Page 6 of Dead Devil's Playground
The performer uses the curtain material to spin gracefully around the stage, his movements fluid and confident. As he lands back on the cage, he lets go of the fabric, gripping the cage behind him. His muscles ripple beneath his skin with every motion.
Even from a distance, it’s clear that he’s aware of his audience. His mouth parts, subtle but enough, and his hips roll like a dare as his eyes lock onto mine. My stomach twists with heat,irritation sparking because I hate how easily I’m distracted by pretty muscles.
Then he lets go, freefalling for a heartbeat that drags me to the edge of panic—until he catches another curtain, smooth as silk. Show-off. My lips twitch.
Hudson’s nudge snaps me back, and I almost growl at the interruption. Stella, the manager we hired for Devil’s Playground barrels toward us, flushed with stress and adrenaline, eyes wild. Hudson’s voice stays dry, calm. “Looks like she’s got something to discuss.” Humor coils under his words, and I have to grit my teeth not to snap.
The woman starts rattling off last-minute updates, efficient and jittery. “Everything’s coming together,” she says, her eyes darting around the room. “We’re just about ready. If there’s anything specific you need, now’s the time to let me know.”
I smile. “It looks amazing so far. How about you give us a progress tour so we can see it all for ourselves? I’d love to get a closer look at the final setup and make sure everything aligns with our vision for the opening.”
The manager’s face brightens, clearly eager to please. “Absolutely, I’d be happy to. Follow me, and I’ll show you around.”
She leads us through the bustling space, pointing out cages, safety measures, bars, lounges, all the little things that keep chaos from spiraling too far.
Gesturing towards the cages suspended above the stage, she starts to go over the safety checks. “The cages have been thoroughly checked and tested for safety. We’ve ensured that all the rigging is secure, and that the cages can be safely lowered or retracted as needed. They’ll be inspected every week to ensure they remain in top condition.”
Her professionalism and attention to detail are reassuring. “We’ve also conducted extensive safety checks on theperformance materials,” she adds. “The curtains, the rigging, and the equipment have all passed thorough safety inspections. I know the goal is to provide an exciting experience while ensuring the performers’ and guests’ safety.”
We move towards one of the minor stages, where she continues. “These smaller stages have similar safety measures in place. All the materials used are flame-retardant as I know we have the fire dancing performances also. The dance floors have added non-slip materials, but we have cleaners scheduled for the entire establishment morning after closing to clean and double check for safety.”
At the bar area, she adds, “The bars are ready, with secure shelving and staff trained for any emergencies. The privacy lounges upstairs are also well-prepared, with secure curtains and safe lighting. Each lounge area will be monitored and cleaned as needed. The girls we have set up for those duties will just blend in seamlessly with the other staff and performers.”
Finally, she looks at Hudson as she points out the security stations. “As you know, your team is already familiar with the layout. We’ve got surveillance and patrols set up to ensure everything runs smoothly and no one gets out of hand.”
When she’s done, she scurries off, leaving the club’s thrum around us. I take it all in. It’s perfect. Dangerous. Erotic. Ours.
Hudson leans close, voice low. “I need to brief my team. Don’t go far.”
“I’m stepping out for a smoke,” I shoot back, rolling my eyes before he can give me that lecture look. “Back alley. Close enough I can still feel you breathing down my neck.”
The growl in his chest is low, warning, and it makes me grin as I slip away.
Outside, daylight slams into me. I blink, digging out a cigarette, but freeze when I notice him—the performer. Leaningagainst the brick wall, smoke curling from his lips, hair copper-blond in the sun, eyes blue fire.
“Got a light?” I ask.
He flicks the ash from his cigarette and holds it out to me. As I light my cigarette with his, he straightens as though he might head back inside.
“You don’t have to leave on my account,” I say with a grin.
He eyes me warily. “I don’t have a death wish.” His voice is low and raspy, like he has choked on enough smokes for a lifetime even if I would estimate that he is a few years younger than me. The voice fits the industry he is in, with just enough gravel to it to have an effect on anyone who hears it.
But his words make me pause. “What do you mean?”
“I know who you belong to,” he says, taking back his cigarette with a raised brow. “My life may not mean much, but I’d like to keep it and not get shot for being near the boss’s girl.”
I can’t help but laugh at his bluntness, the sound escaping before I can stop it. His frown deepens, unsure of how to react.
I laugh—sharp, unrestrained. His frown deepens, uncertain. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
He smirks, drags on his cigarette. “You keep telling yourself that.”
The alley thickens with smoke and tension, the moment charged. His gaze roves, lingering, assessing. “Though, you don’t seem the type to be easily kept.”
I tilt my head, lips curving. “And what type is that?”
He shrugs, the smirk still on his face. “The kind who knows their worth and doesn’t let anyone dictate their life.”
