you call earlier?”
“I did.”
“Must have been what set me off.”
He rolled aside, but the sheets fell away just enough to reveal his assets . . . all of them. Apparently without a guest present he slept in the nude. So he had been acting the gentleman the last time I’d been here, at least by some definitions of it. I should have looked away. I tried, but managed only to avert my face. My eyes had a mind of their own. And what I could glimpse out of my peripheral vision . . .
“Enjoying the view?” Apollo asked, making no move to hide a thing.
“S’all right,” I lied. Damn, I’d forgotten the empathetic link his stupid “gift” had opened up between us.
He smiled at me over his shoulder and finally wrapped a sheet around himself towel style and went to check out my bribes. Maybe not the delicacies he’d been offered up on Mount Olympus, but pretty darn near the best L.A. had to offer.
He grabbed an espresso and both of the chocolate croissants and came back to bed. “I hope one of those is for me,” I told him.
“What do you have to trade?” he asked suggestively.
I growled and rose to help myself to one of the tiny cherry pies instead, biting it in half like it was his head. He laughed.
“Here,” he said, holding a croissant out to me. “I can’t stand to see you commit pastrycide.”
I bit into one of the croissants, closed my eyes in delight, and nearly sank into the bed, which was every bit as comfortable as I remembered. Hopefully, the sugar rush would hit soon and make up for my lack of sleep.
A pillow hit me upside the head, careful not to crush my croissant. “None of that,” Apollo said when I glared. “If anything’s going to pleasure you to sleep, it’s going to be me. Now spill. What’s going on that’s so important you had to beard the lion in his den?”
The lion’s den? Come to think of it, with that wild mane of golden hair, his tawny skin, and broad chest, it was an apt comparison.
I told him about Gareth, The Parlor, the invitation-only games, and the disappearances. Then I told him about Ariana Weaver. He got more and more thoughtful as the tale went on.
When I finished, he didn’t say a word, and I finally asked, “What?”
“I think you should drop the case. If it had anything to do with my dream . . .”
“Tell me about it,” I said gently.
“I saw fangs. You paralyzed, being sucked dry . . .” The haunted look was back in his eyes.
“Vampires?” I asked doubtfully. I thought about Ariana Weaver—dark glasses, dark clothing, a club that meant she’d be active at night and probably asleep by day . . . But I just couldn’t b
uy it. For one thing, she’d been captured on film. “Do vampires really exist?”
Apollo shrugged and the sheet he’d wrapped around his hips began to slip. “Depends on your definition. There are certainly things that go bump in the night. Some like the taste of blood. But I’m not sure that’s it. There was something . . . different . . .”
“Different how?” I prompted.
“Maybe if you’d let the dream play out . . .”
I stared down at the crumbs now decorating Apollo’s previously clean sheets. There was just no way to eat a croissant neatly. None. “So you’ll help me?” I asked.
He looked at me steadily. I could feel it even without meeting his gaze. “I’m trying, Tori. You told me to stay away, to give you and Nick a chance. I’m trying to honor that, but every time you pull me back in.”
“I know,” I said quietly, “but—”
“Have you tried calling the police? Having the wife file a missing person’s report?”
“Didn’t do any good the last time, fifteen years ago . . . if that was the last time. The men were never found.” Gareth wouldn’t be, either, not unless we found him. I felt it in my bones. “Will you help?” I repeated.
I looked up at last, and saw Apollo swipe a hand down his face. “You know I will. If the alternative is that dream coming true . . . I’ll help. But, Tori, you’ll owe me.”
That was the problem with gods, and what kept me from giving in to whatever was between me and Apollo. With gods, everything came with a cost. But in the balance of a man’s life versus complications for me, I knew which way the pendulum had to swing.
—
Since I couldn’t think of any good way to break into The Parlor during the day without getting caught, it seemed safe enough to call Detective Armani—Nick—and fill him in, just in case we were about to get in the middle of a police investigation or some such. He confirmed that Gareth hadn’t been missing long enough to officially launch an investigation and also unofficially confided that The Parlor had been named as a “last known” location in other cases that had led nowhere. I was ordered to be careful. And, if possible, to hang on to my waitressing outfit, because “That I have to see.”
Men. What was it about boots and booty shorts?
I promised, thinking of all the fun that would come after.
Then I had the day ahead of me to plan, to obsess and worry over my missing scientist. I had to hope that whatever was happening was on pause for the day, which I spent finding creative ways to hide lock picks, pepper spray, and an actual stiletto in the limited amount of fabric my costume provided. By nightfall I was as ready as I was ever going to be. Apollo had gotten himself invited into a game, and we had arranged for him to text or call me, his needy girlfriend, periodically to let me know what he’d learned.
We thought we’d planned for everything. We were wrong.
—
I arrived early for my shift, hoping I’d find some unguarded doorway or some other opportunity to poke around. To that end, I wore crepe-soled shoes, dark-wash jeans and a black T-shirt, the better for sneaking around. My stilettos and minuscule costume rested in a string backpack tossed carelessly over my shoulder. Anyway, there was no way I was walking the L.A. streets in them. Not unless I really wanted to make some extra cash and wasn’t too particular about the way I went about it.
But the doors weren’t open yet, even for employees, which meant I had to knock and Red had to eyeball me through the keyhole to approve my entrance. So much for stealth. Once I was inside, he announced, “You’re early.” And not like it was a good thing.
“Problem with that?” I asked. “I can be late tomorrow to make up for it.”
The right side of his mouth twitched at that, and I thought I might actually get a smile, but he fought it valiantly.
“Better not be. Boss lady wouldn’t like it.”
Boss lady. It was what my assistant, Jésus (pronounced Hey-Zeus), called me. Times like these I missed the hell out of him. I could only imagine his scathing commentary on the place. “Tinfoil bikinis? Really? It’s like The Wizard of Oz meets the deli counter. If I only had a style . . .” I could hear it now, like he was whispering in my ear.
“Speaking of the boss lady—,” I began.
“Yeah, she wants to meet you, too. There was a lot going on last night. She didn’t get to give you her blessing and the new employee orientation. I’m sure you’ll meet her tonight.”
Oh goody, goody gumdrops. I felt like someone had walked over my grave while I was still in it, very much alive and screaming to be heard. It was not a pleasant feeling.
I pasted a smile on my face as though I were looking forward to it.
“Since you’re here, you can help Tonio out behind the bar. He just got in a new shipment.”
Sure, it was Friday night. Had to stock up for the weekend. “No problem,” I answered. “Just let me get changed.” If I wasn’t able to sneak, at least maybe I could distract.
The waitstaff did have a tiny locker room at the back, and I’d been assigned a cubby along with my costume, but the room itself didn’t open onto anything but a bathroom with a few stalls so we didn’t have to take up those meant for customers. I’d checked it all out the night before. If there were any secret entrances or exits, they were well concealed. I looked again just to be sure that I had the place to myself, knocking on walls, reaching into unassigned and thus unlocked cubbies, but I found nothing and couldn’t stay long. I was expected out front.
I checked my cell phone before setting it down on the bench beside the bag, from which I pulled my shiny silver shorts. Apollo was supposed to call or text me every hour so that I’d know he was okay. There was a message waiting for me already.
ALL SET FOR THE GAME, BUT APPARENTLY THE FIRST RULE IS “NO ELECTRONICS.” WON’T BE ABLE TO TEXT OR CALL. IF I’M IN TROUBLE, WILL DO MY BEST TO RADIATE IT OUT THROUGH OUR LINK. SAME GOES FOR YOU. KEEP AN “EAR” OUT.
That feeling of someone walking over my grave escalated. Now I had two graves to worry about. Two graves and no plan but divide and conquer. ’Cause that worked out so well in horror films. At least there wasn’t any hanky-panky going on with us. That would have been the kiss of death.
My brain was doing what it always did under stress—bibble. I finished my quick change and left the locker room behind me, going back to the bar, where I was sure Tonio would give me something to do besides wait and worry.
Tonio turned out to be the bartender in the silver pants and shot glass bandolier from the night before. Without all that, he looked like a normal guy in a faded khaki Metal Mulisha T-shirt, jeans, and boots. His dark hair was spiked up and his chinstrap beard nicely highlighted the lines of his face. He had nickel-sized plug earrings in both ears, black on the outer rim, toxic green on the interior.
I was cutting lemon wedges when I casually asked him what had happened to my predecessor and why we were short-staffed. Was she yet another disappearance that could be laid at The Parlor’s door?
“Amber?” he asked. “She just ditched. Couldn’t take it anymore. I hear she got a job dancing somewhere on the Sunset Strip.”
“Did she give notice?”
Tonio gave me a “get real” look. “No one gives notice. It’s not that kind of job. Lots of turnover. Here one day, gone the next.”
I tried to look impressed. “Sounds like you’ve seen it all.”
“Been here almost a year.”
“Seems like they’d have you in the VIP room by now. Bet the tips are better back there.”
He studied me. “That what you’re angling for? I wouldn’t hold your breath. It’s based on seniority, and sister, you just got here.”
I gave him a cheeky grin, less effective since I wasn’t showing much actual cheek . . . not the kind most guys were interested in, anyway. “Honey, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’ve got
at least five years on most of these girls. I get much more senior in this biz and they’ll put me out to pasture. I don’t have time to wait my turn.”
Tonio did smile at that and gave me a really good once-over. Up, down, and back to my face. I’d been told by an ex-boyfriend once that I was “good enough for television,” which in La La Land was like saying I had a great personality. Kickboxing classes and wrestling with Latter-Day Olympians had kept me in shape, but I wouldn’t be winning any wet T-shirt contests, let alone pageants. “Honey,” he said back to me, “don’t sell yourself short. I didn’t ask, so you don’t tell. You can pass for a twentysomething. Hell, I’d give you a tumble if you were my type.”
“You’d be on,” I answered, because he’d about made my day. “So, no advice for moving on up?”
“Keep the customers happy and don’t step on any more toes.”
“Oh, you noticed that, huh?”
I’d accidentally mashed Mr. Musk’s toes beneath my stiletto heels when he startled me by grabbing for something other than his drink one time too many. It would have been hard for anyone to miss the shriek he’d let out, but I’d been hoping. I was lucky not to have been fired on the spot.
“Don’t worry, hon. I’m sure he deserved it.”
That was that. But I had no intention of working my way up the company ladder. One way or another, I was getting behind the scenes tonight.
It was killing me not knowing what was going on back there, not knowing whether Gareth was okay . . . or Apollo . . . So when I felt that first spike of apprehension from him, I was ready to go. I handed my tray off to Stacy, another of the waitresses, and promised she could keep my tips if she’d look after my tables. I blamed feminine issues. She huffed, but didn’t turn me down, and as soon as I was free, I struggled to walk rather than run toward the invitation-only area at the back.
