Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's now, or never. 

Angel had stood rooted to the spot, repeating those same four words for the last two hours, his conviction unraveling with every slowly dragging raindrop blurring the shadows with the neons lights of the city outside the window. There was no denying the alluring draw of those lights, stretched out as far as the eye could see, blinking in patterns meant to draw the eye before ensnaring the body. Those lights had drawn Angel to Vegas with the vibrant, suffocating promise of glamor and shameless immorality. Freedom to live a life worth exploring. 

He’d watched the red taillights of Valentino’s car slice through that smeared Technicolor rainbow, saw it disappear into a city he used to dream about living in and he’d told himself he was leaving. But Angel hadn’t moved a muscle beyond breathing, his breath casting temporary fogs against the glass. Every time Val left, Angel told himself he needed to do the same, but he never did. 

Just the thought of leaving had his stomach twisting, violently churning until he tasted bile in his throat. His heart raced and stilled in a disjointed, chaotic rhythm. This was his home, and fuck anyone who tried to tell him otherwise. Everything he owned was here. His life was here. Angel had spent so many long hours convincing himself that there was nothing wrong with the unconventional way he lived his life. If he threw that all away, if he just left and ran, then every one of those hours of his life would have been wasted. After nearly dying last year, he’d told himself that he wasn't going to take his life for granted. Maybe this way of living didn't work for anyone else, but he was fine. Everything was okay. 

Val loved him, and that was all that mattered. That thought echoed, the words distorting into mechanical mockeries of themselves that Angel had trained himself to believe in. If he didn’t believe it, if he lost that sense of something good that had fractured over time, then he’d have to see the way Val treated him the way everyone else did, and that wasn’t something Angel could do. All he had left was Val, and Val was his boyfriend. A manipulative asshole. My Lover, Angel thought, turning his head to stare at the unkempt bed he should be sleeping in. The place Val expected him to be when he got home. 

The chain attached to the metal cuff around his ankle dragged softly across the gold carpet as he crossed the room to put the bed in order. Valentino’s cologne wafted up as the deep red sheets rustled and smoothed, too strong even hours after they’d lain there together. It filled Angel’s lungs, too sweet and violently familiar. That expensive scent used to drape itself over him like a fine coat, now, it burned within his throat like a collar, choking him. 

Tears prickled at Angel’s eyes as he fell onto the corner of the bed, his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He hated that cologne, the way it drew him in only to smother him. Like everything else in Valentino’s penthouse it radiated with lavish promise, a declaration of wealth that used to mesmerize him. The golden fixtures and velvet curtains weren’t so brilliant anymore. They’d lost their grandeur. Nothing shined quite the same way it had a few years ago – nothing felt perfect anymore. 

Blinking back the tears welling within his eyes, Angel looked down at the cold metal ring around his ankle, dull and painfully ordinary against its surroundings. Cold, unfeeling jewelry that clashed with everything around it. His mismatched, hazel eyes shifted to the grooves the chain left in the carpet, following their solitary dance around the room until they fell onto the open closet, the way they often did after he’d been alone with his thoughts for too long. 

Angel stared at the black canvas backpack tucked behind the closet door, partially hidden beneath a pile of clothes Val no longer liked to see him wearing. It’d been packed for weeks, stuffed with the few articles of clothing he could roll up tightly and shove inside of it and a cashless wallet with his expired ID. He’d been manic when he’d packed it, out of his mind and stupid with thoughts of running away. On a night just like tonight, he’d watched Valentino leave to spend the night out with his not secret lover, and Angel had told himself he was leaving as he’d paced the room for hours before finally crawling beneath the sheets to cry himself to sleep.

Packing it a few weeks ago was a choice he hadn’t been ready to make. It’d been impulsive, a mistake that had been haunting him every day since. But he still hadn’t unpacked it. It was still waiting, ready as it could be. Every time he opened his eyes he made sure it was still there; every time he saw it he was filled with longing and dread. Angel still wasn’t sure that he was ready, that he actually wanted to leave at all. Even if he got out of his shackle, even if he made it out the door, where would he even go?

The only people in the city he knew were the people Valentino shared him with, and they’d bring him right back to gain Val’s favor. Angel knew that he’d let them bring him back, because this was his home and so much of him needed this life. He loved Val, despite all of his faults. So, he’d just come crawling back, he’d beg for forgiveness and Val would give it in the form of new bruises and cruel words that felt like bitter, tough love. Small, lovely trinkets to line his vanity table and intricate lacy lingerie to adorn himself in for Valentino’s amusement. 

Angel nudged the bag further into the closet with his foot, feeling the drag of the chain. There wasn’t enough of anything in that bag to survive on. Hell, a few hours on the streets and the bag itself might be taken from him. So he was safer here, as long as he behaved things would be fine. He could behave, when he wanted to. Even when those versions of himself made his own skin crawl, he could be everything that Val wanted him to be. 

Leaving would be stupid, there was nowhere else for him to go, he reminded himself, hearing Valentino’s voice instead of his own. 

Cherri moved around so often; rehab, eviction or jail, and even if he managed to find her Angel wasn’t sure she’d want anything to do with him. Not after Val had forced him to tell her to fuck off and mind her own business because she wanted Angel to leave. She’d been worried, maybe overstepped a little, but Val had taken it badly when he overheard them. After three months Angel could still feel Valentino’s hand around his throat and hear the angry concern in Cherri’s voice.

That night had resulted in Valentino taking the phone out of the bedroom and locking Angel inside of it. So no one could try to convince him to leave. So that he couldn’t decide that he wanted out and call for help. There were no more shifts at the Peep show, no more nights out on the town. 

“Valentino loves me,” Angel murmured, as if saying it would make it true in all of the ways he needed it to be. And Val did, Val loved every part of him, the beautiful and the unwanted. No one else accepted him for who he was, no one else had ever loved him in the ways he wanted to be while asking so little back from him. Plenty of people had taken from him, but no one gave the way Valentino did. 

“He takes care of me.” Angel scolded himself, a bitter grin twisting along his face. Valentino liked to remind him that everything he did was for Angel’s protection. And maybe that was true. Angel was using far less with Valentino in control of his supply. Hell, he was damn near clean right now. The people he was shared with were carefully selected, it wasn’t like turning tricks on the corner. So, life was good, everything was okay, he was just in the mood to complain. 

Holding himself tightly against a pang of loneliness, Angel paced around the room trying to convince himself that staying was best. “Valentino wants me. No one else does.” The words echoed in Angel’s mind, replaying alongside the memories of how Val found him: starved, desperate, strung out. Valentino gave him a life. Valentino gave him purpose. Valentino gave him this room to keep him close. A pretty, comfortable prison that he’d eventually be allowed outside of again once he could be trusted to keep coming back to it. 

The clock clicked over. 1:00am. 

It’s now or never.

Seated at the small vanity in the corner, Angel murmured those words softly, a gentle chorus to steady his trembling hands while he applied makeup to fair, olive skin paled by the sun's absence. If he wasn't sleeping, then he needed to look presentable when Valentino got home. His scattered freckles and all of the bruises needed to disappear because Val preferred him flawless.  

A black eye, a greenish-yellow blotch on his jaw. “I shouldn’t mouth off so much.” 

The faint ring of purple fingerprints circling his wrists. “He's under too much stress; I need to stop adding to it.” 

“I’m safer here.” Angel continued to rationalize, temporarily erasing all of it with methodical precision. 

Beneath his clothes he hid the welted bruises across his back, the ones he’d earned a few nights ago when he’d tried to tell Val no –that was just something he needed to learn to stop doing. With a hiss, he poked at the bruises on his thighs from having them pried apart. All carefully hidden just the way Val wanted because Val hated being reminded that he wasn’t always in control. Angel knew how to hide them all and how to convince himself that they exist because he deserved them.  

 And it wasn’t like he’d never asked for some of that pain. 

There’d been days he wanted to play rough, enjoyed the tempered sting of a well-placed slap or forceful drag of teeth across his skin. Sometimes he asked to be disciplined, because he didn’t know when to shut his mouth or reel his temper back. Maybe he didn’t always like it, but that was the point of discipline. It was given when he needed it, not only when he wanted it. And Valentino always obliged, he was always there with danger in those beautiful, dark eyes, a warning tone and a firm hand. Those same hands that bruised him also held him, cherished him to the point of worship and made him feel like something beautiful. So how could he even think about leaving after all that Val gave to him? 

Angel’s gaze fell back to the shackle that had been locked around his ankle for the last three months.  

“It’s for your own good, amorcito.” Valentino had told him as he fit the heavy shackle around his ankle, lovingly caressing his long slender legs. “You know you’re better off here with me.” They’d laughed together as Angel helped him thread the padlock into place. He’d been excited when it clicked shut, treating it like another game. A new role play to enjoy together. It’d been fun at first, sexy even, when Angel thought it’d be removed in the morning. He’d laughed and played along, dancing around the room while the chain dragged grooves into the carpet. 

It wasn’t funny anymore. Angel dropped down onto his knees, tracing his fingers along every link, following the smooth, cold metal back to the end of the chain wrapped and padlocked to the underside of the bed they shared. This time, he didn’t laugh as the chain pulled taunt, secure and heavy. 

“Do you know what they’d do to someone like you out there?” Val had asked, mocking him the last time Angel had demanded to be freed. “You’d never survive without me, baby.” And Val’s voice had been so deceptively sweet as he’d held Angel’s cheek in one hand while testing the chain’s strength with the other. So full of venomous concern that just the tone of Valentino’s voice had felt like sugared poison. 

And maybe Val was right about that, too. Angel hadn’t been out on his own more than a handful of times over the last few years, and even then, he was usually with Cherri. Judgmental stares or lustful gazes were hardly a threat when someone had his back, but if he left now, he’d be alone and desperate.  Angel knew what people were like, he’d been on the other side of groping hands and angry fists plenty of times. Before all of the drugs, he’d always been able to hold his own in a fight, his body had been stronger. Now, looking down at himself, half dressed and too thin, he wasn’t as confident. At least here, he was willing, and even when he wasn’t in the mood, at least it was Val and not a stranger. So it was better here, even if lately it’d felt less like Heaven and more like Hell. A hell of his own lovestruck making. A hell filled with satin sheets and gilded chains. 

Angel glanced at the packed bag again, wondering how many more days would pass before Val finally noticed it. He looked down at the everlasting marks and bruising around his ankle, to the bed that made him feel less than human more often than it offered comfort, and his mind screamed the words Its now or never. 

Hands pressed against his ears as if that could shut his own mind up, Angel tried not to hear the thunderous echoes of his panicked thoughts. Every step as he paced around the room he’d been confined to was slowed by the drag of the chain, the soft clink of metal links and shuffle of his socks against the plush gold carpet. Leave now, or you’re never getting out. His heart beat out in Morse code, driving the words into his chest until his breath became ragged. 

If he stayed, maybe things would be okay for a while longer. Maybe Val would unlock that chain and things could be the way they were before. If he kept lying to himself, then maybe Angel wouldn’t have to see himself slowly dying every time he looked in the mirror. Leaving wasn't an option; Val would hunt him down. Val might actually kill him. Angel told himself that Valentino loved him, and then, looking at the bag in the closet, shivering as cold metal brushed against his skin, he admitted to himself that Valentino owned him. 

All thought ceased as he stumbled into the bathroom, hands shaking as they yanked open the top cabinet drawer, clawing through the clutter for the ridiculously ornate nail file. The handle, encrusted with rhinestones, lined in faux gold, felt too heavy in his hand. He opened his fingers, indecisively trailing his gaze over the nail file, biting his lower lip until he tasted blood. It was beautiful, the same way everything else in the penthouse was: lavish, artificial and gaudy. Just like Val. 

Wiggling the file in the lock, Angel’s hand stilled. Warning bells rang within his ears, his heart ached. Because once upon a time Valentino had looked at him so tenderly, watching him do his nails with that same file. There had been nights when Val would help him pick a color or paint them for him with the same attention he gave to the paintings he used to create. Valentino used to look at him with such adoration, and maybe he could win Val back over if he stayed. maybe things could be the way they used to. All he had to do was stop trying to leave and then maybe everything would be fine. 

Angel repeated those same reasonings, stilling himself with empty hopes draped in bittersweet lies. Wood groaned against the subtle rattle of the chain pulling against it. Outside traffic passed loudly, far away voices laughed. They shouted. Get out! His heart pounded against his chest, shattering every excuse he was trying to stack around it. 

If he did this there was no turning back. Every car he heard outside the window sounded like Val coming home.  Beyond the room, life erupted, chaotically wonderful. Excitedly terrifying. He couldn't breathe, his hands shook, fingertips went numb. Even if he got free, even if he made it to the front door without getting caught, then what? Angel looked at the bed, at the posts where he’d been tied down and left begging a hundred times before. His gaze shifted to the damn dog cage in the corner where he’d been locked up for disobeying. If Val caught him trying to leave, those restraints were his entire future, if Valentino didn't kill him instead. 

The blunt reality of those thoughts forced Angel’s hands to keep fighting with the lock. The metal ring scraped against his ankle, a dull, cold sting against skin that had long since started to faintly scar from the constant agitation. Val would never let him go. If Val really thought he’d lost control, when all the restraints weren’t enough… Angel swallowed hard, not wanting to believe the truth, suddenly more terrified than he’d ever been at just how dangerous the situation he’d been deluding himself about was. 

The padlock clicked, springing loose and for the first time in three months Angel felt fresh air against the skin of his ankle. Red, clammy skin adorned in tiny scratches and rough patches gleamed dully in the low light of the room. Shivering, nervously determined, he forced himself onto his feet and stumbled. The lack of weighted resistance didn’t feel right; movement was too silent without the soft breaths of the chain sliding over the carpet. 

"It’s now or never," he told himself, because he was already on the verge of shackling himself back to that room. One more glance outside the window with its perfect view of the Vegas strip. Another look down, just to confirm Valentino’s car wasn't already parked along the street. Fresh tears filled his hazel eyes, warm and uninvited while his feet stumbled towards the closet. His hands moved on their own, sliding through the sleeves of his jacket before closing tightly around the handle of the backpack. 

“He’s gonna find me. I’m just making everything worse.” Angel murmured, still walking towards the bedroom door, stopping at a threshold he hasn’t been allowed to cross. “I don’t wanna die here.” He told himself, nearly crumbling to his knees as he took the first step out into the rest of the suite. 

Every step forward felt like a blind gamble for his life. To his left, the large violet chaise where they used to cuddle, at his right, the modernized kitchen where he used to sing and cook his nonna’s recipes for a man who never seemed to appreciate the love in a home cooked meal. Too many memories clung to Angel’s shadow, their wispy, clawed hands digging into his mind, trying to pull him back. 

One of Valentino’s striped ties was flung carelessly across the coffee table, a tie that had been used to bind his wrists or shut him up on more than one occasion. Beside it, a bottle of wine, the kind they used to share on passionate nights when they couldn’t keep their hands or mouths off of one another. 

Turn around. A voice that wasn’t his own whispered in the same saccharine tone that Val often used before becoming violent. Sickly sweet, overfilling with threatening promise. 

“No,” Angel argued weakly, tears soaking his cheeks. “Not this time.” He’d already removed the chain, his bag was packed and slung over his shoulder. It had to be now, because there would never be another chance. 

Leaving all of the memories behind him, Angel kept pushing himself forward. Slipping into his boots he winced at the way the leather irritated the skin around his ankle. Wearing shoes again felt awkward, like something taboo. Exhilarating. His hand hovered over the doorknob, throat impossibly dry and chest tight. “I can do this, its just a fuckin’ door.” 

But it wasn’t simply a door. Nothing about anything he was doing right now was as simple as it should be. There was nothing easy about leaving everything behind while knowing that he’d be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Angel’s heart ached, sinking deeper into the pit of his stomach, trying to float through bile on good memories that had soured. Maybe he was fucked up, because he loved Val despite all of the reasons he was trying to leave. Maybe dying slowly in the penthouse wasn’t as bad as he was making it out to be. 

Go! Angel’s mind screamed with an urgency that kept him still. Just go or he’s going to come home and find you outside of the bedroom. Swallowing hard, Angel turned the knob, hesitating again to listen for signs of life outside the suite. Clutching the strap of his bag tight enough to break his fingers, Angel stepped into the long hall, closing the door behind him. 

The hallway felt eternal, like walking in place. Frozen to the spot, Angel waited with baited breaths for the elevator to open. He was just as tense when it stopped in the lobby, so sure that Valentino would be on the other side of the doors when it opened. One last time he looked back, still debating returning to his gilded cage and all of the comforts his compliance offered. And then, thoughtless and broken, he pushed himself outside of the ornate glass doors. 

Stepping out onto the Vegas strip hit Angel like a turbulent tidal wave. Humid air surrounded him, pulling him down beneath crashing waters until he was gasping for breath. Neon lights bathed him in artificial joy, pulling him further out to sea as his ship rocked violently behind him. Still holding onto his bag like a lifeline, Angel sank into the crowds moving along the streets, the glow of the city a beacon dancing across his eyes. 

Chapter Text

The neon jungle of the Strip sprawled out before Angel, a beautiful web of vibrant, ensnaring colors pulling him further from the life that had once lured him into its glow. Those heatless lights cast technicolor shadows over the crowded sidewalks, illuminating the sleek plumes of cigarette smoke rising from too many unfamiliar faces. Moving through the rainbow fog, Angel closed his eyes. He inhaled the city—the bitter scent of exhaust mingled with perfume, the faint metallic tang of spilled booze—and let himself drown in it for a moment.

The Strip was alive, beautiful and dangerous in the ways it had always been, but it wasn’t welcoming in the way it was five years ago when he’d first arrived. Cruelty overshadowed the promises of freedom that he’d chased across the country, the city felt tainted, it threatened to swallow him whole and spit him back out on the doorstep he was running away from. 

Don’t look back. 

His legs kept moving, stiff and mechanical, the sharp clicks of his heels echoing against the cracked pavement like the rusted gears of a broken machine. Sweat slicked his skin, thick and oily in the lingering desert humidity. It plastered his dyed blonde hair to his forehead in a mess of loose, sweeping curls while dripping down his back like a teasing hand. Angel froze beneath the phantom sensation, falling into it while pulling away. For an awful second, he could almost feel the scrape of manicured nails trailing along the ridges of his back and hear Valentino’s voice—a mocking, saccharine hum that buzzed in his ears, rattling in his skull like a catchy chorus.

Keep walking.

Angel’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag, knuckles whitening as he forced himself to breathe. Sharp, shallow breaths rasped along his dry throat, pulsing against the growing lump of emotion he wanted to suffocate on. Beneath his skin, his nerves buzzed with an electrical hum. His trembling hands darted up, wiping the stinging mix of tears and sweat from his eyes. The city around him blurred—light and shadow, motion and noise, too fast, too loud.

His gaze darted wildly, scanning every shadow as though Valentino might emerge from them, grinning and furious. A part of him wanted to see it, needed Val to confirm himself as the monster Angel had finally let himself believe he was. It would make running easier. But another part, buried deep, craved the warmth of the gilded cage, the safety his submission offered. If he turned around now, he’d see Val’s penthouse looming at the end of the road. 

Angel didn’t trust himself not to crawl back if he saw it now, not while he was still so close. 

 Something foul splashed beneath his boot. Broken glass crunched with a gravelly warning. Cadillacs and Studebakers cruised past, their polished chrome glinting with neon reflections. All around him the air reeked of stale tobacco, spilled liquor, and cheap cologne. Somewhere, a saxophone wailed through the night, a lonesome serenade amidst the chatter and laughter of the crowd. The door of a corner diner swung open, spilling out the greasy, comforting aroma of fried food. Angel’s stomach twisted in response—hunger and nausea tangled in a knot he couldn’t untie. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. Really eaten, filled full and content. 

Don’t stop.

Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, Angel pushed through the crowds of tourists and partiers stumbling between clubs. He wove around the rosy-cheeked couples leaving the casinos, their fine evening wear glittering beneath the lights. Bittersweet memories of nights out with Val clawed at him, dragging his gaze to doors they used to parade in and out of as his fingers pressed against the bruises hidden beneath his silk blouse. Angel tried to focus on the music spilling from the clubs, letting the smooth jazz and rifting guitars drown out the venomous echoes in his head. Valentino’s voice was louder than the city itself, mockingly reminding him that he couldn’t survive out here on his own. That he wasn’t safe without Valentino by his side. 

Keep going. Keep going. Keep going.

Angel ground his heels harder into the pavement with every step. Turning a corner, he lifted his gaze, searching for the stars beyond the harsh, artificial glow of the city lights. Faint pinpricks of light shimmered in the deep velvet of the night sky, their fragile glow struggling against the neon haze. A desert wind swept through the streets, warm and dry, carrying whispers in a language Angel didn’t know but desperately wanted to understand. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the wind itself were urging him onward, promising escape, promising freedom. Sweet, whispered lies that caressed him, held him tight in all of the ways he needed. 

His weary gaze fell, tracing the rain-washed chalk outline beneath his feet. And a part of him wanted to lie within those lines, to melt into the end of another life because running away didn’t feel like he’d taken his own back. It felt like an empty victory, like he’d picked himself up only to stumble and fall harder.

He felt lost. Disposable. Like trash that hadn’t quite made it to the can and was left to blow aimlessly through the streets. The Strip, with all its glitter and life, felt colder and emptier than he had ever imagined. Isolated within the crowd, Angel couldn’t remember ever feeling lonelier than he did now.

A broad-shouldered man in a cheap suit brushed by Angel, muttering slurred apologies he couldn’t hear over the static buzzing in his own mind. Angel’s hand tightened on the strap of his bag, grounding himself back into the present. Moving forward on weak, trembling legs, he continued walking, following a familiar path to the last place he knew Cherri had been living. 

Fifteen minutes later Angel spotted the flickering motel sign in the distance, its faded letters promising "VACANCY" in harsh red light. Angel swallowed hard against the wave of nerves clawing up his throat, the knot in his stomach tightening as he pushed open the rusted gate. The faint scent of chlorine lingered in the air, sharp and chemical, making his nose scrunch. His steps faltered on the stone walkway leading to the heavily scratched up double doors as the question rose to loud alarm in his mind: Would Cherri even talk to him after how their last conversation ended?

Sure, Val had coerced him into shouting back at her, forced his hand on more than one occasion—but it had still been his voice telling her to fuck off. His voice that cut her down for caring about him before the calls stopped altogether. When Val had taken the phone out of the bedroom, Angel hadn’t fought back. Laughing, fuckin’ dancing, he’d let Val lock him away in that room and shut everyone else out.

The musty heat of the lobby hit him like an open palm, carrying the weight of too many memories. Stale air wrapped around him, thick with the cloying scents of cheap perfumes, stale cigarette smoke, and worn-out furniture. For a moment, Angel was back there: stumbling through the doors with Cherri by his side, her arm steadying him as he laughed loudly, slurring his protests while she threatened a drunk who’d made one comment too many.

Those nights had always felt like the best sorts of chaos—affectionate laughter and alcohol fueled adrenaline giving way to mornings steeped in anxious silences and words that were repeated but never really heard. 

Angel shook his head, ears buzzing with the static hum of fluorescent lights matching the constant thrumming in his chest. His fingers trembled on the edge of the counter, the cracked laminate filmy and cool beneath his touch. 

“Hello?” He tapped at the bell on the counter, needed something louder to chase away the thin, cracked sound of his own voice. 

The office door creaked open, and Ron, fucking Ron stepped out, just as disheveled and miserable looking as ever. The older man paused, his permanent scowl managing to deepen the fissures of his face while his bloodshot eyes swept over Angel, looking at him like something to be disregarded. 

Angel grimaced. Yeah, fuck you too buddy.

“Is Cherri still here?” Angel asked, his voice steadier this time. He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, least of all with Ron.

“That bitch hasn’t been back in weeks,” Ron sneered, his tone dripping with disdain. His stained teeth flashed as he spat out the words, spittle clinging to the scruff on his face.

“Ya know where she went?” Angel asked, his grip tightening on the strap of his bag. He took a subtle step back, instinctively moving away from the large, grubby hands spayed against the counter.

Ron scoffed, leaning heavily against the counter, his thinning, dirty blonde hair falling over his greasy forehead. “Rotting in jail, probably,” he muttered, letting out a dry, humorless chuckle. The laughter died as quickly as it started, leaving behind a soured silence. “Get outta here,” he barked, waving Angel off dismissively. “And if you see her, tell her she owes me for all the damage she caused. That room ain’t gonna repair itself.”

Angel’s jaw tightened; heat bloomed in his chest alongside the anger prickling beneath his skin. It would’ve been so easy to snap back, to let his anger boil over and send Ron sprawling into the grungy carpet. But the bruises still throbbing beneath his blouse reminded him that he wasn’t in any condition to fight, especially not here, not now. Instead, he gave a stiff nod, biting his tongue until the coppery taste pooled in his mouth.

“Fucking loser,” Angel muttered under his breath, making his way back out the door. Behind him, the motel doors slammed shut, the sounds of Ron shouting quickly dying beneath the noise of the Strip.

Breathing out a heavy sigh, Angel leaned back against the old metal gate, letting its rusted surface scratch at his back. His fingers loosened their death grip on the strap of his bag, his shoulders slumping as frustration settled heavily in his chest. He’d known that she might not be here. Still, the disappointment clung to the sweat covering him. It lingered, thick and heavy. 

It wasn’t just about Cherri. It was the loss of anything familiar, anything stable in a life that had already been shaken too roughly and torn apart. Beneath the leather of his boot, his ankle felt too light without the chain dragging behind it. He was overdressed, overwhelmed and alone in the crowd. 

Maybe Ron’s right . The thought twisted in his stomach, sharp and bitter. It wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for Cherri to be sitting in a holding cell somewhere, biding her time until someone bailed her out or the exasperated staff set her loose. But he couldn’t go looking for her there. The crooked officers Val had on his payroll—officers who knew Angel’s face as well as his reputation—weren’t likely to turn a blind eye to him. They’d have Val on the line before Angel could run out of the doors. 

Angel rubbed a hand over his face, trying to shake the gnawing feeling of helpless irritation carving itself deeper into him. There were a dozen cheap, no-questions-asked motels where Cherri could be staying, but narrowing them down wasn’t going to be easy. Half of them had probably already banned her from returning—he could hear her voice now, shouting obscenities at some poor desk clerk, glass bottles breaking in the background. Angel exhaled sharply, shaking his head. For all her rough, explosive charm, she sure knew how to complicate things. It was something he loved about her, but right now, it just left him fuming. 

Pushing off the gate, he adjusted the strap of his bag and started walking again. The Strip’s glitzy glow faded as he veered off the main drag, heading toward the less ritzy clubs where he and Cherri used to party before Val swept into his life. Back then, those places had been a haven—loud, smoky rooms filled with cheap booze and even cheaper thrills. The kind of joints where everyone was running from something and no one cared about who you were as long as you paid your tab. Places that reminded him why he’d run off to Vegas to begin with. 

The sounds of the city shifted around him: the jazzy saxophones and laughter of the big casinos gave way to muffled rockabilly beats and the occasional shout from a darkened alley. Angel’s nerves buzzed, sparking beneath his skin with the need to keep moving towards the places he’d left behind. If anyone knew where Cherri was, it’d be someone in one of those places.

And if not? Angel didn’t let himself think about that yet as he followed the unmarked path towards their favorite club. 

Pandemonium wasn’t a place people stumbled into; it was a place they found because someone whispered its name between sips of cheap gin or scrawled it in the corner of an empty matchbook. A hidden place, somewhere almost safe for the least desirable people in the city. Nestled in the shadow of a shabby motel with a new name off Fremont Street, the small club thrived in the shadows, hidden beneath the glittering facade of the Vegas strip. Before Val, it had felt like home, the kind of place where he could dance, fuck, and get high. 

The entrance was little more than a narrow doorway beneath a faded red and violet awning, where the club’s name was painted in peeling gold letters. A single magenta light flickered above the door, casting the sidewalk in a faint, sinful glow. Inside, the air of the long, dimly lit hallway was thick—an oppressive, stagnant heat that settled against his bones. 

Angel hesitated at the threshold, his hand trembling on the worn brass handle. It’d been months since he’d been there, there was no guarantee Cherri was inside, even if she was… He was still worried, afraid of being turned away when he was already too desperate. The nagging itch to run back home still clawed at him, feeding off his failures. 

Keep going. Don't stop. 

The moment Angel pushed the door open chaos washed over him. Loud, lively swing jazz filled the room, drowning bouts of laughter and raised voices. Strings of blue and pink lights reflected off the old, mirrored ball hanging from the center of the room, casting dancing lights through the haze of cigarette smoke curling towards the low ceiling. Long moments passed while Angel steadied himself, breathing through air thick with sweat, smoke and vibrant perfumes. Angel wrinkled his nose, gripping the strap of his bag tighter as he wove through the crowd of dancing bodies.

“Cherri?” he called out, his voice barely audible over the music. His chest tightened as he squinted his eyes to scan the room, his gaze darting between couples locked in dizzying spins, clusters of men shouting over their drinks, and groups of women in bright skirts wearing brighter red lipstick. Four years ago, he could have placed a name to at least half the faces swaying through the room, some of them would have recognized him, too. Once again Angel felt the loneliness of his isolation, he missed the high end clubs where he was adored and envied. A scared, anxious part of himself missed the way Val hovered at his side.  

Catching sight of the bar tucked in the far corner, Angel shifted direction, his heels clicking against the scuffed floor. The rhythm was swallowed by the pounding bass drum as he sidestepped a drunken man stumbling into his path. For the first time that night, a faint smile tugged at his lips. Some things never change.

“Angel! Well I’ll be damned.”

The voice stopped him cold. Smoky, familiar, and dripping with amusement, it cut through the noise like a knife. Angel turned toward a small, elevated podium near the entrance, where the hostess stood with one hand on her hip and a cigarette balanced delicately between two fingers.

“Dahlia?” Angel blinked, his heart skipping as he took her in. The black ribbons curling from her short hair danced across her cheeks, and her crimson cocktail dress clung to her like it had been painted on. She looked exactly the same, from the wicked smirk to the knowing glint in her blue eyes.

Dahlia blew out a puff of smoke, her gaze raking over him. “You’ve got some nerve crawling back here, sugar.” She teased, strutting through the crowd. “After ditching all of us in favor of those high class joints. Did Valentino finally let you off his leash to have some real fun?”

Angel flinched at the name but forced a grin onto his face. “Good to see you too, doll. I’m lookin’ for Cherri. You seen her?”

Dahlia’s smirk faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make Angel’s stomach sink. She took another long drag off her cigarette, shaking her head. “Haven’t seen her in a while,” Dahlia said with a casual shrug. “You know how she is, comes in, raises hell, disappears.”

Angel’s hand tightened around his bag strap. “Yeah. I know.” Where the fuck was he going to go now? 

Dahlia sighed, snubbing her cigarette on the thick metal band around her wrist. “Look, you wanna sit for a minute? Get a drink? You look like hell.”

Angel shook his head, the weight of his empty wallet pressed against his leg. “No. I... I need to keep moving. If ya see Cherri, tell her I’m lookin’ for her, will ya?” 

“Can do.” Dahlia’s tone was lighter, but her eyes stayed on him, studying too closely. “Watch your back out there, Angel.” She said, nodding towards his backpack. “This city’s not so forgiving to people like us when we break away from whatever's been keeping us safe.”

Ain’t that the truth , Angel thought bitterly, weaving back through the club. He could have stayed. Could’ve traded a little service for a quick escape. And maybe—just maybe—something in him wanted to. The call of rough hands on his skin, sloppy, emotionless kisses in a bathroom stall, felt almost worth it. It might dull the ache, at least for a little while. There had to be someone in this club who’d drug him up and tear him down, just enough for him to forget he had nowhere to go.

And fuck, did thinking that way make him miss Val even more. It twisted in his stomach, not with the revulsion that it should, but with a sick, desperate longing. A dependent need for Val’s touch, their dirtied sheets and every gaudy fixture in the penthouse. A familiar bedroom beat the hell out of wandering the Strip hoping he’d find somewhere safe to sleep. 

Maybe he hasn’t noticed I’m gone yet , Angel told himself, clinging to the thought even though it rang hollow from his ears to the growing pit in his stomach. Val noticed everything. At nearly three in the morning, Val was probably home, tearing apart the penthouse in a rage that promised to make the mess look like nothing compared to what he’d do to Angel when he found him.

Maybe he’d forgive me if I went back and apologized . Angel could picture it so clearly; the heavy, gilded doors of Val’s penthouse swinging open, Val standing there in his silk robe, disheveled but so damn handsome. His expression cold, his eyes blazing with fury. Angel could almost hear the echo of Val’s smooth voice breaking into shrill screams, the death bell ringing in his ears as he pictured the hand raised, the glitter of rings catching the light just before the impact.

And after the bruises bloomed and the blood flaked away, Val would still be there to pull him close. Those hands, so skilled at taking and giving, would trace his body like they always did—possessive, worshipful, suffocating. Val’s honeyed voice would cut through the haze of the drugs he’d give him to ease the pain. He’d be tied to their bed, but at least he’d have a bed. At least he wouldn’t feel so lost, so out of luck.

Beneath him, Angel’s left leg dragged, used to carrying a weight that he hated missing. That shackle wouldn't be the only thing keeping him in Val’s room if he went back. Val would break his fucking legs. And he’d let him. He’d let Val break him piece by piece, convincing himself it was all done in love the way he always had.

Don’t look back. 

Angel stopped walking; the buzz of neon reflected in the darkened window of a pawnshop beside him. His own reflection stared back: hollow eyes rimmed with smeared eyeliner, lips painted but cracked, hair perfectly coiffed but lifeless. He could barely recognize himself anymore away from the pretty lights of his vanity table.

“Fuck…” he whispered, his breath fogging up the glass. He hated himself for even considering it, for letting the idea of crawling back dig its claws into his mind. But what else did he have? Where else could he go? 

You can’t do this forever , the part of him that wanted to go home whispered. You’re not going to make it out here. Val was right. You’re nothing without him.

Angel’s chest tightened as he stared into his reflection again. He told himself Val was wrong. He had made it outside. Sure, he hadn’t gotten far, but that didn’t mean he’d failed. He’d left, hadn’t he? And yeah, it hurt. He missed all the things that had kept him complacent, that had made it so easy to stay—things that were as comforting as they were venomous.

But he didn’t want to miss them . One night out on his own couldn’t be all it took to break him.

Angel straightened his shoulders, trying to convince himself he could carry the weight. His reflection blurred as the fog from his breath spread across the glass, obscuring the hollow eyes staring back at him. “I’m not going back,” he muttered to no one but himself, his voice firmer this time.

Something else caught his eye in the pawnshop window. Angel turned, watching the crumple of green roll along the sidewalk like a paper tumbleweed. Eyes wide, excitement vibrating in his chest, Angel dropped to his knees and collected the lost five dollar bill into his hands. It wasn’t much but in that moment, it felt just as good as finding a rolled up hundred. 

Five dollars wouldn’t solve all his problems, hell, it wouldn't even survive the night, but it felt like a victory. Throwing his middle finger over his shoulder in the direction of the penthouse. “Screw you, Val,” he muttered under his breath, tucking the bill deep into his pocket with a faint, triumphant grin. 

His stomach growled, low and insistent, alongside the ever-present buzz of his nerves. For the first time all night, he had a way to quiet at least one of those annoyances. Across the street, a dingy little dive bar glowed softly beneath a flickering blue sign, its cheap promises shining just a little brighter now.

Inside, the dive felt far less optimistic. The air was thick with the acrid bite of cigarette smoke, glowing faintly in shades of neon blue and dim yellow from mismatched lights. Most of the scuffed, round tables were occupied by men slumped over their drinks, their tired gazes fixed on nothing in particular. From the corner jukebox, Johnny Cash crooned I Walk the Line , his steady voice filling the gloom with its quiet resolve.

A long, narrow bar stretched along the right side of the room, its counter scarred and sticky from countless drinks slammed down over the years. Behind it, a wiry bartender with a cigarette dangling from his lips moved with practiced ease, pouring shots and mixing cocktails without sparing a glance at the patrons.

Angel slipped onto the empty stool at the farthest end of the bar, keeping his head low and his profile shadowed in the dim light. The bartender didn’t look his way, and Angel was grateful for the indifference as he let himself sink into the quiet hum of the room, the edges of his nerves softening, just a little.

“We close in thirty,” The bartender huffed, setting down the glass he’d been cleaning. “What are ya havin?” 

“Whatever this will get me.” Angel sighed, hesitantly sliding the bill across the counter. His brief victory turned to ashes in his mouth as he watched the bill disappear beneath the bartender’s hands. The drink that followed wasn’t much—cheap, warm, and harsh—but it was enough to rinse that gritty, bitter taste from his mouth. Angel took a small sip, the burn spreading across his tongue and down his throat and ignored the way his stomach twisted in protest.

He nursed the drink slowly, one careful sip at a time, while his eyes drifted back to the room. The haze of smoke and neon flicker softened the edges of the patrons, but it couldn’t hide the roughness of them. Most were burly, broad-shouldered men hunched over their glasses, their disheveled appearances matching the bleak atmosphere of the bar.

Tracing the rim of his glass, his gaze flicked between the patrons, gambling on the faintest hints of curious longing beneath their rough exteriors. He was playing with fire, sizing them up, weighing the odds of talking one of them into taking him home for the night. One wrong bet, one misjudged invitation, and he could easily end up beaten or dead. Val had always chosen the clients for him, Val kept a little black book filled with the names of men who wanted a shaft instead of a crease. But he couldn’t search out any of the men Val liked to sell him too, they’d call Val. 

Still, desperation whispered in his ear, louder with every passing moment. Angel clenched his jaw, no stranger to doing whatever he needed to survive. No one in this room could hurt him any worse than he’d been hurt before, he reasoned, staring into the amber liquid in his glass as though it might make the choice for him. 

Taking another drawn-out sip, Angel’s eyes caught on a slouched man who’d been hidden behind another patron that had just left. He was attractive in a rugged sort of way—broad-shouldered and stocky, the kind of man who looked strong rather than heavy. Angel’s gaze drifted to his large hands, loose but firm around the glass he held. Something inside Angel wondered what those hands would feel like sliding down his back. Were they as calloused as the expression on the man’s face, weathered and tough, or were they unexpectedly soft, like the dark hair slicked back over his head?

The cold blue neon glow traced the sharp edges of his deep bronze complexion, making him look distant, almost untouchable. He looked like he belonged here; worn down, guarded, uninterested in anything but the drink in his hand. Angel couldn’t help but wonder if he was lonely enough to pay for a night of something wild and fleeting. He found himself curious—did the lips hidden within that salt-and-pepper beard know how to smile? Did his voice match his rough exterior, low and gravelly?

Before Angel could decide whether or not to approach, the man signaled the bartender. Angel leaned forward slightly, trying to catch a hint of that voice, but the drawl of Hank Williams on the jukebox drowned everything out. He watched as the bartender nodded and returned with a crumpled five-dollar bill, sliding it in front of Angel.

“Your drink’s been paid for,” the wiry bartender said, nodding toward the man at the end of the counter.

Angel’s heart skipped a beat as he lifted his gaze, but the man wasn’t looking back at him. Instead, he slid off his stool, staggering slightly before heading toward the door without a word.

For a moment, Angel considered chasing after him, a spark of curiosity lighting up in his chest. But the groaning, empty ache in his stomach held him in place.

“Who is he?” Angel asked softly, his hand closing around the returned bill, the crumpled paper crinkling under his fingers.

“Don’t know,” the bartender replied with a shrug, already reaching for another glass to clean. “But he comes in every so often.” He gave Angel a pointed look. “You planning to order another drink?”

Angel glanced down at the bill, feeling its edges brush against his palm. It had been a long time since someone had done anything for him without expecting something in return, and he didn’t want to drown that feeling in liquor. Shaking his head, he let the corners of his mouth tilt into a faint smile. “Nah,” he said, pulling his hand away from the bill. “You got anything to eat in this joint?”

The bartender smirked, gladly taking the bill and nodding. “Sure thing. I’ll see what we’ve got left in the kitchen.”

Angel exhaled, leaning back in his seat. For the first time that night, the weight on his shoulders felt just a little bit lighter.

The sandwich wasn’t much, hell, it hardly ranked within the top fifty sandwiches he’d ever eaten, but those two slices of stale bread, limp lettuce, and whatever meat was flung across them tasted like survival. He savored every bite, chewing slowly, letting the bland flavors ground him in the small victories of the night. For the first time all night, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. 

Full and slightly steadier on his feet, Angel let out a deep breath. Val was wrong, I can do this. He told himself, abandoning his plans to stalk down a cheap lay for the night. Angel wasn’t sure where that resolve had come from—maybe the act of kindness from the stranger, maybe the small victory of a meal in his stomach—but it was enough to push him forward. He didn’t know what he’d do or where he’d go, but he couldn’t let himself fall back into the life he was running from. He didn’t want a beating to steal away the fragile win he was basking in. 

After sliding off the barstool, he gave the bartender a nod of thanks and slipped back out into the night. The neon lights, once vibrant and alluring, seemed harsher, their glow casting sharp shadows across the pavement. The echoes of laughter and revving engines had faded, leaving the Strip quiet and eerily still.

Angel wrapped his arms around himself, avoiding the main thoroughfare, slipping down quieter side streets and alleyways. He knew he needed to find somewhere safe to rest, somewhere out of sight. Every shadow seemed to move, every sound felt too close. The Stripe was far less inviting once the hustle and bustle died down, shifting from carnal indulgences to a looming predator waiting to pounce. 

He knew all too well what a dark, silent city meant for someone like him wandering out alone. So Angel kept walking until he found an alley nestled between two buildings, its entrance obscured by overflowing trash cans. It wasn’t much, but it was dark and quiet—enough to make him feel hidden. Angel crouched down behind a stack of crates, clutching his bag tightly against his chest as he lowered himself to the cold pavement.

This wasn’t where he thought he’d be. This wasn’t how he imagined his escape. But at least he was free. He was still stumbling, but the ground beneath him felt a little less treacherous as he made himself small and closed his eyes. 

As the distant hum of the city faded, Angel settled into the discomfort. This is better than Val’s bed , he lied to himself. But it wasn’t quite the lie it had been hours earlier. Angel could almost believe it as the exhaustion dragged him into empty slumber, his mind echoing with one last thought. 

I’m not going back.

Chapter Text

The moment Valentino said, “I love you,” Angel knew he was dreaming.

Something deep inside told him none of it was real—he should have known the second his legs slid across the expensive crimson sheets without the drag of a chain around his ankle. He should have noticed when they were lying in bed together, his head resting against Val’s chest, lulled by the steady drum of his heartbeat while Val combed through his hair without pulling. The touch was too tender, too giving. Val’s beautiful, manicured fingers were rarely gentle without expecting something in return.

But fuck, it felt so good to linger within that counterfeit affection, clinging to the sturdy warmth of Val’s body beneath the artificial red neon lights along the borders of the bedroom. Everything about the dream was as fake as the gold fixtures throughout Val’s penthouse, but Angel wanted it all. Wanted to wrap himself in gaudy luxuries and his own inability to see it all for what it was rather than admit that nothing beyond the pain was real. 

Even after his mind separated the false security of the dream from the gritty reality of his life, Angel sat with his eyes squeezed shut. Just a while longer, just a few more minutes trapped within diluted memories of how it had been—back when they’d been crazy about each other in a way that wasn’t suffocating or cruel. Back when their love, if it had ever been real, had been a river of bliss rather than an iron chokehold.

It was better inside his head. Safer to dream in sugar coated lies than to open his eyes and crash back into the reality that he was sleeping in a dirty alley on the Vegas Strip.

The gnawing ache in his stomach refused to grant him further escape. As much as he wanted to stay wrapped in the illusion of warmth, in the false comfort of the past, the desert heat was already pressing in, thick and cloying, tugging his clothes close to his skin. Angel pried his eyes open, squinting against the cloudless blue sky peeking between the buildings. His fingers tightened around his bag, reassuring himself that he still had what little he’d managed to take when he left. Then, with a groan, he forced himself up onto stiff, aching legs.

He wanted to feel proud—proud that he hadn’t gone back, that he had left in the first place. But as he took in the filthy alley where he’d spent the night, his pride laughed back at him with all of the same mockery that Val often did. A cigarette butt, not even his own, clung to the fabric of his pants. His clothes were ruined, soaked in sweat and grime. His hair was a tangled mess, last night’s makeup little more than a smudged memory. A phantom ache coiled around his left ankle, colder than it should have been, making him stumble as he stepped onto the sidewalk. 

Angel took a deep breath, steadying himself as he merged into the sluggish morning crowd. The Strip never truly slept, but the energy had shifted—last night’s indulgence fading into a bleary-eyed lull. Gamblers shuffled back to their hotels, cocktail waitresses dragged themselves home after long shifts in tight heels, street cleaners washed away the sins of the night before. Tourists in gaudy shirts and blotchy sunscreen roamed the boulevard, their voices loud, faces hidden behind pamphlets and oversized sunglasses.

Five years ago, Angel had been one of them—buzzing with excitement, overwhelmed by the endless temptations, convinced that nothing done on these streets could haunt him once he left.

But he hadn’t left.

Even now, on the run, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. For all of its tarnished memories, Angel still loved Vegas and the escape it had given him. Vegas had been his steppingstone into himself, the gilded key that unlocked every part of himself that New York had kept buried away. He loved this city, had grown and shattered within it, and a part of him couldn't bear to leave even if he could. 

He had nowhere else to go. No money, no connections, no real plan. All Angel had was a pocketful of mismatched memories and longing in a city that suddenly felt as hollow as his chest and as dangerous as the shadows trailing behind him.

Overnight he’d lost everything. But he kept moving. Even when his feet dragged, even when his mind screamed at him to turn back, he forced himself forward. Because there was one thing he couldn’t afford to lose. His freedom.

“I’m not going back,” Angel muttered, adjusting the strap of his bag as it dug into his shoulder.

There weren’t many places in Vegas he could go without being recognized, especially in daylight. Valentino was a household name, not just for his work across the glittering stages of the Strip’s clubs, but in the darker, seedier halls where he sold pleasure to anyone willing to pay for it. People had grown used to seeing Angel draped on Val’s arm at high-profile events before he’d been locked away. The keen-eyed, dangerous men who attended Valentino’s private parties would recognize him in an instant. And once the rumors started, it wouldn’t take long for word to reach Val.

If he was caught now, it wouldn’t just be a beating. He wouldn’t just be locked away. He would die in that penthouse.

Angel knew it, even if he was still trying to deny just how bad things had been. The way his left leg dragged slightly was a constant reminder of the chain he’d lived on, of all the reasons he needed to keep moving forward and fix the ways he’d fucked up his life since moving to Vegas.

He stopped at the corner of a side street, staring up at a billboard with Valentino’s face plastered across it and his legs felt weak. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging crescents into his palms. “Why the fuck won’t ya leave me alone?” Angel muttered, something soft and longing beneath the anger in his narrowed eyes. 

Angel pressed forward, pulling his jacket’s collar higher against the dusty morning breeze. The streets were growing busier, louder until he could hardly hear the way his heartbeat thudded achingly in his ears. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, moving like a ghost through the crowds but he could feel those painted eyes following him, could damn near hear Valentino laughing, that dirty, addictive chuckle telling him that he wouldn’t get far. 

He needed a plan. Something solid. Something that didn’t end with him right back where he started. But his mind kept circling the same bleak truths. He had nothing. No money. No safe place. No friends to turn to. But he had his freedom, he kept reminding himself. And that had to count for something. It needed to matter more than anything else right now.

Angel veered down a quieter side street, putting distance between himself and the Strip’s busier avenues. He needed to think, to figure out his next move before someone recognized him. But even here, paranoia prickled at the back of his neck. He’d spent too many years under Valentino’s thumb to believe he could just disappear without consequence. Val was probably already looking for him. 

A glint of golden reflected light caught Angel’s eye—a man in a pressed suit stepping out of a diner, flipping through a thick wad of bills as he adjusted his tie. Hello daddy. Angel thought, eying the way the man’s suit fit against his body, watching those firm hands stuff the crisp, green bills back into his pockets. A few years ago, he would’ve sauntered right up, turned on the charm, and walked away with breakfast money—maybe a little extra.

His fingers twitched at his sides, a familiar itch crawling up his spine. The game was second nature. A smile, a well-placed touch, a whisper of something sweet in the right ear—it would be easy. It was always so fucking easy. Even like this—disheveled, exhausted, makeup smudged to nothing—he could probably do it again. Fill his stomach. Fill the gnawing, empty ache spreading inside of him from Valentino’s lingering shadow. Satisfy more than one kind of hunger.

But was he really already desperate enough to risk catching Val’s attention by turning tricks in broad daylight? He was . Angel knew he fucking was. A few years of being Val’s personal plaything hadn’t stopped the way he craved affection, hadn’t killed the reckless part of him that longed for a different kind of warmth, even when it left him emptier in the end. The fear of Val wasn’t enough to change who he was. And he was so damn hungry it hurt. 

But he didn’t take that first step. Instead, Angel watched the man walk away, taking his wallet and everything else stuffed inside of his pants away. Fucking idiot . He scolded himself, folding his arms across his chest as he approached the diner where the man had been standing. 

The scent of frying bacon and fresh coffee drifted through the diner’s open door, wrapping around him like an invitation. His stomach clenched, sharp and angry. He was still broke, still lost, but maybe—just maybe—he could work off a meal. Get a job. Make enough of himself to figure out what came next. It was a long shot. But he had to start somewhere if he was gonna keep hesitating to follow strangers back to hotel rooms. 

Angel squared his shoulders and stepped inside. The diner was small, the kind of place where the booths were cracked from years of use and the coffee was cheap but strong. The walls were yellowed with cigarette smoke, the air thick with grease. A tired-looking waitress glanced up from behind the counter, her weathered gaze flicking over his rumpled clothes and smudged makeup.

“You need a menu, sugar?”

Angel hesitated, shifting on his feet before shaking his head. “Actually… I was wonderin’ if you guys were hiring?”

She raised an eyebrow, already doubtful, and turned toward the busy kitchen window. “Hey, Gus,” she called back, drumming her nails against the counter.

A stocky man in a grease-stained apron stepped into view, wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze dragged over Angel, unimpressed, like he’d seen a hundred people just like him come and go. “You got experience?”

Angel’s mouth went dry. He could lie. He should lie. He was an excellent liar. But something about the man’s hard stare told him it wouldn’t work. “Not in a place like this,” he admitted.

The cook grunted. “Then we ain’t hiring.” With that, Gus turned and disappeared back into the kitchen.

The words landed harder than they should have. Angel nodded, forcing his expression into something neutral, something that didn’t give away how badly he needed this. “Thanks anyway,” he said, turning before the lump in his throat could betray him. Shoulda offered to suck his dick. Angel thought. That woulda gotten him farther than admitting he wasn’t good at anything else. 

“Try cleaning yourself up a bit, hun.” The waitress called after him, her husky voice edged with something that almost sounded like sincerity. Before he could process the sting of her words, she shoved a bagel into his hands with a small, knowing smile.

Angel hesitated.

“On the house,” she added.

His fingers curled around the warm bread, its weight heavier than it should’ve been. “Thanks,” he murmured, before stepping back out into the morning sun. 

The day dragged on, stretching endlessly under the relentless Vegas sun. The heat was almost welcome compared to the cold rejections he’d collected like cigarette ash. Every diner, every bar—one look seemed to be all it took for any reputable place to turn him away. No one wanted the version of himself that was stumbling blindly through the city trying its best and his patience unraveled faster than the frayed jacket sleeve he kept picking at.

He was hungry again, fucking exhausted, and the dull ache of needing distraction was starting to claw its way through his veins. More than once, Angel found his gaze drifting toward shadowed alleys between buildings, knowing exactly where to go, exactly who to ask, to get what he really needed. The itch burrowed under his skin, whispering greedily for relief. Just a little something to take the edge off—to quiet the spiraling thoughts scraping against the inside of his skull.

For the first time in a long time, he had no safety net—no velvet-lined cage to retreat to. And fuck, wasn’t that the kicker? A sick, exhausted part of him missed it. Not the pain. Not Valentino. Well… almost not Valentino. But the ease of it. The way he hadn’t had to fight so hard just to exist. All he’d had to do was sit still, swallow his pride, and let himself be owned. Let Val take care of him in all the ways Val knew how to so fucking well.

The thought curdled in his stomach. Angel sighed, shoving it down before it could lure him into dangerous nostalgia—before it could whisper sweet, ugly things about going back, about sinking to his knees, mouth open, ready to be filled with lies and the dick he’d learned to manipulate just as well as it had manipulated him.

By mid-afternoon, he ducked into a gas station, locking himself in the cramped bathroom. The moment the door latched, his body lurched forward, emptying what little he had in his stomach. Acid burned the back of his throat, the force of it leaving him trembling, spent. Exhaustion, both physical and emotional, weighed him down. His mind clouded with doubt. Was it worth it? The decision to leave, to escape Valentino’s grasp? Because this didn’t feel like freedom. Nothing about his life right now felt like a goddamn win.

Dragging himself up from the floor, Angel gripped the edges of the filthy sink, forcing his gaze forward. The mirror above was a spider web of cracks and grime, but it still showed enough of his reflection to make him wince. He looked like hell—eyeliner smudged, foundation streaked, hair an unstyled mess.

Whatever was staring back at him just wasn’t him. It couldn’t be, not if he was gonna keep telling himself he had a chance in Hell of making it without Valentino. 

Angel turned the faucet, splashing cold water over his face, scrubbing away last night’s makeup until his skin was raw. Let it hurt, use that fucking pain . He told himself, shedding his attempts at making it through the day like old skin. Setting his bag on the toilet tank, he started digging through what little he’d brought with him, searching for something that felt right. 

He found it. A sleek, low-cut pink blouse and satin gloves that could hide the bruises on his wrists. A tight black skirt. Wrinkled, but presentable. Something pretty. Something useful. Just like he could be. 

Angel teased his bleached-blond hair the best he could, rouged his cheeks, and painted on just enough lipstick to feel like himself again. He still had it, still knew how to use himself to take a step forward instead of stumbling back. He’d tried to change his life the right way. It hadn’t worked. Now, he’d do it the way he knew best.

Stepping back out onto the Strip, Angel felt the immediate shift in the city's energy towards him.  People looked at him differently, their eyes lingering, curiosity replacing dismissal. And fuck, it felt good to strut down those streets with an air of confidence rather than choking on his fears. 

Angel straightened his spine, adjusted his top, and smirked at his reflection in the window of a parked car. All he needed now were a couple of losers with extra cash and his life might start looking as good as he did. 

Chapter Text

Confidence made everything easier. It wrapped around Angel like a second skin, turning pain into armor, bruises into battle scars. Feeling pretty while being so hopeless took the edge off, made it easier to swallow the bitter film coating his tongue. It quieted the doubt that had grown too heavy to carry on his weary shoulders. The neon lights weren’t just shining down on him—they were radiating from him, or at least, that’s what he told himself as he moved along the Strip with something that almost passed for a plan.

The hungry eyes following his every move fueled him, let him stand taller, a welcome change from the day he’d spent staring, famished, at things he couldn’t have. 

Fuck Val . Fuck every joint that had taken one look at him and decided he wasn’t worth the trouble . Angel passed a dark, quiet alleyway and, for good measure, raised a middle finger. Fuck sleeping on the streets again.

As evening settled in, the Strip came alive, glittering with a reckless kind of promise. Strutting through the chaos, Angel felt almost untouchable—like the backpack slung over his shoulder was an afterthought, an accessory instead of his entire life packed into a single bag. Like he was running toward something new, not just running from something old.

His hair, though dirty, still bounced with every step, teasing with the movement. The sweat gathering beneath his clothes didn’t matter. Neither did the creased fabric clinging to his sink-washed skin in the desert humidity. With any luck, his clothes would be on a hotel room floor soon enough. And all the emptiness inside him would be blissfully numb. He could start over. 

All he needed was a few desperate suckers with cash to spare—just enough to get him through the night. A warm bed. A full stomach. Maybe something to take the edge off that he could regret when everything else felt better.

It’d be slim pickings for a while. He wouldn’t have the freedom to be too picky. But he knew Val’s list of clients well enough—who to avoid, who might recognize him. He could manage well enough. Just until he got his feet under him. Just until he could sleep with cheap plaster walls around him instead of crumbling brick.

Slowing his pace, Angel took a long, appraising look at the better-known casinos along the Strip. As glamorous as he felt, he wasn’t stupid. The high-end joints would take one look at him, see right through him, and turn him away. No, he needed somewhere his empty wallet wouldn’t stop him at the door. Somewhere that, even at his lowest, he could still stand tall.

And he knew exactly where to go.

Holding his head high, Angel stepped onto the buzzing streets of Pentagram Row, feeling more alive than he had in a very, very long time.

The Row had been home once—back when he first landed in Vegas, when he was still stupid enough to believe in fresh starts. It was the kind of place that called to wayward souls, offering them their first taste of liberation from the rest of the world. A place that felt like freedom, even when it was anything but.

Beneath his feet, the cracked sidewalks shimmered with a rainbow patchwork of light, cast from the stained-glass windows of smoke-filled bars and gaudy little chapels that specialized in both weddings and money laundering. Streetlamps flickered, their electric hum blending into the lively tunes played by musicians tucked beneath rusting fire escapes.

Pentagram Row wasn’t on the tourist maps. Vegas’ elite didn’t speak its name. Because Pentagram Row was fucking dangerous. More crime ran through these streets than seemed possible—more blood money, more whispered deals in the dark. People sold every part of themselves here—their belongings, their dignity, their fucking souls. If Vegas was the city of sin, Pentagram Row was the empire that had spawned it. Nothing was too taboo. There wasn’t a thing a person couldn’t buy, sell, or kill for here.

Angel exhaled slowly and pressed forward, his pulse steady, his steps measured. He belonged here—just as deceptively beautiful, just as lethal as the streets beneath his heels. It had been stupid to believe he belonged anywhere else. The thought curled, bittersweet, at the edges of his mind. But he’d always been a desperate dreamer, hadn’t he? And it had been so easy for Val to convince him he could do better than streets just like the ones he’d grown up navigating back in New York. So fucking easy to manipulate him with his own dreams and tender hands.

Nope. Not thinking about that. Angel scolded himself. Not thinking about how good it had felt when Val carried him away from the Row, promising his name in neon lights while building him a satin cage. Not now.

Right now, he needed to feel as good as he looked. He needed to stay sharp. Needed to be ready. Because if he let his guard slip for even a second, he’d lose what little he had left—and end up with more than just another wound to patch up.

Wearing his smile like a tourniquet, Angel clutched the strap of his bag a little tighter and let the click of his heels drown out the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. There was only one casino in Pentagram Row, and it was a far better prospect than the dark, seedy bars scattered along its streets.

Curling his steps around a trash-littered corner, he winked at a man in snakeskin boots juggling a handful of eggs, each one painted with similar, goofy little faces. His hips swayed, radiating confidence, as he wove around a cluster of women in gray dresses, each wearing a sharp, judgmental expression, their bibles clutched like swords. He blew a playful kiss toward a burly, dirt-covered man adjusting the hefty tool belt slung around his thick waist, chuckling when the guy scowled and looked away.

This place was alive in a way the Strip could never be. The Row wasn’t polished, wasn’t packaged for tourists. It pulsed with something that fought for survival, hummed with an undercurrent of desperation so thick it clung to the air like perfume. It didn’t hide the scars time had carved upon it, instead, the row wore them loudly, making itself known for what it was. 

Passing by the club he used to dance in, Angel felt the first waver in his confidence. The neon sign buzzed, its bright pink glow slicing through the dark, illuminating the shadowed faces of the girls lingering near the entrance. Young and beautiful, determined to survive with their entire lives ahead of them if they played their cards right. He didn’t look at them. Couldn’t. Instead, he focused on his own reflection in the glass, distorted and warped by the years.

The only thing that could hurt him right now was himself. He wanted to believe that, needed to believe it. Because if this failed, if he left here with nothing, he wasn’t sure what he’d do.

The Velvet Spade wasn’t hard to find, though it had long since lost its luster. The once-golden façade was tarnished, its surface marred with streaks of rust and filth. Above the entrance, flickering bulbs fought to spell out a half-lit welcome, their glow sickly and uneven. The card suits etched onto the weather worn wood doors had faded beneath years of grime, barely visible through the neglect.

Years ago, he’d passed through those gleaming doors at Johnny’s side, trailing after their father as he conducted his backroom business. Back then, the place had been glamorous—rich velvet and polished brass, a place where power moved in whispers and winning hands. He could still remember the smoky haze hanging in the air, the clinking of ice in highball glasses, the murmur of men discussing debts, deals, and disappearances.

But Angel had never cared about the mafia beyond the fleeting desire to mean something to his family. He hardly remembered anything about Enrico’s dealings on that Vegas trip years ago, weapon smuggling and money laundering were routine, and until he’d gotten hooked on them, Angel hadn’t cared about the newly formed drug dealings. 

What he had cared about though, was the stage.

He used to watch, mesmerized, as dancers twirled under spotlights, sequins catching and refracting the dim glow. Lounge singers draped themselves over grand pianos, crooning husky-voiced ballads that made men melt in their seats. It had been a world of glittering illusions, and Angel had wanted—so badly—to be part of it. To be beautiful, dazzling, adored. To be free.

Now, standing outside the Velvet Spade, he saw it for what it had become—a pale imitation of its former grandeur. Dirty. Broken but still standing. Just like him .

Angel swallowed hard, pushing down the memories as he adjusted his skirt and stepped forward. Maybe the grit and decay were good. Maybe they meant he’d blend in, that no one would look too closely at the cracks in him. 

The inside wasn’t any better. The carpets were stained, their original color long since lost beneath years of foot traffic and spilled drinks. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and desperation clinging to the walls like peeling wallpaper. Dust and dangling cobwebs clung to the large chandelier at the center of the room, the sparkle of its crystal dull. The only think that didn’t look neglected were the tables and slot machines, but even they were showing their age. 

It wasn’t the scenery Angel was here to enjoy. His interest lay in the men inhabiting it.

Careful eyes skimmed across the room, taking stock. A handful of heavy-lidded drunks slumped over their glasses, shoulders sagging under the weight of another night gone wrong. Easy marks. Men looking for any kind of win after a long night of bad decisions and worse luck. He made a quiet mental list, prioritizing the more coherent among them—those still alert enough to fall for a smile, but tired enough to forget what they had to lose.

Then his gaze drifted toward the stragglers hovering around the tables. They were still in the game, but only just. Sweaty fingers fumbling over dwindling chips. Eyes glazed from hours of cigarette smoke and crushed hopes. Definitely more lively—but lively didn’t always mean good. The desperate ones got jumpy. Sometimes mean. Sometimes worse.

Still, Angel’s lips curled into something sweet and sharp. It’s your lucky night, boys. He plastered a teasing smile beneath eyes that sparkled with feigned innocence, charm coating his expression like sugar on poison. He wasn’t here to win big. He just needed enough. Enough to eat. Enough to buy a room for the night. Enough to breathe without feeling the walls closing in.

Angel moved through the Velvet Spade like smoke—softly swaying every step, moving every part of himself in a sauntered dance that made him easy to watch yet impossible to hold on to. His practiced smile was effortless, but behind it, every glance, every flick of his wrist, every breath he took was a calculated risk.

He leaned against the bar with just enough curve in his spine to suggest invitation, his fingers delicately tracing the rim of someone else’s empty glass he couldn’t afford to refill. A few men gave him side glances. Most looked away quickly, nervously, pretending they hadn’t been staring. Others stared longer than they should’ve with tight lips and cold eyes that told Angel he wasn’t what they were looking for—at least not in public.

Still, there were always a few.

It didn’t take long for Angel to catch sight of a man sitting two stools down—loosened tie crumpled, collar damp with sweat, the wear of too many late nights etched deep into his face. Not too drunk. Not too sober. Watching Angel in the mirror behind the bar when he thought he wasn’t being obvious.

Angel smiled, batted his lashes, then turned toward him, chin propped delicately in his hand. “Hey there, handsome. Long night or just a bad one?”

The man blinked, caught off guard, but didn’t pull away. His eyes flicked to the bartender, then back to Angel—low and cautious. “Little of both, I guess.”

“Maybe I can make it a little better.” Angel tilted his head, voice honeyed but quiet, careful not to draw attention. “Been told I can turn gray skies blue.” 

He stared a beat longer, eyes dragging over Angel’s frame with slow, dawning interest. Then, more carefully: “Never seen you before.” His gaze lingered, noting the subtle, masculine angles beneath the makeup. “You from around here?”

Angel shrugged, his smile coy. “Let’s just say I know the Row well enough to find a good time. That what you’re lookin’ for, baby?”

“Could be,” The man looked down into his drink, and Angel could practically hear the war in his head—desire and shame clashing against each other for control. 

After a long moment, the man rose from his stool without looking directly at him. He tapped a finger once against the bar and made his way toward the arched, curtained frame leading to the bathrooms. Angel waited thirty seconds. Then he slid off his stool and followed. 

The bathroom was just as rundown as the rest of the casino—cracked black-and-gold tile, stall doors hanging on their last stubborn hinge, the sharp scent of cleaner failing to mask the soured stench of piss. It wasn’t the worst place Angel had ever hooked up. And he’d been with far less desirable men. This wasn’t about a good time; it was about survival. 

“How ya want me, baby?” he asked, leaning against the sink.

“Quiet,” the man muttered, already guiding him toward the nearest stall without making eye contact.

There was nothing slow or remotely romantic about the way the man lifted Angel’s skirt, deliberately ignoring the front of him. That was fine. Angel gritted his teeth, told himself it didn’t matter. He was used to people pretending he was something else. Used to being reduced, reshaped, renamed by the hands on his body. It didn’t have to mean anything. The sloppy idiot behind him could pretend all he wanted, as long as he paid up after.

Angel rolled his eyes harder with every grunt against his neck, faking moans in time with the awkwardly paced rhythm. He’d forgotten how bad sex could be. How unsatisfying and pointlessly selfish it was. Even on his worst nights, Val had never been like this. 

It almost helped to think about Valentino, to remember how Val always found ways to make it feel good no matter how much he didn’t want it. Angel didn’t want to miss the way Val felt while someone else thrust harder into him, didn’t want to ache for a man he was supposed to hate. But fuck, if this was what sex would be like for the rest of his life, then maybe he’d been better off…

Nope. Angel snapped the thought in half. Not going there. Not thinking about that. Those words were quickly becoming his motto.

Calloused hands clutched his hips, and Angel exhaled when it finally ended—quick, messy, forgettable. The man pulled away without a word, shoved six crumpled dollar bills into Angel’s palm, muttering something that might’ve been “thanks,” though it came out more like a cough before he zipped up like he was escaping a crime scene. 

Crime against sex . Angel thought, flashing a painted-on smile, and giving a playful wink. He stuffed the money into his boot, adjusted his skirt, and took a breath. One, maybe two more, and he’d be set for the night. Long enough to find Cherri. Long enough to figure out his next move.

Six bucks wouldn’t take him far—but it was six more than he had ten minutes ago. It was food. A bed. Maybe even a cheap drink to dull the edge. It wasn’t much. But for tonight, it was enough. And tonight, enough was everything.

Cleaned up—or as clean as he could get in a shitty little bathroom—Angel stepped back out onto the casino floor, scanning for another easy mark. Someone with distant eyes, numb fingers, and a real loose grip on their wallet. Most of the men left on the main floor had already turned him down, and Angel knew better than to press his luck unless they gave him a second glance first.

Moving toward the bar, Angel ordered the cheapest cocktail possible, sat down posed and pretty on the stool, and watched the dwindling crowd. The next mark didn’t come easy. A guy in a cheap suit gave him a once-over, but when Angel leaned in with a line ready, the man shook his head and turned away—like he’d seen something he didn’t like.

Whatever, Angel thought. Lousy fucker couldn’t handle me anyway .

Another man—young, drunk enough to be seeing double—asked how much for the pair of them. Too drunk. Angel huffed and turned the guy away. He knew he was good. But he couldn’t pretend to be two people.

A guy nursing a whiskey sour at a corner table looked promising, but before Angel could make his way over, he noticed a pair of eyes following him.

Security. A thick-necked hunk of a guy with a closely cropped afro and a patchy mustache watched him from across the room, arms crossed, one hand already hovering near the radio clipped to his belt. Angel didn’t flinch. Just offered a lazy wink and kept searching. He was used to being looked at like a problem. Didn’t mean he was one. Not yet.

He turned back to his drink, nursing the remainder for the next five minutes just to see if those dark, observant eyes would stop watching him. They didn’t. Okay , he admitted to himself. Time to cut and run. There was always tomorrow . 

He was turning to make his way toward the exit, already picturing the motel down on Sinner Street—the one that always had open rooms if you could tolerate the eccentric owner and his bubbly kid, though she was probably all grown up now. A cheap room with a half-decent bed didn’t sound bad, and after that bathroom hookup, Angel was more than ready for a damn shower. If he was lucky, the hot water even worked.

Setting his sights on the exit, Angel slid off his stool, winked at the security guy still eyeing him, and took the first step. Then, he saw him.

Travis . Slicked-back hair. Expensive jacket over a ratty shirt. Cigarette dangling from his lips like he thought it made him look cool. Angel knew those dark, beady, bloodshot eyes anywhere. Valentino’s right-hand sleaze.

Fuck . His heart hammered against his ribs, and suddenly looking good was a problem he wished he didn’t have. If Travis saw him here, it wouldn’t take long before Val knew exactly where he’d been—and exactly where to come looking.

Angel backed up fast, chest tight, eyes darting for the nearest door that wasn’t the one Travis was headed for. Back to the bathroom, maybe—somewhere to hide long enough for Travis to leave. His heel caught on something. He bumped into a broad figure behind him. The man’s drink went flying—splashed across his shirt and soaked his lap.

“Dumb bitch!” the man barked. “Watch where the fuck you’re goin’!”

“Sorry, hun,” Angel snapped without thinking, nerves already grating. “Didn’t see your ego takin’ up the whole damn floor.”

The man’s face flushed red. Rage crept up his neck like a rash. “What the hell did you just say to me?”

“You heard me,” Angel said with a smirk he didn’t feel. Peeking past the brute, he watched Travis slip through the doors. One problem gone. One left to handle. “You want me to spell it out slow, or should I write it in real big letters?”

The guy’s snarl twisted—and then his fist came flying. Angel dodged—barely. His heel caught on a stool. He stumbled, lashed out—elbow cracked into the guy’s jaw, hard. The guy reeled backward, crashing into the bar. Glasses shattered. The bartender stumbled into the shelves. One mirror cracked, spider-webbing out from the corner.

Angel swung back—open palm, sharp smack that echoed like a gunshot. The guy lunged, knocking over a stool with a loud clatter. Angel shoved back, slipped, crashed into a table—drinks spilled everywhere. He grabbed the first glass he could and hurled it—clipped the guy in the head.

Security descended fast.

A pair of arms wrapped around Angel’s middle, hauling him back as he kicked and twisted his way free. He caught one guard in the shin, hard enough to make the guy yell and curse, but it didn’t matter. Another guard grabbed him hard from behind, twisting his arm behind his back.

“Get off me!” Angel shouted, breath ragged, eyes wild. “That asshole swung first!” He scanned the room, anger rising as he saw the guy slipping out the door. “Him! Get him, you lousy jerks!” He kicked out, boot hitting a slot machine with a loud clang and the groan of bending metal. “Shit—fuck—I didn’t mean ta—”

It didn’t matter. No one was listening.

Angel forced himself to calm down before anything else got broken. He let them lead him toward the side door in silence, heart sinking with every step. They moved down a narrow hallway, then into a small back office tucked away from the casino floor. The place reeked of old coffee and stale smoke. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly, artificial glow.

 The guards shoved him into a metal chair and Angel turned quick, glaring at the three of them as they spoke softly amongst themselves before turning their attention back to him. 

“Stay seated,” the taller one barked, pulling Angel’s near empty wallet from his backpack and taking his ID before slamming the door shut with a heavy click.

Angel was on his feet the second they left. He paced, hands shaking as they combed messily through his hair. “Shit, fuck, fucking shit,” he muttered. This was bad. He was in trouble. Panting, trembling—adrenaline burning through him like acid—Angel froze.

Then he breathed. Just once. And started pulling himself back together. Smoothing his skirt. Readjusting his blouse. Slipping back into something familiar. Into a role. Angel leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs, one heel bouncing as he tried to settle into something seductive—shoulders soft, lashes low, lips curled with a charm that masked the dread paling his skin. 

He didn’t start that fight. He was defending himself. That drunk prick threw the first punch. Okay, maybe the insults and slap hadn’t helped. Maybe hurling a glass at the guy’s head had been a little much. But Angel hadn’t come here lookin’ to break shit, alright? He just needed to make a few easy bucks. 

Now he was in some dumpy back office, stuck with all the blame, waiting for whoever ran this joint to decide his fate. At least Travis hadn’t gotten a good look at him, he was sure enough of that. 

The doorknob turned with a click. Angel straightened, giving his hair a toss, his whole face brightening with fake surprise—and then real recognition. “Hey, I know you,” he said before he could stop himself. Angel rarely forgot a face, especially one that’d shown him an ounce of kindness without expecting him to suck them off for it. 

The man who stepped in gave him a look so dry it could have sparked a brush fire. Same guy from the dive bar. He looked shorter while standing, just as slouched, still handsome in that rugged, fuck off sort of way. The fluorescent lights were harsh against the warm undertone of his dark skin, made his golden brown eyes glow like burning amber beneath dark, bushy brows. His dark suit had been replaced by a starched white button down, the sleeves  rolled up over faded tattoos, and he looked tired. Dangerous even. Fuck, he looked good. 

“You’re the guy who—”

“John Husker,” he interrupted flatly, settling into the worn leather chair behind the cluttered desk. “I own the place.”

Angel blinked. Then leaned forward, lashes fluttering. “Well, hello, Mr. Husker. Fancy running into a guy like you two nights in a row, must be fate.”

“Cut the act,” Husk muttered. “You broke five glasses, a barstool, cracked a mirror, and dented one of the machines.”

Angel winced. “Okay, yeah, when you list it out like that, sounds pretty bad, but that other guy-”

“How are you planning to pay for the damages?” Husk cut him off. 

Angel paused. Six dollars wasn’t going to mean shit. His frown shifted, a sultry smile replacing it as he gestured to himself. “Sure we could work something out baby.” 

“You tellin’ me you’ve got nothing of value to fix everything you broke, Anthony?” Husk asked, looking over the expired ID his men had collected from Angel before giving him another careful look over.  

Okay, fucking ouch . Angel narrowed his eyes, offended but biting his tongue. “It’s Angel, and no, not on me,” Angel admitted, sitting up straighter, a little more sincere now. “But I can pay it back. Let me work it off.”

Husk crossed his arms. “Nothing stopping you from disappearing and leaving the debt unpaid.” He huffed, already tired of the whole debacle. “You’ve got no money, and if you aren’t lying, then the address on that expired ID is either fake or worthless. It ain’t worth the risk kid. The cops can sort this out.” 

“No!” Angel surged to his feet, palms slapping down hard on the edge of Husk’s desk. The wood groaned under the force, and for just a moment, the room went still. “Please, no cops.” 

Val had a few officers on his payroll. Either one of them would rat him out, or they’d follow the address on his ID, Val’s address, and he’d end up back where he started. Either way, he’d be fucked. 

Trouble. Husk thought, shaking his head. Anyone who didn’t want the cops involved was more trouble than they were worth. He leaned forward, ready to reach for the phone on his desk when he noticed a flash of ugly color peeking out from beneath Angel’s sleeve.  The sleeve of his blouse had ridden up an inch. Just enough to show bruises. Rings of red, edged in fading green and shadowy purple.

Husk hesitated for a second, and he knew immediately that it'd been a second too long. He exhaled through his nose and pinched the bridge of it, already regretting what he was about to say. “Fine,” he muttered. “But you’re signin’ some forms. I need a real address. Someone’s gotta be on the hook if you flake.”

“I’ll pay it back,” Angel said sharply, cutting before he could be cut first. “I said I would.”

“Yeah,” Husk waved him off. “Let’s assume for now you’re not full of shit.”

Angel hesitated, still standing. He wanted to trust that his word was enough, that Husk would believe him and wouldn’t contact Val. “That address, its no good.” He lied, putting all of his faith into an empty basket of hope. 

Husk looked up at him. “You got somewhere to stay?”

“I can take care of myself,” Angel muttered.

“Sure you can.” Husk reached into a drawer and pulled out a set of keys with a plastic tag. “Take one of the staff rooms. It ain’t much, but it’s got a bed and a door that locks. You show up late or disappear, and the police will handle this. Got it?”

Angel reached for the keys, fingers grazing Husk’s, then looked up, eyes softer now. “Yeah. Got it.” 

“Don’t make me regret this.” Husk muttered, rounding the desk and moving towards the office door. 

Angel didn’t reply. He just curled the keys tight in his hand like they were a shacked second chance. 

Husk opened the office door and jerked his chin at the man waiting just outside. “Reno, show him to one of the staff rooms. Keep an eye on him.”

Reno stepped in, tall and solid, arms crossed over a snug black tee that stretched across a broad chest. “You’re giving him a job?” He asked, sizing Angel up with the same carefully observant eyes he’d watched Angel with on the casino floor.

“Against my better judgment,” Husk muttered. “We’ll iron out the details in the morning.”

Angel gave Reno his best not-guilty smile. “Hi there.”

Reno didn’t smile back, but he didn’t look hostile either. Just skeptical. Like a man watching a fox wander into a chicken coop and wondering how long it'd behave.

“You always this charming or is it just my lucky day?” Angel smirked, overriding caution with something that felt less heavy. 

“If you consider this lucky, I’d hate to see what a bad day looks like.” Reno said, nodding for Angel to follow him. 

Angel grinned, slung his backpack over his shoulder and moved, pausing briefly to look at Husk. “Thanks,” He murmured, and for what it was worth, he meant it. 

There was no reply. Just a muted gesture for him to go. Angel followed Reno, heels clicking softly on the hallway’s worn tile. The corridor beyond the office was dim and narrow, the walls painted a dingy off-white along the aged wood baseboards. It was bigger back here then he expected, but it felt claustrophobic. Like those boring, time worn walls were closing in closer with every step he took. 

“Casino opens at noon, staff gets breakfast at eleven in the kitchen.” Reno stated, pointing in directions Angel tried to catalog as they made their way to a narrow hall lined with six identical doors. Reno stopped in front of the fifth. “They’re not fancy,” he said, unlocking it and stepping aside. “But they’re clean. Try not to trash this one.”

Angel didn’t answer, just stepped past him into the room. It was bleak. No other word for it. Twin bed pushed against the far wall, the metal frame slightly bent. Standard run of the mill comforter tucked over an old mattress. A scuffed dresser with one drawer that sat crooked and a nightstand with its own phone. In the corner, a tiny bathroom with a sliding door and a standing shower that looked like it hadn’t seen a deep scrub in years. The lone window was covered in a tacky sun faded black curtain along boring, beige walls. 

 Angel stood there a moment, hands still curled around the keyring, shoulders tight. For a moment he really missed the penthouse, the gaudy fixtures and plush furniture. The warm liveliness of it. There was nothing warm or inviting about this room. It felt like a cell. Like he’d traded gilded chains for rusted shackles. 

Nope . He repeated the newly adapted motto. Not thinking about that . It wasn’t much, but for the moment, it was his. His room. His space. His second chance. Or third, who the fuck was counting? 

“I think I can take it from here.” He joked lightly, turning to Reno, still standing in the doorway. 

Reno nodded. “You screw around, Husk’ll kick you out. But if you do your job and don’t make trouble, you’ll be alright.”

Angel gave him a crooked little grin. “Story of my life.”

Reno didn’t laugh, but his lips curved, a flicker of amusement in his expression. “You need anything,” he said, “ask me or Niffty—she runs supplies.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s mostly harmless.” 

“Got it.” Angel nodded, quirking an eyebrow. He could work with that, with all of this. 

Once the door was shut, he sat on the edge of the mattress. It creaked under his weight, but it was softer than it looked. Alone, settling in, Angel finally exhaled, let the nerves finish their assault on his senses and fell backwards. He curled up on top of the covers, still fully dressed, one arm around his middle like it’d keep him from unraveling. Tonight coulda gone a hell of a lot worse, but for now, it was enough that it was just okay. He could deal with everything else in the morning. 

Chapter Text

The first thing that registered to Angel was how strange the starched sheets felt against his skin. Stiffly clean, scented heavily with detergent rather than the heady musk and spiced cologne he was used to. Sheets that prickled against his skin as his brain tried to catch up, a bed that creaked beneath his weight instead of the hard, dirty ground he’d slept on the night before last. 

The where was lost in the chaotic jumble of thoughts tangling themselves around his memories as he opened his eyes to a boringly beige room he didn’t immediately recognize. For a moment the crashing waves in his head froze, the seas parting to let panic cross. No silk sheets, no gold-plated sconces along vibrantly colored walls, no cold metal shackle clamped around his ankle. Just quiet solitude. Musty, uncomfortably unfamiliar quiet.

Bolting upright, Angel clutched the stark white sheets to his chest as his heart thundered in his ears. Heavy, rapid thrumming that rattled every thought and memory, scattering them. A quick glance down confirmed he was still dressed. Last night’s clothes clung to him, rumpled and sticky in places he didn’t want to think about yet. Clean enough, dressed, no visible bruises. Okay. Angel told himself, exhaling deeply. I’m okay. 

Blinking through the fog his panic had stirred; he mentally stitched together the past twenty-four hours. The memory of walking along Pentagram Row lazily drifted across scattered thoughts, collecting them into a neatly lined series of events held together with jagged thread. 

The Velvet Spade . Groaning, Angel buried his face in his hands. Frame by frame, the night replayed in stunning Technicolor. He could still feel the remnants of the unsatisfying bathroom hookup, the slosh of alcohol in his stomach and the aches of the brief brawl. That little spat had caused more damage then it’d been worth, and now here he was, trapped in this bleak fucking room with nothing but six dollars and a debt that might takes months to work off. 

“Fuck,” Angel exhaled, slumping back against the wall, eyes trailing over the bland beige walls. Hideous, lifeless walls that made things feel so much worse than they really were. At least it's a room , he told himself. Ain’t sleeping on the street . A narrow window let in a weak shaft of sunlight, dust motes dancing lazily in its glow. I got a chance . He tried to smile. His lips twitched upwards before falling back into a frown. I’m fucked.

Beside the bed, his backpack sat on the floor, half unzipped, revealing what little he’d escaped Val’s place with. A few rumpled changes of clothes, some makeup, a wallet holding six singles and an expired ID that pointed straight back to Valentino. Whatever dignity he hadn’t completely burned through last night buried somewhere at the bottom. 

Not much to rebuild his life with. But without Val, without all the things Val had adorned his existence with, it almost didn’t feel like he was starting over with nothing. Almost. 

Angel scrubbed a hand down his face, trying to quiet the buzz in his skull. He wasn’t exactly safe. Not really. Not as safe as he wanted to convince himself he was.  But for the moment, he wasn’t in chains either. He wasn’t homeless. Just safe enough. That had to count for something. 

Maybe this could work . He’d lived in worse places, survived on less. If he kept his head down, kept his hands busy, maybe he could ride this out. Do the job. Pay the debt. Stay invisible. And when he had enough? Disappear again. Slip out of Vegas before anyone that mattered caught on to where he’d ended up. 

It was a long shot—but it was something. And it sure as hell beat the alternative, because the alternative beat back.

The rotary phone on the nightstand stared at him, old and yellowed, its buttons grimy with years of cigarette ash and greasy fingers. Angel stared back, tense. It had been ages since he’d held a phone without permission. Val had taken the last one out of the bedroom. After that, he'd stopped trying to reach anyone. Convinced himself he didn’t need to because Val had always provided everything he needed. 

He thought about calling home. Not home, really—just Molly. Molly would help. If he called her, she’d give him hell for disappearing for four years, but after that, she’d do anything for him. He knew that. But he also knew what would happen if she did. If she knew the truth, she’d come charging into Vegas, guns blazing. And as tough as Molly was, she wasn’t ready for Valentino. And Val would hurt her the moment he saw Angel’s reflection in her features. 

“Fuck,” he muttered the word again, swinging his legs over the bed. The nightstand drawer reluctantly opened with a forced jerk. A Bible and a phone book. He ignored the former, pulled the latter into his lap, and flipped through it until he found the number for Pandemonium .

If he couldn’t find Cherri himself, he was at least sure he could count on Dahlia to keep an eye out for her. And this beat the hell out of calling every motel in Vegas hoping Cherri hadn’t checked in under a fake name. 

Angel dialed, twisting his fingers in the cord. It rang twice before someone picked up.

“Pandemonium Nightclub, we aren't open till dusk.”  Came the gruff, distracted voice of whoever worked the mourning cleanup crew.  

“Wait,” Angel called before the call could be abruptly ended. “Can ya do me a favor and leave a message for Dahlia?”

A grunt broke through the static across the line. “Sure thing.” A pause, followed by a heavy, annoyed sigh. “You gonna give me the message? I’m no mind reader.”

“Oh, yeah,” Angel hesitated, chewing on his lip until deciding it was safe to leave a number with a nameless janitor. “Tell Dahlia that Ang- Anthony is at the Velvet Spade casino,” he hesitated, glancing around the room like it might offer its own address. “Uh, staff room 5. Let her know to tell Cherri if she sees her.” 

“Anything else?” 

“No,” he said quietly. “Thanks.” He hung up, staring at the receiver for a second before placing it back in the cradle. That’s one move made. Only about a hundred left to go .

Angel rose with a groan, joints popping as he stretched. Time to wash off last night's bad decisions , he thought to himself, rolling his eyes and stepping into a bathroom that was barely more than a closet. Black, foot worn rungs on old tiles that at one time might have been gold, but now just looked like watered down piss. A scuffed black cabinet that felt too empty without the hoard of useless products he used to own. It was going to take forever to replace most of the frivolous things that had always seemed necessary to have. All the things he’d worked his ass off for just so that he looked pretty enough to work it at all. 

Biting back a grimace, Angel reached past the clear shower curtain, hands resting on the polished nozzle before daring to turn it. At least the water still ran, though the pipes groaned like they resented the effort. “Like your job’s that damn hard,” Angel muttered, twisting it as hot as it’d go before stepping back to lean over the chipped porcelain sink, bracing himself as he waited for the water to heat.

It was easier to focus on everything still wrong than it was to celebrate the small wins—but he tried anyway. The fact that he could acknowledge those victories at all felt weirdly irritating. Like he was admitting that he’d been losing for too long. He used to feel like he was winning all the time. Between the drugs, the glittering nightlife, and all the ways Val knew how to make him feel wanted, Angel hadn’t stopped to question much of anything over the last four years. He hadn’t needed to when there was always another pill to swallow, another spotlight to dance under, another silk-sheeted bed to be fucked into. He’d lived in a dream, too high and too pretty to look too closely at the nightmare his life had slowly become. He missed it—missed the blind, blissful ignorance. Missed the way pain had been so easy to drown out when he didn’t have to think for himself.

Lifting his eyes to the mirror, its edges fogged with age, he stared at the reflection like it belonged to someone else. Smudged eyeliner. Dried mascara. Puffy eyes. He let go of the sink and reached up hesitantly, fingers dragging through blond hair that was crushed on one side, wild on the other. Valentino never would’ve let him go to bed looking like this.

“Val doesn’t own you,” he said quietly. The words stung more than they should’ve. “He never did,” he added, softer still. It was a lie—and he knew it. But it was the kind of lie he needed to hold onto. A lie he could wrap around himself like a lover’s arms, shielding him from everything he wasn’t ready to face.

Stepping into the shower, the water hit him like a warning—lukewarm and needle-thin. Angel stood beneath it, arms crossed over his chest, watching the old tiles blur beneath the frail steam rising to engulf him. Those transparent clouds curved around his body, exploring every stiff joint, lingering to decide whether or not they wanted to ease some of the tension from his lean frame. The shower head stuttered, once, twice, before resuming a mostly consistent flow as Angel worked the sweat and grime from his hair. At least it's warm. Maybe not hot enough to burn away the dread crawling beneath his skin, but warm enough to wash away the disasters of his escape. 

What if I fuck this up ? The thought snuck in the way what ifs always did when he showered, sharp edged whispers beneath the steam. What if Travis saw me? What if Husk changes his mind? What if Val finds out where I am?

That one stayed. It coiled in his ribs, constricting like a snake made of smoke. Like rot masked in pretty perfumes. Angel pressed his forehead to the tile. Tried to breathe through it. The panic. The guilt. The humming knowledge that he wasn’t safe as long as he was in Vegas, not when the devil in designer sunglasses could show up at any moment, smirking and ready to drag him home as if nothing had changed. Because for Val, it wouldn’t have.

You run off. You play your little games for my attention. You come back because there’s nowhere else for you to go. 

He scrubbed at his skin with the ivory bar of soap like those unscented chemicals could peel away the glitter and bruises of his past. Like if he just washed hard enough, he’d be clean again. A new person in an old, polished shell. Someone who wouldn’t look at this bleak little room and see it as a downgrade imprisoning him. Angel needed to be someone who saw a second chance even if it wasn’t dressed up and glamorous, because there might not be another chance waiting for him. And that terrified him more than he wanted to dwell on. 

Every time he tried to see the best in what he’d managed he was hit with the fact that he missed everything he knew was wrong. He couldn’t help the conflicted way he felt. He couldn't smother the lovestruck fool who’d thought things were fine just like he couldn’t put all his faith in the moron who’d run away with no real plan and nothing to his name. If he made a mistake now, there’d be no silk sheets to fall back on. No condescending arms to hold him and tell him who he was supposed to be. If who he was without Val wasn’t enough to save him, then who he’d been was going to get him killed. 

Angel told himself that he could handle whatever his life threw at him, promised on every drop of water sliding over his sun starved skin that he could change, but when the water shut off with a rusty throated groan, the same man with haunted eyes and a hollow smile was still staring back at him in the bathroom mirror. Reaching out towards the steam fogged mirror, Angel drew a childish curved line over his reflection, painting on a temporary, bigger smile. Until it felt real, he could fake it. Once he got his hands on some makeup, he could make everyone believe it, and eventually, he thought to himself as he began toweling off, it wouldn't be fake anymore. 

There was comfort in the thought that maybe everything would turn out right eventually. Belief was a double-edged blade, and Angel knew he was pressing the tip against his chest, waiting to see which side cut him first, but he’d never been one to run from something dangerous without the risk a few steps behind. Maybe he just liked the thrill. Maybe he liked the way crawling through shit made him appreciate that he was still crawling at all. Contradicting thoughts and conflicted emotions were better than nothing at all, even if the spiral was making him dizzy. 

He pulled wrinkled clothes from the depths of his backpack—dressy black slacks and a striped, pink and white blouse with sleeves long enough to hide the bruises along his arms and held them close to his face. The last fading scents of the penthouse curled into his nostrils, a delicate tornado of cherry scented tobacco, velvet cologne and regret flavored champagne. Angel breathed them all in just to remember the love tainted lies. The reasons he’d stayed for so long and why he’d needed to leave. Dressing slowly, he let himself pretend he didn’t miss loving someone who’d never really loved him back. And yeah, it hurt, but pain was a pretty good motivator. 

Knock knock knock. Three quick, chipper raps against the door.

Angel stiffened, breath catching and uncertain whether it should be tensely held or exhaled with relief. The door creaked open before he could reach it, and Angel hastily reminded himself that he was allowed to lock his door as he combed his fingers through wet blonde hair to look more presentable. 

“Morning!” Chirped a voice far too delighted for the early hour as a petite young woman poised like a doll mid-windup with copper curls bouncing just above her shoulders stepped shamelessly into his room.

Angel blinked, opening his mouth to speak. 

“Niffty,” she announced proudly. “Housekeeper. Pest control. And, apparently, your escort for the morning.”

Angel arched a brow, regaining himself. “Bit early for a date, don’t you think?”

She snorted. “Oh, honey, you don’t look bad enough for me.” Wide, wild eyes danced over him, and Angel couldn’t help but feel intimidated by the short woman standing across from him. “I keep the casino clean. Staff rooms, too,” she said with a self-satisfied nod. “You won’t find a single bug in this place.”

Matching her energy, Angel smiled. “You're doing a helluva job, toots, haven’t seen a single creepy crawler.” And to his surprise, he hadn’t. For as run down as the place was, it was clean. 

 Niffty’s grin turned slightly too wide, her eyes almost distant. “I know.” She said with a deceptive sweetness. “I killed them all.”

“...Riiiight.” Angel blinked. 

“Found a cockroach nest last week, took out the nymphs first. Little bastards never saw it coming.” She laughed, light and dangerously amused. “Shame that most of the adults got squished, a waste of good puppets.” Without another word Niffty whirled on her heel and started down the hall, gesturing for Angel to follow while humming a tune that sounded cheerfully eerie, like a swing-era murder ballad.

Angel wasn’t sure whether to laugh or lock himself in his room. He had questions he wasn't sure he wanted to have answered yet though. For a moment longer, he lingered, fingers brushing over the frayed edge of his sleeve. The end of a deep breath brushes over lips crooking into an oddly reassured smile.

  How hard could it really be? Angel wondered, following Niffty down a hallway that smelled faintly of old cigarette smoke and lemon-scented cleaner, a contradiction that suited the place. The place was rundown; all the good casinos were on the strip. No one worth worrying about was going to come down here. Well, almost no one. Angel rolled his eyes, letting his gaze drift along off-white walls that whispered with age and the ghosts of better days. 

Ahead of him, Niffty continued chattering wildly, like a radio left on in another room unaware it wasn’t really being listened to. “—and then I found a spider this big in the break room, so I lit the broom on fire! Husk was mad, but it didn’t come back, did it? Noooo, sir. That sucker’s ash now!”

Angel gave a tight smile, mostly to himself. “Sounds like you're running a war zone.”

“Oh, you’ve got no idea,” Niffty grinned, gesturing to a smeared stain on the carpet. “That’s Fred. He doesn’t like to be walked on.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Angel replied, careful not to step on the stain staring up at him. 

She turned a corner with a cheerful bounce. “We don’t get as many insects anymore, most of them know better.  I found a rat once, real bad boy. Saw him steal a cigarette from a woman's purse but he couldn't light it.” 

He let her talk. It was hard to worry about the past hanging on his shadow as he listened to her wild stories and gleefully maniacal giggles. If a dame this crazy could hold a job here, then it'd be a walk in the park for him. By the time they reached Husk’s office, Angel had shed his nerves like an old coat. He stood straighter, eyes half-lidded with the gleam of someone ready to sell the better version of himself. One thing was clear, even if he did screw this up… it wouldn’t be because he was the craziest person here.

“Been a pleasure, doll.” Angel said with a wink, watching Niffty move merrily down the hall before pushing the heavy office door open to step inside. 

Angel stepped into the large office, eyes moving over shelves of books he was sure had never been read, curving over tall leather chairs and settling on a desk as disorganized as his life. He took it all in, stacks of papers gleaming in the broken streams of light filtering in through the blinds, an untouched, clean glass beside a half empty bottle of cheap whiskey. And then he looked at Husk. 

Maybe he’d never get tired of drinking in the sight of the man sitting slouched behind that desk. Large hands splayed over aged wood, hands that looked like they could break someone in half. All over again Angel wondered what those hands felt like, if they were as rough as they looked, as strong as his thick arms and broad chest implied. Looking at the faded card suit tattoos peeking out from Husk’s rolled sleeves, Angel wondered if he’d even flinched under the needle's biting kiss, or if Husk had sat there looking as unamused as he did now. 

Those golden caramel eyes looked back at him, dark beneath heavy brows, and Angel felt himself melt before going rigid. Husk wasn’t looking at him with the same reverent hunger, wasn't wondering what his skin felt like or if his touch would burn in all the right ways. Husk was looking at him like he wanted to be done with this meeting as soon as possible. Unimpressed and dismissive. 

“Morning boss.” Angel said, smiling the way he usually did to impress people, like it meant something. 

“Sit,” Husk said. No returned smile, no small talk. Just that same frown pressed tight within a trimmed, salt and pepper beard. 

Angel settled into a tall, leather backed chair, crossing one leg over the other with all the grace he’d learned to master. Husk’s gaze didn’t waver, but it didn’t linger, either. Strictly business.

“There’s a ledger,” Husk said, pulling a sheet toward him. “Damages come out to two hundred and forty-six dollars. You’ll be serving drinks, trust you’re competent enough to pull that off without breaking anything else.” He almost grinned to himself, though the fleeting humor was quickly swallowed by the fumes on his breath. “All you gotta do is smile, take orders and carry the tray without starting another fight.” 

“What if they start it?” Angel muttered, recrossing his legs and crossing his arms over his chest with a dramatic flair. “You’ve seen these guys—one spilled whiskey away from a murder charge.”

“Then you walk away. Or you signal for security to do their damn job.”

“So, all I gotta do is serve a bunch of drunk gamblers drinks?” It was easy enough, boring but easy. At least he’d be serving people with his clothes on for a change. “How's it work? I mean, what am I making and how’s it being split?” 

“Half.” Husk sighed, rubbing at his temples. “Pays about forty dollars a week, you keep half, and the rest goes towards the damages you caused.” 

“Wasn’t just me.” Angel huffed, rolling his eyes. “So that’s what, how long am I gonna be working this shit off?” 

“Three months, give or take.” Husk shrugged, leaning back to fold his arms over his chest. “Or we can call the cops and handle this their way.” He arched a brow, waiting for Angel’s reaction. It'd be easier, a hell of a lot easier to just let someone else handle this instead of hoping Angel wouldn’t take off. 

“Yeah, no thanks. Think I’ve had enough cuffs for one lifetime.” He muttered under his breath. Three months felt like a lifetime. Plenty of time for one of Val’s goons to catch sight of him or for him to fold and run home. But maybe three months wasn't that long. Angel clicked his tongue before leaning in, dropping his voice just enough to let it slip into that hungry place men usually liked. “I could help pay it off faster, y’know. I’ve got plenty of talents.”

Husk didn’t even blink. “Not interested.”

“You sure?” Angel purred, fingers sliding across the desk, brushing over Husk’s knuckles. “Could be a win-win. I pay ya off faster, you get me outta your hair.”

“I said no.” The words were solid, flat as cards on a table. “This ain’t that kind of place and that doesn’t pay for repairs.”

Angel’s lips pressed together, brow furrowed. People didn't often tell him no. Fine. Maybe he just thought he was interested in Husk because his entire future seemed to depend on this shit job. Maybe the grouch sitting across from him wasn’t gorgeous. Just an asshole, and Angel never could resist an asshole. 

“You got any previous employment?” Husk asked, pulling a form from a drawer.

“I used to entertain.” Angel shrugged, torn between boasting and smothering himself. “Like I said, I got talents, but I can be useful anyway ya need me to be. I’m real flexible.” 

Husk just nodded. No raised brow. No smirk. “You clean?”

Angel exhaled slowly. “Yeah, used soap and everything.” Not even a smile. What the fuck was wrong with this guy? “This an interrogation?” Angel huffed, leveling a pointed stare at the dark green bottle inches away from Husk’s hand. “Does it really matter?” 

“Does if it affects your ability to work.” 

“I'm clean.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Val had been withholding their stash to punish him for the last week. 

“Good.” Husk tapped on another sheet of paper; Val’s address copied from his ID across it. “There a reason you don’t want this on file?” 

“I don’t wanna talk about that.” Angel snapped sharply. “I can give ya another address, family address.” Yanking the paper out from under Husk’s hand, Angel scribbled down an address that hadn’t been home in years. Anything was better though, hell, even the alley he’d slept in was better than leaving a trail to Val in someone else’s hands. 

“New York, huh?” Husk mused, sliding the paper back into the stack. 

“Everyone comes from somewhere.” 

“Guess they do.” Husk spoke without looking at him, as if Angel were just an afterthought as he filled out the rest of the employment forms before finally sliding them across the desk. “Once you sign this, you’re an employee. Staff hall is off limits to anyone that doesn’t work here, so don’t bring any overnight guests in. Don’t care what you do in your free time as long as it doesn’t make trouble for me. This place has enough issues as it is.” He muttered, taking a long drink from the bottle. “Schedule gets posted on Sunday evenings, if you got a problem let me know. Real problems. Don’t knock on that door for something you can handle yourself.” 

“I’m plenty capable of taking care of myself.” Angel bit back softly, skimming over the employment form and filling out the few remaining lines. “Sure you don’t want my soul too?” He joked, eyes glued to the fifty percent of his wages the casino kept below the list of rules. 

Husk shrugged. “Souls don’t go for much these days on the Row. If they were worth anything I’d take ‘em though.”

Angel laughed softly, the sound bitter but warm. He scrawled his name. Or what passed for it now.

 “Mimzy will get ya set up with a couple uniforms,” Husk began, taking a moment to actually look at Angel. “How are you planning to dress on the floor?” Angel felt the quiet heat of that gaze as it lingered, not sizing up the body beneath his clothes, but something more intimate. His intentions, his confidence and fears. All the things he was beneath his skin. 

Angel stiffened. It wasn’t a question he was ready for, not one he’d thought he’d have a choice in either. “You got a problem with the way I dress?” His voice was sharper now, not flirtatious—defensive.

“I got a problem with riots in my casino. Don’t bother me one way or the other so long as you keep it quiet. People here generally don’t pay too much attention, most of the regulars know better than to cause a commotion. But my guys are the ones that have to deal with trouble.”

“I’ll blend,” Angel muttered. He could do that for now, until he knew who the regulars were. How safe he was. “For now. But I’d like to keep the option open. Be free to be myself sometimes.”

“Fine with me. Just don’t get caught being yourself in front of the wrong crowd.” For just a second, Husk’s expression softened, whether in approval or apathy, Angel couldn’t tell.

“Understood.” Angel nodded. He wasn’t used to people giving him options without barbed wire wrapped around them or trusting him to make a decision for himself. But he liked the way it felt. Liked almost believing that Husk wasn’t gonna go back on his word the moment it suited him. “Not looking to make things any harder.” A wry grin spread across his face. “Well, not most things.” It was worth one more shot. 

“If I catch you trying to turn tricks in the casino, the deal’s off. I don’t care how pretty your pout is. And if I catch you high or drunk on the floor,” Husk added, “you’re out.”

Angel’s mouth twitched. Says the man drinking at nine in the morning, he thought. A sliver of victory slipped into his smile though, because his pout was pretty, and that word had looked real nice on Husk’s lips directed at him. “Yeah. Got it.”

“Good. You start tomorrow.” Husk collected the papers, his eyes on the bottle, measuring what remained while following the distorted curves of Angel’s reflection. 

For a moment Angel waited, he wasn't sure what for. Permission to leave. An invitation to stay. Anyone else would have had a handful of directions, a handful of something a little more direct, for him to follow. But not Husk. Instead, his head wound down like the tired hands of a clock, his quiet nerves ticking away the seconds until Angel stood and turned towards the door. 

“Three months,” Angel murmured, counting the weeks off on his fingers as he made his way to the door. Three months, and whatever came next would be entirely his. He could do three months. He'd survived three months chained to Val's bed, so he could shoulder through three months caged freely in the casino. Couldn’t he?

“Are you hurt?” Husk’s voice called after him, pausing Angel mid step. 

 “Huh?” Angel turned, following Husk’s gaze along his leg. 

“Your leg’s dragging.”

Angel blinked. He hadn’t noticed. Not really. It was just—there. The dull, phantom weight of a chain he’d grown too used to dragging behind him. “I’m fine.” He replied too fast, too soft. 

Husk didn’t press. 

Angel turned toward the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. For a second, he considered throwing one last flirt over his shoulder. A wink, a tease. Something to chase the taste of Husk’s concern far away.  But he didn’t. Instead, he just said, “See ya around,” and walked out with his shoulders up, spine straight, each step echoing like a promise he hadn’t figured out how to keep yet. 

Don’t fuck this up . His mind rattled. I won’t. His heart beat. 

Chapter Text

The casino looked different in daylight.

Well—what passed for daylight on Pentagram Row. Most of the buildings were too tall to let any real sunlight through. The Velvet Spade’s tinted windows filtered the shadow-stained sky into a dull amber glow behind heavy curtains, giving everything a kind of weary glamour.

Angel stood just past the lobby, arms crossed, eyes scanning the main floor with wary curiosity. He hadn’t noticed the little things last night—the chipped crown molding, the tired velvet on the booths, the flickering sign above the bar that blinked VE–ET SP–DE like a dying heartbeat.

He didn’t hate it. Angel still wasn’t sure how he felt about everything, but he was certain it wasn’t hate.

For all its peeling charm, the place didn’t reek quite so strongly of desperation when it was empty – before opening. It was just another casino in Vegas, another place for people to run from one problem straight into another. And somehow, that rooted an awkward fondness in Angel’s chest. He’d never really felt a place reflect within himself. Sure, the clubs he and Val used to frequent matched his wild side, but they never curled around his bones like wild ivy. A part of him knew that even though he was bound here by unfortunate circumstances, it wasn’t the same kind of prison he was used to. He was stuck here, but he wasn’t trapped . 

Angel wandered toward the lounge, trailing a hand along the railing. The same style of chaise as the ones in Val’s penthouse sat against the wall, but these weren’t as flashy. Their fabric was worn and starting to fray—like they’d served a purpose. Unlike the velvet furniture Val rarely let him sit on.

He could still remember how luxurious the Velvet Spade had looked years ago when he’d first visited. He couldn’t help but wonder how it had sunk so low. But maybe that was just what happened to everything in Pentagram Row. They started shiny and new until people stopped caring to keep them that way. Or maybe, it had just been loved too hard in all the wrong ways. Maybe it was stuck between what it’d been and what it was. Like him.

And wasn’t that a hell of a way to think about it? The way he switched from missing his old life to resenting it, recognizing everything that had been wrong while still feeling like defending it. It was exhausting. Emotionally, mentally—he was just so done feeling tired. Hell, right then, he was done feeling anything.

He passed Niffty buzzing between tables, broom in one hand, a rag slung over her shoulder like a pageant sash. He had to hand it to her—for as run down as the joint was, it was fucking clean.

“You survived your first meeting,” she chuckled, barely pausing in her work to shoot him a frighteningly gleeful look. “How’d it go?”

“About as good as selling my soul to a devil in suspenders,” Angel replied, tossing her a smile. “But I start tomorrow, so… good.”

“I’m sure you won’t fuck it up,” she called over her shoulder. “Just don’t bleed on the carpets—Husk’s real touchy about that.”

Angel chuckled, but before he could ask what that meant, a loud voice barked from the far corner.

“If you’re not working, don’t block the goddamn walkway!” A broad-shouldered pit boss—bulldog-faced, suspenders straining against his belly—shot Angel a look over his paper.

Angel raised both hands in mock surrender. “Don’t worry, big guy. Just gettin’ the lay of the land.”

“You got a land pass from Husk?” the pit boss asked, almost amused as he looked Angel over.

Angel smirked. “Got his blessing and everything.”

The pit boss grunted. “Husk don’t bless. He tolerates. Big difference.”

Angel quirked a brow. “He always this sunny?”

“Sunny, stormy, whatever—you don’t stir the pot, he don’t boil over.” The pit boss went back to his paper. “He’s fair enough for a cranky old bastard.”

Angel kept moving, watching the way the staff moved through the place—loyal without fear, worn without bitterness. Nothing like the people who worked under Val. He’d expected more dysfunction. More rot under the wallpaper. But instead, it just felt… lived in. Flawed, yeah. But real. Almost safe. Safer than where he came from anyway.

After several laps around the casino floor, familiarizing himself with the layout of tables, machines, and booths, Angel decided he was as prepared as he could be. His next stop was the supply closet beside the laundry room.

There was something sharp about the way Mimzy smiled—like she could grind bones to dust just by talking. And boy, could she talk. Gossip spilled from her ruby-red lips, anything and everything crammed into a sentence as she took his measurements with snippy hums, her short blonde curls bouncing around her face. She moved like a dancer, flashy and poised, like a showgirl who didn’t know she was past her prime.

Angel could respect that. It was hard to leave the spotlight behind.

“Courtesy of the house,” she’d said with a wink, handing over a stack of folded uniforms with theatrical flair. “Try not to get anything sticky on the satin. And don’t tug at the seams—they’re vintage.”

Angel offered a half-sincere thanks as he took the bundle. The pieces were nice, actually. A few pairs of black slacks and crimson button-downs, some gold fitted vests, a pin-up-style blouse with sheer sleeves, even a high-waisted pencil skirt that looked like it hadn’t seen daylight since the ’40s. 

He appreciated the range—even if it made his stomach twist a little.

Back in his room, he dropped the clothes on the bed and stared at them like they might tell him who he was supposed to be now. Anthony, or Angel. Masculine, feminine—neither, both. He ran a finger along the hem of a crisp red shirt, then reached for the blouse. The slacks didn’t feel like him. Not really. Straight-legged and plain, they did nothing to flaunt the legs he was so proud of. But they’d serve a purpose—keep things easy, help him blend in, avoid the kind of attention that turned into problems.

Angel liked attention, though. He loved feeling a heated gaze trace over him. But right now, being recognized was the last thing he needed. Still, the idea of leaving behind the makeup and heels made something small and stubborn inside him ache. He’d spent the last four years becoming the version of himself he’d always wanted to be—and now he had to bury it just to hide from the man who’d given him that freedom in the first place. 

He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with both hands. “Three months,” he muttered. “I can be anybody for three months.”

Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard after he got a feel for the regulars. Once he knew it was safe, he could switch uniforms. He didn’t have to choose one side of himself to be forever. Once he was out of Vegas, he could be whoever the hell he wanted.

He flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The room still smelled faintly off, it was still boring as hell—but it felt a little less foreign now that he was moving stuff into it. His, even if it was all borrowed.

The phone rang.

Angel blinked. A brief, tight panic shot through his chest. Who the fuck would be calling? It couldn’t be Val. No way. Husk? A misdial? Someone up front who needed something before the floor opened? No way to know unless he picked it up.

He sat up, let it ring once more, then lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”

A familiar voice snapped through the line, equal parts cigarette rasp and screw-you sunshine. “Where’ve ya been, bitch?”

Angel laughed before he could help it, the tension in his shoulders melting, leaving him nearly boneless. “Cherri,” he breathed, relieved and happy. “Holy shit.” 

There was a beat of silence. A moment that almost felt too long. 

“Is that all you’ve got to say after disappearing on me?”  She laughed, the kind of laugh that wasn’t forced, but didn't ring quite right. “Are you okay?”

Angel leaned against the wall, teeth grazing his lower lip as he considered the question. “Define okay.” He laughed, the same cover-it-up laugh she’d just used.

“Oh. That kind of okay.” She sounded relieved, but there was an edge to it. Like she was still deciding whether to throttle him or hug him first. “I been lookin’ for you, ya know. Thought maybe Val finally did somethin’ permanent.” She didn’t need to say more, they both understood. 

“Almost,” Angel said quietly, glancing down at his ankle, feeling the weight that wasn’t there but still lingered. “But I got out.”

Another pause. Shorter this time.

“Well… good.” Her tone softened, but not too much. “You’re still a cunt for not callin’ me after being such a dick.”

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” he repeated, unsure what else to say without telling her everything.

A sigh crackled through the receiver. “Where are you stayin’?”

Angel hesitated. It was just like Cherri to call a number without thinking about where that line went. “I’m in a staff room at The Velvet Spade. Not sure if I can have guests. And I really… I don’t wanna start shit before I even clock in.”

“Look at you bein’ responsible.” She said it with a grin in her voice. He could see that sharp, wide grin, the mischief in her eyes, clear as day. 

“I can be responsible.” Maybe, at least he wanted to think he could be. 

“Sure. When you're unconscious.” A teasing lilt.

Angel snorted. God, he missed her. “You wanna grab a bite? Sin Street Diner’s just down the street.”

Her answer came fast. “Ten minutes.”

He hung up with a quiet smile, the receiver clicking into place like punctuation.

A familiar voice. A familiar face. A reminder of who he was outside of all this. Just a slice of normal—but it felt like getting the whole pie. 

Angel stood, smoothed his hands down his shirt, and tucked the uniforms into the drawers of his little dresser. His , he thought. For now, this was his. A place to belong. Stepping out of the room, he smiled., because it felt so fucking good not to feel quite so alone anymore. 

The air outside was thick with desert heat and exhaust, but Angel welcomed the walk. The din of the Velvet Spade faded behind him, replaced by the loud hum of the outer city and the occasional bark of a horn. Pentagram Row was its usual brand of gaudy and grimy—flickering neon, crumbling stucco, and signs that hadn’t been cleaned since the Eisenhower administration—but the Sin Street Diner stood out.

It was a squat little building with chrome trim, a checkerboard tile floor visible through the wide glass windows, and a red-and-white awning that fluttered slightly in the dry breeze. Inside, it smelled like coffee, grease, and syrup. A real classic. The kind of place that felt too nice for its location while being perfect at the same time. 

Red vinyl booths lined the walls, silver napkin dispensers perched beside miniature jukebox selectors that hadn’t played a fresh tune since Buddy Holly rose to fame The real jukebox—a big old Wurlitzer near the corner—crackled faintly to life, spinning something cheerful and a little scratchy. Angel didn’t know the name, but the sax was bright and the beat made him feel like he could breathe again.

He slid into a booth near the window and didn’t have to wait long. The door jangled with a mechanical chime, and Cherri strolled in like she owned the place. She was hard to miss—tight red pants, a cropped black halter top, boots that clicked like warning bells. Her blonde hair was a mess of volume and pink streaks, one eye hidden beneath her bangs, the other narrowed with intent.

Angel barely had time to stand before she was on him.

“Good to see you’re still breathing, ya cunt,” she said, and punched him in the arm hard enough to feel before pulling him into a sideways hug, their arms tangling like it had been days instead of months. It felt good, warm. Angel hadn't realized how much he needed it. 

Cherri clung for just a second longer than she meant to, then pulled back and flopped across from him in the booth. She grabbed a menu, pretending to read it as she looked him over. “You look like shit,” she said lightly, only half joking.

“Still look better than you,” Angel replied with a grin. “Missed you too, sugar tits.”

Her gaze flicked over him. Just for a moment, noticing sleeves too long for the heat, how small he looked beneath his clothes. Pale, tired. “You told me to fuck off then fuckin’ ghosted me.”

“I know,” Angel said, picking at the corner of his menu. “I’m sorry.”

Cherri raised a perfectly plucked brow. “That's all I get?”

“I didn’t mean to cut ya off.” He looked down at the table, tracing the seam between the metal edge and the Formica top. “Val didn’t want me seeing you. He knew you wanted me to leave. And I just… I didn’t want to fight with him. I was trying to keep the peace.”

She snorted. “That’s horse shit, Ange. And you know it.”

“I know,” he said quickly, voice low. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Cherri didn’t answer right away. She leaned back in the booth and crossed her arms, her long fingers tapping against her bicep. “Did he lay hands on you because of me?”

Angel’s eyes flicked up. “No,” he lied smoothly. It wasn't a total lie, Val never needed a solid reason to raise his hand. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a terrible liar.” She exhaled, her gaze falling. 

“You gonna hold that against me?” He smiled with only half his mouth, trying to hide the way the guilt in her eyes hurt. 

“Nah. I’m just glad you’re out.” Cherri huffed, but the tension in her shoulders eased. “Might hold the three goddamn months of pretending I wasn’t worried against ya though. Kept hoping I’d see your dumb ass somewhere, or that you’d at least call.”

“I didn’t want to leave, Cher. I loved him.” Angel shrugged. Loved hurt, it meant that maybe he really didn’t love Val anymore. And who the hell was he when he wasn’t Val’s? “Then the other day, I just left.”

Cherri studied him again. Her expression was unreadable, somewhere between suspicion and relief. “So where the fuck are you now? And why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“I’m working at the Velvet Spade. I’ve got three months to lay low and pay off some damages I caused—long story.”

Cherri snorted a laugh. “You? Causing damage? I’m shocked.”

Angel winked. “I’m on my best behavior now.”

“Shit, I really don’t believe that.”

They both laughed, the kind of laughter that came too fast and a little too sharp, like it was meant to fill the cracks. But when it faded, they just looked at each other for a long moment.

“You okay though?” she asked finally, softer than before.

He thought about the question again. Was he okay? Mostly, Angel just wasn’t sure. Compared to a few days ago, yeah, sure. He wasn't chained up in Val’s room, but he was bound to the room he’d been given. He was free, he guessed, but he felt trapped. Somewhere in the in-between, standing at a crossroads with an outdated map and no sense of direction. Angel shrugged, lips twitching into a lazy grin. “Define okay.”

Cherri smiled, all teeth. “Yeah. That tracks.”

Their burgers were greasy and overcooked, the fries crisp, and the soda watered down with too much ice—but it was perfect. It tasted like old times. Like the kind of cheap meal they used to split after long nights overflowing with strong drinks and bad decisions. 

Cherri took a massive bite, chewed like she hadn’t eaten in days, then grinned at him with ketchup smeared on the corner of her mouth. “So I may or may not have accidentally set a small fire at the last motel I was stayin’ at.”

Angel snorted. “I stopped in there. Ron wanted me to remind you that ya owe him for damages.”

She shrugged, unapologetic. “The curtains were ugly. I was tryin’ to burn a joint and the wind got involved. No one died, and now he can replace those shit-stain curtains.”

“Jesus, Cherri.”

“What?” she said, grinning wider. “Totally harmless compared to what I wanted to do.”

He rolled his eyes. “Where you at now?”

“Red Apple Hotel.”

Angel let out a low whistle. “The one that used to advertise as the Happiest Place in Vegas?”

“That’s the one.”

“Is that weird guy still runnin’ it? The short one, real hyper, always handed out rubber ducks with the room keys?”

“Nah, he’s still around, but keeps to himself. His daughter’s taken over. Sweet girl. Too friendly, though. Always askin’ how my day was or if I need anything. Pretty sure she thinks we’re friends.”

Angel arched a brow. “And that’s bad?”

“It’s suspicious,” Cherri said, tapping a nail against the table. “No one on the Row is that nice without wantin’ to sell you somethin’.”

Angel laughed and popped a fry into his mouth. “Anyone else interesting livin’ there?”

Cherri hesitated just long enough for him to notice. “There’s this guy. Kinda awkward. Keeps to himself mostly. Likes to juggle eggs.”

“Juggles eggs?” Angel echoed with curiously playful mockery.

“Shut it.” Cherri snapped, smiling. “He’s got a suitcase full of weird tools and half-busted clocks he’s always messin’ with. Probably thinks he’s inventin’ somethin’ important, but I think he just likes to keep busy.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“A little,” she said, too fast. “He’s weird, but he’s… I dunno. Not the wrong kind of weird. He’s got this whole ‘gee golly’ vibe, like he walked outta a black-and-white movie.”

Angel smirked. “Are you blushing right now?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Cherri said, chucking a fry at his face.

Angel dodged it with a laugh. “I’m just sayin’. It’s cute. You makin’ friends with a wholesome little nerd.”

“He’s not a friend,” she said quickly, then backpedaled. “I mean, he’s fine. But I ain’t exactly plannin’ a future with Mr. Snakeskin Boots.”

“Uh-huh,” Angel said, clearly not believing her.

She flipped him off and took another bite of her burger.

The laughter softened, giving way to a more careful silence. Cherri looked at him, her expression shifting. “So. You gonna tell me what happened? With the damages. With Val.”

Angel’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away. There wasn’t just one thing that happened with Val. It wasn’t that easy. Just a hundred nights of staring at the backpack in the closet, wondering if he should run—or stay. And there was no way in hell he was going to tell her he’d been locked up like a disobedient pet. Not now. Not when Val couldn’t use his safety to keep her in check anymore. She’d hunt him down. She’d get hurt.

“Just decided it was over,” he said, shuffling his fries around his plate. “Needed to get out fast, so I packed what I could and left while he was out.”

“That all?” she asked, knowing damn well it wasn’t. 

“It’s all I’m tellin’ you.” He forced a smile. “I’m fine, Cherri.” He leaned back into the booth. “Just gotta work off a little debt, then I’m leavin’ Vegas.”

“If you’re runnin’ from Vegas, then it’s not fine,” she said flatly.

Angel gave her a long look but didn’t confirm or deny. “It’s over now. I’m out and in one piece.” If he didn’t count a broken heart, it was the truth.

“So, this new job at the casino?” she asked, letting it drop. For now. If she pushed too hard, he’d pull away—and when Angel pulled away, he usually ran straight back to Val. “How’d ya land that?”

Angel laughed, sighed, and buried his face in his hands. “Got into a fight with some asshole who bailed before gettin’ his share of the blame. Husk agreed not to involve the cops as long as I work off the debt.”

“So what, he owns you now or somethin’?” she snapped. “He holdin’ that over you to make you work? ‘Cause I could get you outta Vegas.”

“No, nothin’ like that,” Angel said quickly. “It ain’t a bad deal. I get half of what I earn, somewhere to stay. I can save up, replace what I left at Val’s, and get outta here.” He shrugged. “Boss ain’t too hard on the eyes, either.”

Cherri leaned back, arms crossed. “Thinkin’ like that is how you got mixed up with Val.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “It’s not gonna be like that. He’s givin’ me a second chance. That's all.”

She didn’t argue. Just stared at him over her drink and said, “Alright. But if he so much as looks at you sideways, I’m feedin’ him his own eyeballs.”

Angel smiled faintly. “Fuck, I missed you.”

“Damn right you fuckin’ did.”

“Excuse me,” an older woman in a fox fur stole in the next booth snapped. “Can you two mind your damn language?”

They both burst into laughter. Angel slapped five dollars down on the table before they slid out of the booth and into the warm afternoon air. Just a dollar to his name—but somehow, he didn’t feel broke. He felt better than he had in a long time. 

“One dollar left,” he mused, flipping it between his fingers. “I left everything back at Val’s. Don’t even have a decent pair of heels.”

Cherri dug into her bag and pulled out a battered little cigarette tin. She popped the lid, thumbed through a tight stack of folded bills, and whistled. “Looks like it’s as good a time as any to dip into the emergency fund.”

Angel shook his head. “Cherri—”

“Nope.” She popped the P. “We’re celebrating, bitch. You got a new life to start livin’ and you’re doin’ it in style.” 

“I was just gonna make do—” 

“Fuck that. We’re goin’ shoppin’. Tonight.”

He stared at her. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly. You, me, and every thrift store between here and the Strip.”

Angel smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. “You’re a goddamn menace.”

“You love me for it.” She sang, already hooking her arm around his. 

“Yeah,” he said, softer than before. “I really do.”

They hit the first thrift store with the reckless energy of two teenagers with money to burn, cutting class to live large. Cherri kicked the door open with the heel of her boot and announced, “Let the chaos begin.” A handful of unamused faces turned toward them.

The store itself was older than most of the Row, heavy with the scents of air freshener and dust, its racks crammed so tight that moving between them required choreography. Angel took one look at the cluttered maze of worn sequins, threadbare flannel, and suspiciously stained denim—and grinned.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he laughed, already making a beeline for the pinkest things he could find.

Cherri dove in first, tossing clothes over her shoulder with the speed and confidence of someone who knew exactly what wasn’t worth a damn. Angel trailed behind, picking up a glittery cocktail dress, a denim jacket, and a bright pink cowboy hat he’d probably never wear—but refused to put back.

Cherri snorted when he tried it on. “You look like a drag queen in a spaghetti western.”

“So I look amazing,” he shot back, striking a pose. And yeah, he’d look real fucking cute all dolled up in that outfit. It was a keeper. Hell, maybe he would wear the hat. Maybe he’d wear it at the bus station when he finally left.

They hit two more thrift shops and a boutique tucked between a liquor store and a pawn shop. With every stop, the duffel bag Cherri brought grew heavier. Angel tried on everything from crushed velvet skirts to leather pants that squeaked when he walked. Most of it ended up right back on the racks, but that didn’t make it any less fun. And fun was what he needed today—carefree, dumb fun. The kind he hadn’t had in so long, he’d almost forgotten how good it felt.

To his own surprise—and Cherri’s—Angel found himself keeping more of the comfortable pieces they picked through. The kinds of things Val didn’t like. Things that weren’t enticing enough. Clothes that lived in the in-between. Cute blouses and loose T-shirts. Slouchy jeans. A flannel button-up that hung off his frame like a lover’s embrace.

He held that one in his hands longer than the rest.

“You keep starin’ at it like it’s special,” Cherri teased from behind a rack of belts. “Not really your style, though.”

He looked up and matched her smile, then gave a sheepish shrug. “Had one just like it when I left New York. Before—” He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.

Before Valentino. Before Angel Dust.

He tried the shirt on, running his hands over the sleeves, surprised by how right it felt. Like slipping into someone he used to know. Someone named Anthony.

Cherri watched him quietly for a beat, then nudged a pink-and-white collared blouse and a pair of black men’s walking shorts into the pile. “It’s good to have options,” she said, and left it at that.

Angel wasn’t sure why those five words made his heart flutter the way they did. But he felt like Cherri knew something he didn’t. Not yet. 

They stopped at a pharmacy next. Angel hesitated in the makeup aisle, fingers brushing over concealers and liquid liners. He didn’t grab the glitter this time. Just the basics—liner, mascara, a bit of rouge, and some gloss. A single, dark red tube of lipstick. Simple things. Small pieces of a puzzle that he’d learned to put together without needing to look at the picture on the box. Parts of the person he’d become over the years.

“I’ll pay you back,” he said for the fifth time as they checked out.

Cherri waved it off like it was lint. “You leavin’ that asshole’s worth every penny. Besides, I’m makin’ you carry this bag for the rest of the night.”

He rolled his eyes but smiled, taking the bag with gratitude as they made their way to the curb.

By the time the sun began to dip behind the Vegas skyline, casting rust and gold streaks across a sky glowing with neon, they were sitting on a bus bench with the bag between their feet, sipping cold sodas and comparing blisters.

“I think I walked a hole through my sock,” Angel said, wiggling his foot. “And I’m like eighty percent sure one of those dressing rooms had blood on the mirror.”

Cherri laughed and nudged his arm. “Yeah, but admit it—you had fun.”

Angel leaned back against the bench, watching the lights flicker on across the city. He thought of Val’s apartment—luxurious, sure, but all sharp corners and shadows. He thought of the flannel shirt, how it smelled like cedar and mothballs but felt like purpose and living. He thought of the lip gloss tucked in his pocket and how he didn’t have to wear it for anyone’s approval—only because he wanted to.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I did.”

“Night’s not over yet.” Cherri winked, hopping to her feet and stretching until her back cracked. “There’s a bar with our names playing on the jukebox somewhere.”

“Let’s do it,” Angel said, worn and weary, but not ready for the night to end. 

They ended the night at a dive bar called the Black Dot nestled between the Red Apple hotel and the Velvet Spade—a joint with an out of place, nautical theme that smelled like cigars and trouble. Fishing nets hung along the walls between tacky decorations, and most of the men seated at the booths wore cheap suits, grinning sharp and deadly like sharks. Neither of them paid much attention to the other patrons as they crossed over sticky wood floor, toes tapping in their boots to the jazz bleeding out from the old jukebox. 

“Real fancy. You bring all your hot dates here?” Angel hummed, a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

“Only the ones with taste,” Cherri shot back, sliding onto a barstool with a creak.

They pooled what little money they had left and managed two drinks—cheap gin and something that might’ve been tonic. The drinks were weak, but neither of them cared. They sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar, watching the haze thicken around them, sharing stories that felt like old records.

“Remember that one club on the Strip where I punched a guy for grabbing your ass?” Cherri asked, tipping her glass toward him.

“You broke his nose,” Angel said with a grin. “And then we got kicked out before last call.”

“Worth it.” Cherri laughed. “Not like you didn’t break a few fingers when some sleaze pulled the same stunt with me.” 

They laughed, loud and unfiltered, the kind of laughter that made the bartender look up and then quickly look away. They spoke with a bravado that assured no one would come anywhere near them. For a moment—just a moment—it felt like old times. Those distant nights after they’d met, when it was just the two of them, no boyfriends, just occasional hookups and the stories that followed. All they were missing was dancing, a couple hits and some better drinks. 

Angel sipped his drink slower now, his body finally starting to ache. He’d been feeling that awkward drag in his left leg for hours, silently cursing the stupidity of feeling a weight that wasn’t there anymore. He’d tried to hide it, conscious of it after Husk had noticed it that morning, but he wasn’t fooling Cherri. 

She reached into her pocket without a word and pulled out a slim little packet of coke, sliding it discreetly across the bar. “Just a bit to take the edge off?” she offered. Casual. Easy. Like they were still in that version of their lives where that was normal. Like it hadn’t almost swallowed him whole.

Angel stared at it. His fingers twitched, just once, and the silence between them grew taut. He thought about the flannel shirt. The new gloss in his pocket. The way today had felt like the first breath after being underwater. “No,” he said, voice low but steady. “Not feelin’ it tonight.” Maybe that was true, he wasn’t really sure. But he did know how hard getting clean had been after Val had stopped giving him his fix, and he didn’t want to start his new job shaking and drenched in sweat. 

Cherri didn’t argue. Didn’t press. She just nodded and slipped the packet into the bag without making a thing of it. “In case you change your mind,” she said, leaving the choice in his hands the way she always did. 

Angel didn’t say thank you, but he bumped his shoulder into hers, and she bumped him right back. The music played on. Something brassy and slow. And for the rest of the night, they stayed just like that—two punks in a shitty bar, sipping watered-down cocktails and watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling like it was dancing just for them.

By the time Anthony stepped through the Velvet Spade’s side entrance, the casino was alive with noise and boisterous excitement. The thrill of the game just before the dread of losing. The feel of chips or cards pressed into palms before those hands wrapped themselves around cheap drinks to fill the emptiness. The sound hit him first: slots chiming, dice clattering, drunken laughter ricocheting off walls. Every surface shimmered with filtered gold, cigarette haze, and that hollow glitz Vegas never ran out of. For a second, it almost passed for a proper casino on the Strip instead of a half-forgotten joint on the Row.

He moved through it all like a shadow—taking in the energy yet unable to feel it resonate within himself. Not yet at least. He wasn’t a guest, not quite an employee. Just something in between, a shadow cast in the glow of the people enjoying the casino and those working it. 

The staff hallway was quieter. A familiar kind of unknown. He padded through it with his duffel slung over one shoulder, careful not to step on the stain named Fred, the weight of the day tugging at more than his limbs. It had been a good day. The kind he hadn’t let himself hope for. And he’d known, even as it unfolded, that it had to end.

He let himself into his room and locked the door behind him.

Angel unpacked slowly–folded shirts and soft blouses into the middle drawer of the dresser, pants and skirts into the bottom. Clothes in colors that felt like him. That he’d chosen. Then he opened the drawer with his uniforms—someone else’s colors and cuts. Not wrong. Not right. Just a version of himself caught somewhere in the middle that he hadn’t fully made peace with yet.

In the bathroom, he lined up his toiletries by height in the cabinet. Lip gloss between the mascara and rouge. A new toothbrush set beside a hairbrush. The tarnished little hand mirror from the thrift store centered on the dresser, catching yellow lamplight like a twinkling star.

It wasn’t much. But it was his. His own things in a borrowed room. And that felt like something. 

He tried on the flannel again—the one that hung on his shoulders like a memory from someone else’s life. Then the shorts Cherri had picked, rolling them until they were nice and short. Unrolling them to let them hang a few inches above his knees. He spun once in the mirror. Not for anyone else. Just to see.

It struck him, standing there barefoot in the hush of the room, how strange it all was—how he could still be Angel Dust in a baggy flannel and no eyeliner. Or Anthony in short-shorts and lip gloss. There wasn’t really a line, just... layers. Layers that’d been shoved down, repackaged, sold, and renamed.

Val had liked him best when he sparkled. Val had liked him pretty as a pin-up. Val had loved Angel, or at least, the version of him he’d helped create. 

Anthony had been the start. The raw material. A boy with an attention catching presence and risky dreams, fresh out of Brooklyn and aiming for a neon heaven. And it’d been so easy for Valentino to wrap that boy in shady promises and unhindered love and turn him into something else. Someone they both wanted him to be. Val hadn’t wanted Anthony, not as he was, he wanted the fantasy. The femininity. The sellable sex appeal. And sometimes, not even that was enough. Val had always needed more—men who looked the part, women who had the pieces he didn’t. People who didn’t argue when he came home late, stinking of sweat and someone else’s perfume. 

Angel had loved being Angel. The performance. The way it felt right to be everything others considered wrong. The thrill when the blurred lines drawn with sex and drugs made sense—when the person on stage felt more real than the boy who started it all.

But here, stripped back to the quiet, surrounded by his own carefully placed things, it struck him how much of Anthony had been buried under silk and shame. The in-between had always been there. He just hadn’t wanted to see it.

For a moment he looked in the mirror. Not trying to choose between versions. Just looking to see who stared back. A little bit of Angel. A hint of Anthony. A person still carrying the weight of invisible chains, tethered by careful words and a promise he couldn't afford to break. 

The moment didn’t last long enough. Angel reached back into the duffel, feeling around until they brushed over the packet of coke. Not much. Just a taste. He stared at it for a long time, knuckles white. Palm starting to sweat. It would take the edge off. Quiet his thoughts and let him forget that phantom ache in his leg. Just one hit could blur the lines he’d been seeing all day. Just one line. 

But he knew better. Knew that for him, one was never just one.

He tucked it into the back of the drawer. Behind the shirts. Away from the mirror. Not gone, but not within reach.

Angel sat on the bed, legs crossed and stared at nothing for a while. Thought about what it meant to be free yet held by the terms of the contract he’d signed. He looked around his boring little room and thought about how it felt bigger than Val’s luxurious penthouse. 

Trapped in new ways. But breathing easier. Tomorrow, he’d wake up and be Angel until it was time for Anthony to go to work. He could be both. Or neither. Maybe just something in between, until he figured out who he was now that he was free to be whoever that was. 

For tonight though, he just let himself be.