The Devil's Playground: First Chapter

Chapter One

"Move over, would you?  I need to put on my mustache."

Francesca Strong sifted through the jumble of glitter and makeup products littering the top of her vanity.  Then she turned to the balding, six-foot-two man applying yet another layer of lipstick beside her.  She handed him a small bottle.  "Here."

The man snorted, but obediently set down his lipstick.  Frankie swallowed a chuckle.  Leave it to Cookie Mambo to take "over-the-top" over the top.  His lips were slathered a deep fuchsia color.  Pink cream blush streaked his pale cheeks, and his yellow and turquoise eye shadow looked like it had been laid on with a palette knife.

Ah, show business.

She tried not to breathe while Cookie opened the bottle and painted a thin line of adhesive over her upper lip.  The acrid scent of acetone burned her eyes nonetheless.  She flashed him an appreciative half-smile, careful not to move her face too much.

Bianca used to help you get ready.

Frankie blinked.  Her smile faded.  Why was she thinking about that now?  She started buttoning the crisp white tuxedo shirt over her black pasties.  The starchy material itched.  She ignored it.

Cookie finished, and passed her a small box.  "Need a hand?"

Frankie popped it open.  "I got it."  She peeled out the thin, startlingly realistic pencil mustache inside and gingerly pressed it above her lip.

He caught her eye in the mirror and batted his thick false lashes at her.  "How's my makeup?"

Frankie relaxed and flashed him a teasing grin.  "You're the prettiest girl I ever saw."

A loud, brassy swing number pulsed through the dressing room's closed door.  The band was on earlier than usual.  Frankie double-checked her shirt's stiff French cuffs.  In went her cufflinks.  The glittering stones in the centers mirrored the deep red of her lipstick.  She stood, hooked her thumbs under the suspenders dangling from the waist of her tuxedo pants, pulled them up over her shoulders.

She turned back to Cookie, wriggling her nose to keep the mustache from stiffening.  "Catfish said he's pushing the Queens back next week.  What's going on?"

Cookie shrugged.  "Some new act he brought in.  A knife-throwing team.  Not my thing, personally.  Too sideshow, you know?"  Frankie chuckled.  Cookie's expression grew devious.  "Word is, the guy's a real ladykiller.  'The Blade'.  That's his name."

"How original."

Cookie started to speak when the door to the dressing room swung open.  Frankie looked up sharply.  Her stomach dropped.  "Oh.  It's you."

Of all the people she least wanted to see before a show.  Her heart gave a stubborn flutter.  She locked her chest.  Maybe she'd needed what they'd had before, but she'd been younger then.  Stupider.  Weaker.

Now she was finally ready to move on.

A rubenesque woman with skin the color of roasted coffee and teased-out black hair leaned back against the door.  It shut with a click.  Her eyes didn't leave Frankie's face.  "Been missing you, Firebug."

Frankie turned back to the vanity.  Her cheeks felt hot.  Next to her, Cookie was arranging a towering blond beehive atop his bald head.  He caught her eye in the mirror and cocked an eyebrow.  She shook her head as imperceptibly as possible.

"I saw that."  The woman sauntered towards her, taking her time to examine the jumble of silks, velvets, and feathers scattered around the room.  With each step, the slit in the side of her royal blue evening gown gaped a little wider.

Seemingly oblivious, she trailed a finger along a blood-red corset hanging on a rack.  "Mmm.  You should wear this color more often."

Frankie didn't move.  The woman came up behind her.  Frankie kept her eyes down, refused to see the sumptuous cleavage, the muscular, shapely leg framed in the dress's deep slit.  The woman stuck out her lower lip.  "Where you been lately?"

Cookie cleared his throat.  "Bianca, maybe you should-"

Bianca turned on him.  "You stay out of this.  And get that goddamn fright wig out of my face."  She focused back on Frankie.  Her voice dropped.  "I miss our act.  Catfish said you were the one wanted out.  How come?"

She ran one smooth, artistic finger down the side of Frankie's neck.  Frankie jumped.  "I already told you..."

"You told me nothing."  Bianca stepped away.  "'Move on'?  What does that even mean?"

Frankie's fingers froze on her bow tie.  She looked Bianca's reflection dead in the eye.  "Please."  Don't make a scene.  Don't make this worse.

Bianca's face hardened.  She whirled on her heel and stomped back the way she'd come.  She paused, hand on the doorknob.  "You know you can't shake me that easy, Firebug.  We got history, you and me.  We got a connection.  You can't just turn it off."

Frankie's lips tightened, but she didn't answer.  Bianca gave a final huff and swept out of the room.  The door banged shut behind her.

Frankie allowed herself to breathe again.  She felt Cookie's steely gaze.  "Just, don't, all right?"

Cookie's face didn't change.  "Thought things were over between you two, is all."

Frankie sighed.  "They are, it's just... complicated."  She might hate it, but Bianca was right.  They had a history.  Few people knew her as well as Bianca Black.  Few people knew what she'd had to do to get where she was.

The ones who did weren't inclined to keep her secrets the way Bianca had.

Cookie looked up from strapping on his size fifteen platform heels.  "You know what you need?"

Frankie rolled her eyes.  This should be good.  "No.  But I bet you'll tell me."

"You need to get laid."  Cookie stood, took a couple test steps.  He winked.  "Maybe you could see if 'The Blade' will show you his blade, catch my drift?"

Frankie groaned.  "Thanks, but that is the absolute last thing I need."

She walked over to where her tuxedo jacket was  hanging ready, paused to touch the satiny fabric of the red corset hanging next to it.  She jerked her hand back and tugged the jacket off its hanger.  "Help me with this?"

Cookie held it for her while she slid her arms into the sleeves.  "Hey, I'm just doing my job as your friend.  Everyone else has a life outside this place.  But not you.  Do you ever go anywhere?  Do anything?"

"Sure I do," Frankie lied.  She turned around and struck a pose.  "How do I look?"

Cookie pursed his dazzling lips, reached out and straightened her bow tie.  Then he stepped back and nodded.  "I'd do you."

Frankie laughed and headed for the door.  "Thanks."

Cookie's voice echoed out behind her.  "Break a leg!"

She closed the door and headed into the wings, weaving her practiced way through the darkness and mayhem that had become her life.  She glanced around, and her stomach flipped.  She tried to convince herself it was just pre-performance jitters, but deep down she knew that was a lie.  Frankie sighed.

If her luck held, she would finish her act and go home, and not see Bianca again.

***

No one had told him it would be like this.

Johnny Marsden stared into the mass of feathers, rhinestones, and sweaty, naked flesh revolving around him.  He dodged a tattooed, barely-clad pixie with lurid pink hair, politely ignored the nasty look she sent him before she disappeared around a pile of rigging.  He blew out a breath.  Even the circus couldn't compare to this.

Well, it might, if the circus was pumped up on speed and Viagra.

Johnny shoved his hands in his pockets and tried not to touch anyone.  No one paid him the slightest notice.  A troop of platinum blondes in various stages of undress bustled by, headed for the stage.  It took Johnny a moment to realize one of them was a man.

Behind them was an octogenarian swathed in a Pepto-Bismal-pink feathered dressing gown, staggering under the weight of an immense hat.  She muttered to herself in what sounded like Russian, but when she noticed Johnny staring, her irritated "What?" was barked in perfect English.

Johnny raised his hands, and she moved on.

He flattened as far back against the wall as his six-four frame would allow.  Somebody up top had one sick sense of humor, throwing him into a place like this.  Cafe Outré.  At least the name was accurate.  He hauled in what he thought would be a deep, fortifying breath, instead nearly choked on the smell of acetone and body odor.

Just do your job, and get out.

"Well, look who we have here.  If it isn't Johnny Apocalypse."

He knew that voice.  Johnny plastered something he hoped would pass for a smile on his face and turned.  "Catfish, you old son of a bitch.  Long time."

The man behind him was nearly as tall as he was; whip thin, with a slick, coppery pompadour and a handlebar mustache that curled dramatically at the ends.  With his pinstriped zoot suit, he looked like an extra from an old gangster movie.

It was an effect only mildly disrupted by his lavender vest.

He flashed Johnny a grin.  A gold molar winked in the side of his mouth.  "Couldn't believe it when you called.  The Blade, back after a five-year hiatus?"  He crossed his arms.  "I heard you'd retired.  Made off with an oil man's wife, or some shit like that."

Johnny's lips twisted.  "Good story, right?"

"So what really happened?"

Johnny only shrugged.  "Truth is stranger than fiction, my friend."

Catfish didn't press him.  "Where's this new girl you swindled into working with you?  I was looking forward to meeting her."

Johnny winced inwardly.  His new partner should have been here by now.  If she was smart, she'd gotten cold feet and bailed while she still could.  "She should be here any day now.  Family emergency."

"Mmm."  Catfish didn't even try to sound interested.  Onstage, the band was starting to wind down.  He straightened his purple tie and nodded to Johnny.  "That's my cue.  See you on the other side."  He melted back into the shadows and the crowd.

Johnny glanced around.  Still, no one paid any attention to him.  He pursed his lips.  He was relatively sure he'd seen an office down the back hallway.  An office meant records.  Records meant evidence.  And evidence meant he could get the hell out of here.  He turned...

...Only to ram into a warm, solid body.  Something clattered to the floor.  Johnny looked down at the same time a slender, attractive man cursed vehemently.  A pair of bright gray eyes glowered up at him.  "Jesus!  Watch where you're going, would you?"

The man's features were fine, his face sensual.  Johnny blinked.  Then it struck him.

This was a woman.

BONUS CHAPTER

***

Chapter Two

Her face was like white marble, with strong cheekbones and a feminine chin.  She pressed two fingers to either side of her Errol Flynn mustache.  Satisfied it was still in place, she bent down to retrieve what she'd dropped.

Johnny reached it first.  It turned out to be a stylish, gold-tipped presentation cane.  He held it for a moment while he studied her.  He'd never seen a woman in drag before.  She pulled off a tux better than most men he knew, every detail impeccable.  A black fedora was jammed over her ebony hair.  The mustache over her bowed upper lip was unnervingly sexy.

She cleared her throat, and he realized he was staring.  He handed her the cane.  "Didn't realize anyone still used these things."

She rolled her eyes and tucked the cane under her arm, straightened a loose cuff.  Then she fixed him with that gray glare again.  "You're the new knife-thrower.  'The Blade', isn't it?"

Johnny tried on his most charming smile.  "In the flesh.  Johnny Apocalypse.  And you are...?"

"None of your business."  The woman turned her attention to her other cuff.  "Damn!  I lost a cufflink."

Johnny crouched down with her, made a show of searching the floor while he watched her scrounge for the missing cufflink.  She turned away from him, and the way her rear end wriggled made his mouth water.  "Easy, Slim.  You got something against knife throwers?"

She glanced back at him.  "Not at all, Steve."  Her tone was acerbic.  "Just the ones who don't pay attention where they're going."

Johnny bit back a chuckle. So the woman knew her classic movies.  Another mark in her favor.  "Maybe I had better things to pay attention to."

A blush pinkened her cheeks.  It shocked him even more than the mustache or the cane.  She quickly looked away, pounced on something just out of his sight.  "There it is."

She stood a little too quickly.  Johnny stood too, and realized with surprise she was only a few inches shorter than he was.  Her fingers fumbled around the delicate cufflink.  He held out his hand.  "May I?"

The expression on her face came close to panic.  She glanced around, clearly hoping to find someone else, but the area around them had emptied.  Helpless, she placed the cufflink in his outstretched palm.

Johnny slid the cool metal pin through the slit in her cuff.  The starchy material was laced with her heat.  He forced himself to breathe and sneaked a glance at her face.  Her eyes were down, watching him work.  Long black lashes dusted her cheeks.

Something tugged at his chest.  How long since he'd been this close to a woman?  He already knew the answer.  But he didn't think about her anymore.  Best not to. Not when all the good memories were overshadowed by the way they'd said goodbye.

Johnny sighed.  He was a son of a bitch.  He snapped the link into place, then, unable to resist, let his finger brush the inside of the drag king's wrist.  Her skin was sinfully silky.  Just beneath it, her pulse jumped.

Well, wasn't that interesting.

He hadn't thought it was possible for her to get any angrier, but the look in her eyes bordered on venomous.  She yanked her hand back like he'd electrocuted her.  "Thanks."  It came through clenched teeth.

"Sure thing."  Johnny studied her.  A flush was creeping steadily up her collar.  Those gray eyes flitted around them, never once stopping on him.  Hardened exterior be damned, he was making her nervous.

He didn't know why that pleased him so much.

"Let me buy you a drink."  Shit, where had that come from?  Johnny tried to sound casual, but he was scarcely breathing.

Her gaze finally came to rest on him.  "What?"

Damn, but she had the most hypnotic eyes he'd ever seen.  "A drink.  You.  Me.  What do you say?"  Say yes.  He waited.

Her eyebrows drew together.  Her lips parted.  But before she could speak, a gigantic man with a tower of blond hair and six-inch platform heels swanned up to them.  Johnny gaped.  The woman didn't try to disguise her relief.  "Hey, Cookie."

Cookie?  The giant favored him with the briefest of glances before turning to the woman.  "Everyone's wondering where you are.  You're up next.  Catfish is ready to have a shit hemorrhage."

Johnny gnashed his teeth.  The woman swore under her breath and hurried away from him.  She paused once and glanced back.  Shrugged.  "Thanks anyway."

Then she was off again, her black and white spectator shoes clacking on the hard floor.  After a curious look at him, the drag queen followed, leaving a fog of glitter and perfume in his wake.

Johnny allowed them a head start before following.  Anticipation gnawed at him, outweighing his disappointment.  He'd seen some of the other shows, enough to know what performances at Cafe Outré entailed.  She -whoever she was- was up next.

He had the feeling this was one show he wouldn't want to miss.

***

Johnny Apocalypse was bad juju.

Frankie scowled down at the tops of her shoes, glad the heavy curtain was blocking her from view.  She wasn't sure she could handle anyone else looking at her tonight.

Easy, Slim.  You got something against knife-throwers?  She blew out a breath.  Only when they looked like the devil incarnate.

Catfish started his introduction.  "You've seen the posters..."

Cookie hadn't been kidding.  The Blade was a ladykiller, all right, with that tall, broad frame and scruffy chin.  And she'd been right in his sights.

"You've heard the reviews..."

Frankie closed her eyes, but she could still see -hell, could still feel- the way he'd looked at her.  The odd murmur in her stomach morphed into a fully-fledged windstorm.  Damn it, what the hell was the matter with her?  She couldn't go out like this.  She needed to get a grip.

"You may have even seen her name written in the sky..."

She opened her eyes again and looked around.  Mistake.  Her eye immediately found Bianca, staring openly at her from the wings on the opposite side of the stage.  But for once, it wasn't Bianca who had her worried.

It was Johnny Apocalypse, standing right behind her.

"Now, in the flesh, exclusively for Cafe Outré's Hotsy Totsy Revue..."

Frankie looked away from both of them and took a deep breath.  Then another.  She'd performed after worse nights.  She could do this.  She was a professional, and this was show business.

"Frankie Strong, the King of Swing!"

The audience was already on their feet when she came out.  In the corner of the stage, the leader of the band caught her eye and struck up what he knew was her best song.  Rockabilly swing.   Easy, sexy, guaranteed to make her feel good.  Frankie tossed him an appreciative wink.

The deep, languorous tones of the double bass worked their way through her gut.  Frankie slid across the stage, the black-and-white checkerboard tile smooth under her feet.  The crowd settled back, and the weight of all those eyes suddenly didn't seem quite so heavy.  She relaxed, flirted a little.  Sauntered down the walk. Swaggered back up it.

She could still remember when she'd first had the idea for the King of Swing, back in her early days at the Revue.  She'd already known she wouldn't be able to pull off a more classic routine.  A Bird of Paradise?  Not likely.  She was too hard.  Too sharp.  She'd needed something that would let her be hard and sharp.

Never in her wildest dreams had she expected the response she'd get.

The music paused, and a thrill shot through her.  Frankie tipped her fedora down over her eyes.  Now, the fun part.

Her first cufflink plinked to the stage, loud in the hushed space.  Then the second.  A whistle echoed from the back of the room.  Her lips curved.  That never got old.

The music started again.  She turned her back to the crowd, bounced one leg to keep time.  Shrugged out of the tuxedo jacket, and flung it to the side.  A roar went up.  She tossed her cane into the air, caught it in one hand.  Spun once, spun twice.  Spun back to face the audience.

Now her blood was pumping, and with it, the adrenaline.  God, she loved this.  She'd always viewed her body as an asset, a valuable lesson she'd learned all the wrong ways.  For years, it had been someone else's asset.

Here, finally, it was hers.

Frankie rocked into the music, set her fingers to the buttons of her shirt.  Her assets.  Her rewards.  No one to take advantage of her, push her too far, beat her if she did something wrong.  Just her, and the music, and a hundred or so pairs of adoring eyes shining out of the dark below the stage.

A hundred or so plus one.  Frankie allowed herself a peek into the wings.  Bianca was gone.  The Blade wasn't.  His arms were folded across his chest, one foot tucked behind the opposite ankle.  The look on his face was pure sin.

Frankie jerked her eyes back forwards.  Sudden, unexpected heat gathered deep in her core.  He was watching her.  Not a performance.  Not some anonymous dancer.  Her.  Stripping.  Her fingers shook on the last button.  It took all her concentration not to miss a beat.

She wouldn't think about it.  Not about him, and not about why her body was choosing this moment to wake up.  She pushed it all to the back of her mind.  This was show business.  She was a professional.  She'd think about it later.

The shirt gaped open.  Frankie left it where it was.  Her subconscious brain ticked out the moves.  Bump to the left.  Bump to the right.  Grind.  She hooked her thumbs under her suspenders.  One sharp move and they were dangling from her waistband.  She flicked open the top button on the tuxedo trousers.  Off in the corner, someone shrieked their approval.  It was a woman.  Frankie grinned.

The trousers pooled around her ankles.  Frankie planted her cane into the floor and lifted out one foot, then the other.  Raucous applause filled the dark room at the sight of her sheer black thigh highs and garter belt.  Hat still tipped down, she strolled across the stage, pivoted on her heel, strolled the other direction.

Johnny Apocalypse was staring at her.  An uncomfortable combination of heat and panic swirled in her gut.  She was heading right towards him, and there was nothing she could do about it.  One false step now would throw off the whole routine.

Frankie forced herself to stay loose.  The Blade watched every move.  The intensity on his face drew her in, spurred her on.  That strange heat began to travel upwards, invaded her belly, crept up her neck and into her cheeks.

His eyes darkened.  Frankie barely contained her hiss.  Curse her and her fair skin.

She steeled her resolve and slid the points of her collar under the bow tie.  The Blade's eyes threatened to swallow her.  Frankie took a deep breath.  The crisp blouse slithered down her arms.  She held it captive at the end of one finger, then with a single flick sent it crumpling to a heap inches from the worn toes of The Blade's boots.

The bow tie still around her neck felt like it was strangling her.  The way his hand flexed against his arm almost made it worth it.

Frankie whirled back out onto the stage.  The audience did their part and hooted and cat-called.  She shimmied her shoulders and sent the tassels on her black pasties spinning.  The familiar rush finally flooded her system.  Down in the pit, people laughed, gaped, clapped.  Off to the side, Catfish and the rest of the crew looked pleased.

Another show well done.

Frankie twirled the cane over her head, brought it back down and straddled it.  She gyrated, earning her a standing ovation.  Then she slapped her rear with a resounding smack and swept off the stage.

Catfish strutted back on.  "Ladies and gentlemen, the King of Swing!"

Frankie hardly heard the thunderous applause that followed.  She peered off into the wings opposite her.  Bianca was still gone.

This time, so was The Blade.

***

Of all the times to get a fucking text message.

Johnny scowled down at the single word on his phone.  Alley.  He knew better than to question when.  There was only ever one answer.

Immediately.

He threaded around the piles of ropes and rigging, dodged a pack of spandexed and bedazzled drag queens -including the one from earlier- and broke through into an eerily empty hallway.  Red lights set into the creases between wall and ceiling made the dark blue walls glow purple.

In the quiet darkness, it wasn't difficult to conjure up an image of his mystery woman.  Frankie Strong.  Who would name a girl Frankie?  It had to be short for something.  Then again, given where he was, maybe it wasn't.  He thought of the drag queen who had hurried her away.

At least her act had put to rest any doubt that she was, in fact, a woman.

A sexy woman.

Then there was the way she'd moved, sharp and smooth, like a whip and a silk scarf rolled into one.  Another image popped into his head, of her moving like that under him.  Over him.  Of how that pale, creamy skin would flush when she-

Footsteps echoed down the hallway.  Johnny's head jerked up.  Shit.  There wasn't supposed to be anyone back here.  He looked around, the beginning whispers of panic setting in.  The last thing he needed was someone running into him while he had a raging hard-on.

He found a niche in the wall just in time, and slipped into it.  Waited.  Sure enough, two figures brushed by.  In the dark hallway he couldn't see who they were, but one of them was speaking.  "Damn it, Bianca, what is this?"

Johnny froze.  Frankie.

Her companion murmured something that sounded like "Just trust me," and towed her further down the hall.

Frankie didn't sound happy.  "The hell I will!  I already told you..."

They rounded a corner, and whatever she said next was lost.

Johnny didn't move.  Minutes ticked by.  They didn't return.  He peeled himself away from the wall and continued down the hall, the same direction they'd gone.  It was longer than he'd realized.  He walked by a closet.  An office.  What looked like an electrical room.

He'd just passed it when a muffled gasp filtered out the partially open door.  Johnny paused and doubled back, glanced inside.

Frankie was backed -no, pinned- against a soundboard.  A curvaceous black woman wearing a black corset, panties, and thigh-highs had her hands on either side of her, boxing her in.  In her spiky black heels, she almost reached Frankie's shoulder.  As Johnny watched, she leaned in and nibbled Frankie's collarbone.

Johnny's eyebrows went up.  Frankie pushed her back.  "What the hell are you doing?"

The woman wasn't easily deterred.  She leaned in again, whispered something in Frankie's ear, then caught the delicate lobe between her teeth.  This time, Frankie's shove seemed half-hearted.  "Come on..."

A strange feeling rose inside him.  It couldn't be jealousy.  He didn't even know her.  Johnny shook himself, shifted to move along.  Then Frankie looked up.  Her eyes narrowed on him, and his feet fused to the floor.

Christ, those eyes.

She trailed her gaze from his head to his boots.  Johnny's breath strangled in his throat.  The other woman started nibbling the side of Frankie's neck.  A sudden, fierce desire to stride in, rip her off, and replace her lips with his nearly crippled him.

Frankie's face hardened.  Johnny bit back a curse.  What was wrong with him, gawking like some randy teenager?  He didn't move.  She didn't either, merely studied him with flintlock eyes.  Then she gave him a haughty look.

Before he had time to wonder what it meant, she buried one hand in the other woman's hair, cranked her head back, and kissed her.

###

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