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loves you. You can’t kill someone she loves. You just can’t.” If Eve loved him still, even a little, he couldn’t kill yet another person she loved.

2
    Frankentits
    L OLLIPOP’S W AS N O C ANDY S TORE . Sin and debauchery rolled off the place in waves. But it was upscale, if you considered low-scale a cardboard box and a flashlight. Beckett had dressed the part: jeans, combat boots, and a black T-shirt. He waited in line and kept his head down, paying his entrance fee like the rest of the slime with hard-ons. The bouncer reminded him of Mouse a bit. He wore jeans, a Lollipop T-shirt, and, absurdly, a bowtie. But when Beckett looked him in the face, he saw none of Mouse’s intelligence.
    Inside, the music was loud, the waitresses were topless, and mirrors reflected every bad choice the people inside made. Beckett slid onto a faux leather couch. He knew from experience that pleather was a great material. With just a few swipes it wiped clean of alcohol, jizz, and blood. Upscale.
    January. He waited for January in the middle of October. Two scumbags plopped themselves at a table in front of him, obscuring his view of the stage. Normally he would have removed them, protecting his personal space like a tiger with a kill. But not tonight.
    A waitress bounced up. Her welcoming body language and glittered skin couldn’t entirely offset her dead eyes. “Hello, handsome. What can I get you?”
    Beckett looked her up and down. The fluffy tulle skirt was meant to make her semi-nude body seem playful, but her nipples were too large, and he could easily see the scars from her last boob job even in the dim light.
    “Whiskey. Just bring me the bottle.” He turned his attention to the back of the scumbags’ heads.
    “Sorry, sir. We only sell it by the glass.”
    “Listen, dollface, you get me the fucking bottle, and I’ll tip you so big you can get those frankentits fixed and get your ass up on stage to make some real money.” He pointed at the offending mammaries with two fingers.
    Without a word, Frankentits disappeared into the throng of sweaty men.
    The spotlights began whizzing around the club, their operator careful not to focus on any particular patron’s face. Shortly, a partially dressed chick in a French maid’s costume began to prance around onstage, using her duster in a variety of crazy ways. Beckett looked around, but he’d seen it all before: the panting men trying to pretend they weren’t watching the girls, then getting too soused not to ogle.
    Frankentits arrived with his bottle, and he slid a wad of cash into her tutu. She scrambled off to count it in such a way that made him believe she would be shooting it up as soon as she could.
    French maid, nurse, naughty schoolteacher—every fantasy played out on the stage. As the time ticked by, Beckett tried not to picture Eve demeaning herself in front of these assholes. Would she be the dominatrix? Of course. He was going to grab her and get the fuck out of here before any man saw her. He would keep her covered. Still, he drank like it was his purpose in life. For some reason he had to.
    Finally the music rose to pounding, and the lights flickered on and off. Alternating strobe lights prepared for the big reveal. Beckett wished he was wrong, but as the club went pitch black, he knew he would see her. A spotlight cracked through the darkness, and at center stage, a black-leather-clad goddess stood with her back to the men. She cracked a whip with a flick of her wrist. She began to turn, and Beckett got to his feet, finishing the last guzzle of the whiskey.
    The two fools in front of him started moaning. “January. Oh man, my dick’s so hard. Just watch her work. Ah…”
    Beckett looked down at them and contemplated cracking their heads together like pool balls. He situated his hands behind their skulls. Then he realized they weren’t looking at the stage, but toward the bar. The dominatrix now turned to face the crowd, and she looked nothing like