A few days later, we have a demo.

Jinx pulled her shit together as promised. She and Toombs flew home to see her family for the weekend. Rax has been obedient, if distant. He spends most of his time away, probably in bars or strip clubs, which is fine by me, as long as he stays out of jail. Letty and Shades are Letty and Shades. Fuck, fuck, goose.

Pumped that my efforts in power management paid off, I’m itching to celebrate Killer Buzz Float’s big win with the record company. As soon as the bus is clear on Mardi Gras morning, I dial Miles.

“I want to break a bitch tonight.”

“Well, that’s … unexpected.” He laughs. “What brought on your change of heart?”

Stress. Relief. Need. All of the above. “I thought about what you said, and I’ve decided it can’t hurt to give it a try. But I’ll do it my way. That submission crap—no offense—isn’t for me. I need the control.” He must understand. The two of us spent most of our short-lived marriage fighting for dominance over finances, interior decorating, and where we’d go on vacation.

He pauses. “Okay.”

“You know I hate neutral responses. What’s the reticence for? Don’t think I can handle it?”

“I didn’t say that.” There he goes, blowing me off like he knows what’s best for me. He’s infuriating.

“It’s not what you said. It’s what’s hiding behind the words. I’m a big girl, Miles.”

“No doubt,” he agrees. “I’ll pick you up at seven. That’ll give us five hours to play until the world ends and New Orleans falls back to sleep.”

“That suits me fine. I have to be at the airport bright and early anyway.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“No, picking up a couple of the band members. We’re staying in town for a while longer.”

A smile fills his voice, “Good. If you like the club, you can come back. Got your mask?”

“I’ve got it all.” Boy, do I ever. “See you tonight.”

* * *

When we enter the parlor, my eyes bug out behind the metal filigree hiding my identity. Thank goodness this thing has lots of holes. My skin feels like it’s suffocating.

“Welcome to the Strip and Whip Krewe’s fourteenth-annual masquerade.” Miles’s chest heaves proudly beneath his kinky leather twist on a Civil War soldier costume. Gold buttons line both sides of the gray jacket and streak down the middle. With a white glove, he gestures widely and follows the bare ass of a horse-man, complete with life-size head and a horsehair butt plug.

“I—” I scan the eclectic crowd and can’t think of a single thing to say.

“I know.” Miles’s cheeks plump into a grin. A pair of crossed shotgun accents sparkle above the bill of the gray cap shadowing his simple black mask. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Servants in crisp tuxedoes, balancing trays of champagne, crudités, and condoms on the tips of their fingers flit among the dolled-up attendees. One woman prances around in a green southern belle dress with a bustle and a ridiculously tight bustier. Only difference between her and Scarlett O’Hara is this lady’s tits are on full display. Like, all out, pierced nipples included.

Swallowing, I run a hand across my décolleté under the unbuttoned trench coat. “Yes, it’s beautiful.”

Plush, thick carpet springs under my high heels. Heavy, red-velvet drapes over floor-to-ceiling windows hide the club’s activities from the rest of the world. Persian rugs, high ceilings, tinkling crystal chandeliers … it’s an antebellum interior decorator’s wet dream.

“Ah, here’s Red. Let me introduce you.” Miles slides my arm under his and escorts me to a tall gentleman with long red hair. He’s wearing a stunning onyx mask complete with a rack of bold antlers, a black webbed harness, and leather pants. He smiles as we approach.

“Miles, love, you are deliciously tempting. Can’t wait to play war with you later.” Oozing testosterone, he grasps Miles’s uniform and leans in for a kiss. I look away.

“Red, meet Jillian,” Miles says after catching his breath.

Red snags my hand and kisses the backs of my fingers. His lips are soft. His eyes are hard. So is the tight body. “A pleasure, young lady. Miles has told me so much about you. Manager of a band, I understand? Must be a fascinating life.”

“More fun than a barrel of monkeys,” I quip. “Pleased to meet you, Red.”

“We should show you around,” he says, turning toward a squeal rising from the far corner where candles provide the only illumination. Shadows dance on the velvet royal and canary fleur-de-lis wallpaper. Predators stalk prey with bared claws, their grotesque beast-heads twisting upward as if howling at the moon. Or begging for a sliver of its waxing crescent power to feed emerging primal needs.

The smell of sex hangs heavy in the air despite the strong scent of melted candle wax and savory pastries. Flashes of breasts, restrained penises, and chastity-belted pelvises blink here and there—always subtle, but always present. Taunting.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?

I turn to Miles. “You know what? I should go. Thanks for the invitation, but … I made a mistake. I can catch a taxi—”

“You can’t leave yet. We just got here,” he pleads.

In my peripheral vision, Red crosses his arms and narrows his gaze like laser beams slicing through the slits of his mask. I keep my body facing Miles and lower my voice. “This isn’t my scene.”

He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “That’s fear talking. Give it a chance. There’s a burlesque show. Or I can take you to the dungeon if you want to jump right in and see the good stuff …”

“No. No dungeons.” My throat is parched. My hands are clammy. I’m in way over my head. I start to tell him to forget it, but his pleading eyes stop me. This is his world, and even though we’ve gone our separate ways, he’s still an important part of me. I can humor him for an hour, then I’ll politely excuse myself. “Fine. Burlesque. Let’s try that.”

His face lights up. “Back shortly, Red,” he says. Red nods. He’s giving Miles permission. My skin crawls. The notion of ownership, possession of another human being really pushes the limit for me.

We amble through the crowd. Images of things I’ll never unsee bombard me along the way. Masked animal trainers form a ring in the center of the room. They teach their “pets” to do tricks, rewarding good behavior with chocolate-dipped strawberry treats, and punishing bad with cracks to the ass from a riding crop. Barks, pants, and howls rise up like offerings to ancient sex gods.

I sneer. “I’d never give anyone control over my body. I don’t care how hot they are. Telling me what I can or can’t do? How to stand or when to sit? Making me beg? Fuck that.”

Miles presses his lips together.

“Say it,” I dare him.

He looks at me innocently. “Say what?”

“Protest. Tell me I’m wrong. Prove you’re right.”

He stops and clasps my upper arms. “You’ll have to figure it out yourself. Nothing I can say will change your mind. Until you experience the power exchange with your own senses, you’ll never get it.”

“Damn straight, I won’t. I’m sorry, but it’s seriously fucked up, Miles.” I glance back to Red, who watches us, biceps bulging over his hairy chest, and I shiver. “You really let that guy beat you?”

He laughs. “It’s not about beatings. Not all the time. It’s about power. In our relationship, I have all of it.”

“But you’re the bottom. How does that work?”

“The bottom is the one giving it away. If things get uncomfortable, I have the power to end it. And he knows it.”

I shake my head. “I don’t see it.” I came to this place, balls blazing, ready to let go of my inhibitions and make someone my bitch for a night, but now I’m skeeved out by everything. I don’t want control over another person, and I certainly won’t give mine away like Miles is suggesting. I’m not built for this.

I don’t know what I’m built for.

Miles takes my arm again like a gentleman soldier and pats my hand. “The burlesque show last year was fantastic. Costumes. Dancing. Singing. If nothing else, it’s great entertainment. Let’s have a look and go from there.”

I sigh and follow him into a grand ballroom with plush velvet chairs lined up before a small stage. Ragtime music plays from hidden speakers. Dressed in gaudy red flapper dresses and matching hats, women of every skin tone kick their feet higher than their heads, dancing in sync to the ragged, syncopated beats. Unsurprisingly, no one’s wearing underwear. Palms sweating, I can’t decide whether to be turned on or horrified as Miles and I settle against the back wall.

The song’s intro swells to a gentle climax, and a petite redhead glides across the stage like a big-top diva. She wears a mask like everyone else, but her ringmistress costume is flashier than the dancers’. The red-velvet waistcoat boasts wide black lapels and cuffs, both accented with soutache trim. Gold-fringed epaulettes cap the shoulders. Beneath the jacket lies a brocade vest, also gold, and a red-satin bra plumps her modest assets to the fore. A black-tiered ruffle skirt falls a few inches above her knees, which are topped off with black-and-sheer-striped stockings, held in place by garters I’d love to sink my teeth into.

A mass of natural red ringlets tumbles around her freckled shoulders (dear God, freckles!) from beneath the satin top hat. Wielding a snappy black riding crop in one hand, she lifts the microphone in her other and unleashes the voice of an angel-demon crossbreed. Soft. Raspy. Seductive. Goosebumps scale my arms under the trench coat, and I hold my breath as the music shifts and she belts out a snazzy Frank Sinatra number.

Time stills. The woman’s style carries an edge similar to Letty’s, but the promise behind it evokes an entirely different reaction in me. Whereas Letty projects pure power and fury and raging, unapologetic rock ’n’ roll, this siren is a practitioner in the art of subtlety. She hits the notes perfectly with a hint of fry that evokes longing for a simpler, freer time.

I imagine winding my arms around her from behind, the bent hills of my wrists supporting her breasts, flattening my palms to her trim stomach as it tightens and loosens with each snatch of air between words. Her bouncy curls tickle my nose, cheeks, and chin. I rest my head on her shoulder, lulled by her music, calmed by the warmth of her body against mine.

She tips her hat, and the spotlight reveals the face of a woman who’s far too young for me, but one I wouldn’t think twice about ruining if she’d bother giving me the time of day. She lowers the mic for a few measures, and the dancers take point. Her lips are small, her cheeks apple-dapple. Goddammit, I do want to ruin her. And I want her to keep the mask on when it happens.

Saliva floods my mouth. I fan myself with a gloved hand.

“She’s stunning, isn’t she?” Miles breathes beside my ear.

I bite my lip and nod. “Who is she?”

He looks away. “No idea, but I like her.”

Me fucking too.

A flurry of red spins from the dancers like mini tornadoes across the stage as the song nears its climax. The singer tosses the crescendoing lyrics upward like a spiraling baton. When she catches the high note, she holds it as her own for a second, then frees it, spine arched, hips thrown forward, tendons throbbing along her neck.

This song is hers. It’s her blood, her religion, her life. She will see it through to its end and remember it for years after this moment passes. Everyone in the room will. It’s that powerful. And I was here to witness it on Mardi Gras in the French Quarter with the man I love and the man he loves lingering elsewhere down the hall.

As the cymbals shimmy toward the final crash, movement that can only be felt, not seen, runs rampant through the room. The dancers fall into their ending poses, legs hooked around each other or splayed wide. Their peeking beavers don’t interest me. The music doesn’t interest me. The girl in the middle of the stage, whipping the onlookers into a frenzy with nothing but her voice and her amazing presence is the only thing I care about.

The microphone lowers. The music stops. And her eyes catch mine with lures of sapphire and promises spoken on mornings after and vows sealed by clasped hands.

Wishful thinking?

Yes. Sue me.

The audience applause deafens. I am lost, swept away by a woman whose face I can’t see, but whose voice convinces me that I can’t live without her.

Yet, in a couple hours, I’ll have no choice but to live without her.

Why does everyone but me get happiness? Letty and Shades. Jinx and Toombs. Miles and Red. It’s not like I haven’t tried. What’s wrong with me?

In this absurd but sharp moment of weakness, I turn away and hug Miles, mumbling into his chest, “God, Miles, I’m so alone.”

“What?” Concern tips his pitch higher as he covers my hand on his sternum with his. “Don’t say that, Jillian. What’s going on? This isn’t like you at all.”

I don’t answer. Couldn’t if I wanted to because I have no idea what the fuck is wrong with me. The audience claps and cheers for the exiting performers. Miles guides me away from the scene that’s suddenly wreaking emotional havoc on me for no good goddamn reason.

Shit, I’m losing my fucking mind.

I stare down at the pretty carpet as we walk. Miles shows me to a quiet spot down the hall and sits me on a cube-shaped red-velvet couch. He settles in beside me.

“Talk to me,” he orders.

I look up at his handsome face and caress the stubble I used to kiss back when I thought we were one person but hadn’t figured out that our bodies no longer fit together.

“I know this is terrible timing, but … I still love you.”