The Road To Hell Part 15

Like you, Jesse.

I told my conscience to take a flying leap off the Empire State Building. Then I focused on fixing my hair.

Whoever had designed the dressing room at Spice must have had at least ten sisters: attached to the wall like a low-riding shelf, the vanity table wrapped around half the room, complete with individual chairs (the comfy plush land, not the ones that fold in half the moment you sit your a.s.s down) and a wall-mounted makeup mirror. Soft-light bulbs dotted the mirror frame; the counter was wide enough for the Avon lady to display her entire set of wares and still have room to fix a sandwich. Each chair had a number; each number matched one on the row of lockers that ran across the far end of the room. Up to thirty dancers at a time could do the makeover thing simultaneously and not get in each other's way.

Well, not unless they were liberal with their elbows.

Next to me, Faith clucked her tongue. "What's wrong, girl? You look madder than a bear with a canker sore."

"Paul's being an a.s.s," I said. Okay, snarled. "Got into a fight last night. He's not returning my calls."

"Boo f.u.c.king hoo," Mimi said, off to my right. "Trouble in paradise. And here I thought your guy could do no wrong, the way you talk about him."

I shot Mimi a look that should have roasted her bottled-blonde hair. She was one of those I'm-too-s.e.xy types who acted like her farts were something that should be sold to the highest bidder. "Your sympathy's overwhelming."

"Just surprised that your boy toy's actually human. You make him out to be practically touched by G.o.d."

Where I come from, them's fighting words. I was about to suggest that she take her hairbrush and stick it up her a.s.s when Faith asked me, "He get mad at you for going out without him last night?"

Casting one last glare at the peroxide queen, I said, "Something like that."

Mimi rolled her eyes. "f.u.c.king pathetic."

That's it. If I couldn't murder Paul or even trash his apartment, I could at least gleefully slaughter Mimi and tap dance on her carca.s.s. But before I could do more than picture myself decorating the dressing room with streamers of Mimi's small intestine, Candy let out a snort behind me.

"Guys can be possessive," she said as she tucked her b.o.o.bs into a blue demi-bra. "They're stupid that way."

You'll be mine, Daun's voice whispered. Body and soul.

I closed my eyes and shuddered, my body remembering Daun's touch.

You still taste like a succubus.

Candy was still speaking, but her words were nothing more than static. Ghost fingers brushed against the curve of my breast, teased my nipple. Biting my lip, I told my body to stop that. Daun wasn't here now. And Daun wasn't my immediate problem. That honor belonged to- You really love that flesh puppet with the big shoulders?

Yes. Except I also wanted to kill him. Slowly. And excruciatingly painfully.

Love was f.u.c.king complicated. I should never have turned my back on l.u.s.t.

And then there was Meg.

No. I wasn't thinking about her. She could rot, for all I cared.

You're lying to yourself.

Go away, Meg.

That's the difference between demons and humans, you know. Humans lie to themselves.

Shut up. You chose duty over me. Fine. Now it's my turn, and I choose life over a dead friendship.

I can see that.

Hear that, brain? I made my choice. So turn off the picture of Meg's face. Mute the sound of her giggles. Rip her out of my memory, like the way she ripped out my heart when she betrayed me.

h.e.l.lo? Is this thing on?

Humans don't work like that, Jezzie, Jesse. Humans have a conscience. Humans dwell in the "what if."

Ah, c.r.a.p.

Scowling, I shoved the voice away as I took my frustration out on my hair; in turn, my roots shrieked as they faced death by hairbrush.

"s.h.i.t. You didn't hear a d.a.m.n thing I said, did you?"

Blinking, I looked at Candy's reflection. She stood behind me, hands on her hips, looking like an advertis.e.m.e.nt for liquid chocolate. Dark chocolate-there was no cafe au kit about her. From her tight cap of curls down to her stiletto-clad toes, she was an ebon G.o.ddess in electric-blue lace.

"Sorry," I said with a tiny shrug. "Lost in thought."

"Couldn't tell, thanks for the news flash." Candy shook her head. "You're eating yourself up over your man. f.u.c.k that. You're about to go on stage in front of a room packed with l.u.s.ty men."

"Not that packed for Friday lunch," Mimi said.

Candy pinned her with a glare. "So you don't need a crowbar to walk the aisles. Big f.u.c.king deal. Now do you mind? I'm in the middle of a pep talk here, and your smarta.s.s mouth is crimping my style."

Mimi snapped her mouth closed with an audible click, but I heard her mutter something suspiciously close to "runt."

Candy talked as she shimmied into her PVC shorts. "Now, as I was saying, there's a lot of men out there. Men with too much money and too little female attention. You want to get back at your man? Go out there, have a f.u.c.king killer set. Line your G-string with dead presidents."

"That'll get back at Paul how?" I asked.

She grinned at me, nearly blinding me from the flash of her teeth. "Honey, you'll be so busy counting your money, you'll be asking, 'Paul who?' "

Good point.

A rap on the door, then Joey's voice: "Jezzie, you're on."

"Thanks, sweetie," I called. I grabbed the bottle of hair spray and quickly cemented my tresses in place. Then I stood up, knotted my sleeveless black rocker tee at the waist, and adjusted my Daisy Dukes so that no a.s.s cheeks peeked out. Then I blew my reflection a kiss.

Showtime.

I boogied down the hall, my heels clacking on the floor in time to the ending refrain of Prince's "Cream." Another dancer, Tori, headed my way, probably en route to the dressing room. As we approached each other, my pace slowed. She riveted me with red-rimmed eyes, her lips fixed in a knowing smile. My throat constricted, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.

Lillith smiled, opened her mouth- -and sneezed.

Huh?

Tori sniffled, wiped her nose. "f.u.c.king allergies," she muttered, walking past me. "Love your shirt, J."

"Thanks," I said, able to breathe again. My head felt swimmy, and my legs wobbled so much that I nearly wiped out. Pit swallow me, I was losing my mind. Get a hold of yourself, Jesse. Drooling men await.

By the time I arrived backstage, I had barely a minute to loosen up-I rolled my shoulders, rocked my head back and forth. Prince faded, and Kelly jiggled up to me, glistening from her time on stage, clutching fistfuls of money to her naked chest. We did the "Hey" thing, filling an entire conversation with one word: ME: Hey. (Meaning, Hi, did you have a good set?) HER: Hey. (Meaning, Yeah, pretty good, but you have to work it to see real tips.) ME: [Eyebrow quirk.] (Guys're stingy today?) HER: [Shrug.] (Tightwad losers, the lot of them.) She dashed past me, and then from the DJ booth Jerry's voice filled the club. He called my stage name-my real name, the sum of who I was, and who I would ever be.

The temptress of Spice: Jezebel.

h.e.l.l yeah.

I stepped on stage, the first notes of AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" blending with the loud applause from the audience. My men, they likee the Hard Rock Wh.o.r.e thing. Over the cheers, electric guitar strummed from the speakers, sa.s.sy, playful, hinting of wickedness. Grinning as the melody seeped into my skin, I sashayed forward, taking stock of the men seated in front of me, around me-watching me, wanting so desperately to touch me. Sweaty faces, hungry eyes.

Uber cool.

The drums lacked in, working with the guitar to form a seductive rhythm. Hands on my thighs, I rolled my hips to the beat. My hands moved up my torso, tracing the outline of my b.r.e.a.s.t.s before they stretched up and up, ran through my hair as they reached for the sky. Brian Johnson's voice rang out, gravely and so d.a.m.n s.e.xy, and as he sang I danced-big movements, unabashed, inviting the audience to f.u.c.k me with their eyes.

The barest pause at the end of the song, then the pounding drum intro to ZZ Top's "Sleeping Bag" thumped out. Thrilling in the way the music battered my body, I untied the end of the rocker shirt before I peeled it over my head. Strutting to the stage's edge, I winked at the fl.u.s.tered businessman at Table 2 and let the garment fall into his lap. Not a good idea to throw away outfits, but today I didn't mind-the shirt had been Paul's.

Gyrating in the spotlight, I tore the shorts from my body, the Velcro making a satisfying ripping sound. Ah, f.u.c.k it. I tossed that out too, causing a minor fistfight by Table 3.

That's right, boys. Show me your love.

Stripped down to my black mesh bra and G-string, I sauntered to the bra.s.s stripper pole in the middle of the stage. Gripping it with both hands, I swung in time with the song, kicking up a leg and whipping my hair around in a frenzy. All to the beat: the music pulled me under, and I let it take me away.

Soon ZZ Top melted into Poison telling the audience to "Talk Dirty to Me." I ditched my bra. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s, all too happy to be free, jiggled as I danced, my nipples erect from the air conditioning and the avid stares of the customers. My shoulders rolled and my a.s.s wiggled as I drank in the music, sipped the sound of Bret Michaels' throaty vocals.

Purr, baby.

Dropping to the floor, I crawled my way to the tip rail, my body undulating to the guitar lead. t.i.ts-first, I said h.e.l.lo to all the lovely men with all their lovely money. Ones and fives slid next to my hip, thick fingers lingering on my thigh after they tucked the bills into my barely-there underwear. The new owner of my shorts offered me a twenty. Smiling over my shoulder, I showed him my a.s.s, wiggling my intention. I felt his nervous fingers touch my flesh as he nudged the money beneath the strap of my G-string. Turning, I blew him a kiss, knowing that at that moment, he would have given me his soul to feel my mouth on his.

Yes, sweetie. I would suck you down, swallow you whole, make you explode with pleasure.

Flush with tips, I rose to my feet and pranced to the middle of the stage for the rest of the song, dancing for my posse. The music gave way to a crash of applause and whistles, and I basked in the attention, feeling their desire pour over me, thick and sticky as blood on my skin.

Grinning madly, I waved to all the yummy men. Who needed Paul Hamilton?

Before I picked up my discarded bra, I caught a glimpse of long blond hair, of legs that stretched from here to Omaha.

Seated at the bar, the angel raised a gla.s.s to me.

"I still don't understand what you're doing."

Fumbling in my purse, I said, "What I'm doing is standing outside of Paul's apartment as I look for my key."

"Yes," the cherub said, "but my concern is why you are here in the first place."

"I need to get my stuff." I'd been so busy not stressing after Alecto's return that I'd accidentally left my suitcases at the apartment. Now I needed to retrieve them before Paul came home. I didn't know where I was going next, but that didn't matter. I could do the hotel thing for a few days, maybe slum at Faith's for a couple while I figured things out.

Angel said, "I think what you need is some time to think before you do anything rash."

"What are you, my mother?"

"Demons don't have mothers."

"It's something the humans say. And I'm not a demon anymore." c.r.a.p, where was the key? "I don't suppose you could open the door for me."

"Of course I could. But I won't. Entering an abode without permission would be wrong."

"Yeah? Where was this sense of righteousness earlier, when you just zapped yourself inside and nearly scared me to death?"

"That was different," she said. "I needed to speak with you."

"Well, I need to get inside."

"Then you should use your key."

b.i.t.c.h.

After some more fruitless rummaging, I upended my purse, scattering the contents onto the floor. Lipstick, tissues, loose change, more tissues, three sticks of gum, wallet, half a chocolate bar. Some funky stuff that I a.s.sumed was a purse's equivalent of belly b.u.t.ton lint. But no key.

c.r.a.p.

"Maybe this is a sign," Angel said. "Perhaps you're not supposed take your things and leave. Perhaps you're supposed to make amends with your man."

"Perhaps I should learn not to lose my flipping key." I leaned over and thudded my forehead against the door, the wood cool against my skin.

And from inside, I heard voices.

Oh, terrific. My soon-to-be-ex-lover was home. Maybe he'd be kind enough to let me in so I could tear him a new a.s.shole before I kissed that a.s.s goodbye. Maybe- A woman's laughter peeled out, the sound as ripe as freshly plucked fruit.

Frowning, I pressed my ear against the door. Maybe I'd left the television on?

No, there was Paul's voice, m.u.f.fled, yes, but his voice all the same.

My chest felt too tight, and something lodged in my throat. Swallowing thickly, I listened, hoping I was wrong, knowing I wasn't.

More laughter, followed by a feminine voice cooing. And now Paul, letting out a groan...

"Unlock this door," I said to Angel.

"Jesse Harris, that would be-"

"Unlock this f.u.c.king door," I said again, my voice a strangled growl. "Now."

Either my urgency or my demonic nature must have convinced the cherub not to screw around, because she replied, "It is done."

I threw open the door and stormed inside. And there, in the living room, on the cheap Ikea sofa that was falling apart but Paul couldn't bear to part with, there was Paul himself, his b.u.t.ton-up shirt unb.u.t.toned and hanging off him like a dead thing, Paul's head thrown back but not so much that I didn't see his blissful smile, Paul's hard torso and chest and shoulders glistening with sweat and scratches from nails that weren't mine, Paul moaning in ecstasy, Paul with a woman straddling him.

Paul with some nasty s.k.a.n.ky lily-a.s.sed c.o.c.ksucking festering rotting piece of trash wh.o.r.e on top of him. f.u.c.king his brains out.

Right. Now. In front of me.