“Why are we friends, again?”

Gabriela blew a kiss at her, then slipped the black drape off of Duke. “Alright. You’re done. I’ll walk out with you, Duke,” the hairdresser said sternly. “Latisha,” she called out, “lock the door if you leave.” Then she waved her phone at Angel. “Call me if you need me. I wouldn’t mind beatin’ some ass.” This last was said with a head toss and a smile toward Duke.

“Oh. It’s you,” said the hostess at the door of the Peacock. Her breath hung on the air between them, laced with frost.

The young woman didn’t have the decency to blush, though Angel did. The last time she’d seen her, the girl had been exercising her right to fuck her way up the ladder. Now, her eyes blank, the hostess said, “Someone is waiting for you by the bar.” Then she zoned completely out, twitching her stiff blond hair and staring over Angel’s shoulder.

Angel rolled her eyes. It wasn’t easy, deciding not to take her anxiety and ever-present anger out on the rude young woman, but Angel didn’t want to waste a burst of energy on a nonentity. She wanted her senses keen and alert.

She wound her way through the tables, surrounded by the night’s first wave of club patrons—the men with their ties loosened but on, many of the women still in their workday ballet flats, and the black linen tablecloths already covered with wine bottles, martini glasses, and cheese boards. The DJ was warming up the crowd with old-school rap mash-ups, including Run DMC and Vanilla Ice.

“Angel-l-l,” crooned Frank. He hovered over Duke, who sat in the center of a cluster of overstuffed chairs, his feet up on a coffee table. The Bronx Bolt pitcher was on a low-lit dais in the middle of the club, highly visible to patrons, the owner fluttering around him. Everyone in the place would know that a famous professional athlete was in the house.

“Sooo glad to see you again. We’ve missed you around here.” As Frank focused on Angel at the foot of the stairs, his eyes were more bloodshot than usual, highlighted by a tequila sunrise tan. “Come by next week if you’re interested in getting back on the schedule.”

“Uh, sure, Frank. I’ll do that.” I hope to God I don’t have to work with this troll again. The one upside, though, was that the owner of the Peacock was a wimp, easy to manipulate. Dr. Collins was a nightmare with too much power over her. The Peacock might not be so bad …

“Frank, is it?” Duke rumbled. “I’ll find you later. I hear you want a picture.”

“I would be honored if—”