Chapter Text
Chloe Decker has chased leads in some of the worst places Los Angeles has to offer—moldy basements, dark creepy alleys, sketchy roadside motel rooms with questionable stains on the beds...and walls. But a high-end nightclub in West Hollywood...this is a new one even for her.
When she arrived, she vaguely recognized the building. She’d been here five years ago, back when this had been an underground fight club, and she was investigating the death of an MMA fighter who was supposedly mugged. Solving that case had gone a long way to earning her detective badge—the very badge she’s trying to save now.
Three days ago, she was called into Lt. Monroe’s office and told in no uncertain terms that she has three weeks to solve the Palmetto case and prove Malcolm Graham was corrupt or close the investigation for good. If she doesn’t, she loses her badge and she’s off the force. Apparently, the scrutiny the Homicide department has been put under is painting the LAPD in a bad light, and the brass wants resolution—or Chloe out of the precinct. No amount of debating will change their mind. No amount of ‘how is this any different from any other unsolved case?’ got her anywhere.
The difference is, there’s a cop in a coma on life support, a family who is angry and grieving, and the press is having a field day. Some outlets are running with the ‘former B-movie actress-turned-cop gone rogue’ angle. Others are painting Malcolm as a hero and Chloe as the villain—a lot like the department itself. A few think Chloe is on the right track. But the point is, the brass is over it, and they have Chloe’s head on the chopping block.
When she left the lieutenant’s office, most of the bullpen was watching her with cruel smirks, probably waiting for her inevitable breakdown. Chloe didn’t give them the satisfaction. She managed to hold it together until she made it to the one women’s bathroom with a lockable door to fall apart. Afterwards, Dan was waiting nearby. Chloe had hoped her husband, despite their separation, would rally in support for her.
She really should have known better.
“You want my advice?” he’d said when they went for a coffee to talk. “Let it go. Walk away before they push you. Don’t ruin your entire career over this, Chlo.”
Translation: He thinks she’s already ruined her career, but he doesn’t want her to actually lose her job. Or worse, take him down with her.
Chloe is on her own with this, as she has been since she started quietly investigating Malcolm for corruption in the first place. As badly as she doesn’t want to lose her badge, she also doesn’t want to give up on this, because she knows she’s right. Somewhere there is evidence. Somewhere, someone knows something. She just needs to find the smoking gun—preferably literally, and the person who shot that gun would be the icing on the cake.
Whatever it takes, she won’t walk away from this. She’s never walked away from the truth, and she isn’t going to start now. Not even if it means the career she’s worked so hard for.
She spent the last three days going over every piece of evidence she’s accumulated. Every file. Every crime scene photo. Every note she has ever taken. She returned to the abandoned gym on Palmetto Street and went over the tracks of everybody present...and found nothing.
Well, maybe not nothing.
When she started asking around, trying to find some angle no one else has seen, she ran into an old CI named Ricky Ybarra. He was twitchy and paranoid as ever as he leaned in close, smelling like old shoe leather and skunk weed, and whispered, “You want to see the impossible done? You talk to the Devil.”
Chloe thought he was joking—or stoned out of his gourd—until she’d gotten a name.
Lucifer Morningstar.
The guy who owns L.A.’s premier party hotspot. British, with an odd reputation of knowing everybody worth knowing, and being owed by the most powerful people (and criminals) in the city. According to Ricky, he’s a man who can make things happen. Paperwork magically disappears as if it never existed. Criminal charges are mysteriously dropped no matter the proof. Secrets are unraveled like cheap thread.
And it never costs a dime. It’s always...something else owed in return.
A favor for a favor.
That night, Chloe googled Lucifer Morningstar—and laughed. There were pages upon pages about him. Photos of him at red carpet events with Hollywood’s most elite, or at high society engagements. With politicians and musicians. He even has his own Wikipedia page. The rumors about him are wild and outrageous—everything from ‘he’s the best lay I ever had’ to ‘the Devil walks the Earth—repent, sinners!’ He walks around claiming he’s the Devil—the literal, actual Devil. Like, from Hell. And apparently, he really does deal in favors—some say for one in return, others say for your soul.
Which...whatever. Chloe never believed in magic or the Devil or even destiny. Hell, she stopped believing in Santa Claus when she was five years old. What she does believe in is facts, evidence, and bad decisions that lead people to ending up in handcuffs. She believes in justice and fairness.
But she also believes she’s out of time. And if putting up with a nightclub owning playboy who thinks he’s the Devil helps save her badge—if he can help her find even one lead on Palmetto that she hasn’t sniffed out yet...
Walking into Lux now, it isn’t what she expected. Not that she knew what to expect from a nightclub owned by a guy who thinks he’s the Devil—whips and chains? Everything bathed in palettes of red? Fire and damnation? But the place is actually classy—definitely upscale, but not ostentatious or gaudy. The lights are dim but warm—bulbs fill the ceiling and the mirrors along the wall give off an effect like a sky full of stars. The music is loud, but not enough to make her bones shake. And she’s pretty sure she saw a piano in the middle of the dance floor. The only sign identifying the club name is along the far wall: LUX, made up of individual lightbulbs.
It’s early enough in the evening, on a weeknight, that it isn’t crowded, but there are still plenty of people drinking or dancing or flirting. She stops at the railing overlooking everything, scanning the club for the so-called Devil. The floor is sectioned with the bar on the right, a smattering of high-top tables, and long leather couches, booths, and banquettes spread around. The other half is the dance floor—and yep, that's definitely a piano. There's something you don't see in most nightclubs. When she doesn’t see Morningstar immediately, she makes her way down the stairs to the bar and orders a drink. Not for her nerves; to fit in.
But maybe she is a little nervous. She’s hinging her entire livelihood on the hope that a stranger might be able to help her find a lead in a case. Her reputation is already in tatters; the badge is all she has left. If she doesn’t solve this case in two and a half weeks, she’ll either have to give up her pride or her dream job.
What’s worse, she isn’t sure which it’ll be.
When the bartender, a blond man with tattoos covering his arms and a mohawk, returns with her rum and coke, she stops him before he can move onto the next customer. “Can you tell me where I can find Lucifer Morningstar?” she asks over the music.
He gives her a knowing look and smirks. “He’ll be at the piano in about,” he checks his watch, “two minutes. Good luck.” With a suggestive wink, he moves on, leaving Chloe blinking.
Shaking her head, she grabs her drink and winds her way through the crowd as the music begins to fade away and the lighting changes, turning dimmer as a spotlight appears in the middle of the floor. With a raised eyebrow, she moves closer, stopping at the railing as a man sips from a crystal tumbler at the piano. His hair is perfectly styled, his black three-piece suit is crisp and looks to have been made for him—and probably was. Dark, glittering eyes scan the crowd as he sips amber-colored liquor, then sets the glass down beside a crystal ashtray with a recently lit cigarette burning.
Lucifer Morningstar. She recognizes him from the Google searches. Admittedly, he’s even more handsome in person than in photos, which is saying something. But she isn’t here to admire the scenery.
Get what you need, and get out of here, she reminds herself.
Lucifer’s hands rest on the keys for a moment, eyes still checking the crowd like he’s making sure all the attention is on him. His gaze finds Chloe and stops for a second longer, though she can’t read the expression in them—amusement? Mischief? With a smirk, he starts playing.
At first, it’s subtle. Just a few low notes that fill the space with a lazy rhythm. Then the chords, played slowly and deliberately. Chloe recognizes the song immediately—You Can’t Always Get What You Want by The Rolling Stones. The way Lucifer’s fingers move across the keys, it’s like the piano is an extension of him. Every touch is precise, and he never once looks to see what he’s doing, as if he’s practiced it so many times he could do it in his sleep. Or maybe he’s just that good.
Who knew the Devil could play piano?
Chloe feels her lips twitch involuntarily, her drink halfway raised. No way is she about to be impressed by...whatever this is.
Then he starts to sing. And...okay, he has a really nice voice, low and rich and smooth. But the smug little smirk on his face, like he knows exactly how good he is and how good he looks doing it, ruins it a bit. Chloe can practically feel the self-satisfaction rolling off him from here. Every eye in the club is on him, transfixed, as if he cast some sort of spell on them, and he’s soaking it all up like a devilishly handsome sponge.
She barely notices when her foot starts to tap along with the music, or when she starts singing the lyrics in her mind. She scowls when she does notice—damn it.
The thing is, despite the smug little smirk, Lucifer isn’t playing in any sort of flashy or over-the-top way; this just seems like something he genuinely enjoys doing—performing, playing piano, being the center of attention. It’s slow, a little playful, with just a dash of irony that makes the whole thing...almost charming. Like he doesn’t take any of it seriously, and doesn’t want anyone else to, either.
The more he plays, the more she can’t make herself look away. The way his fingers effortlessly dance and glide over the keys, like he’s coaxing the music to make it something intimate. As much as she wants to laugh it off or roll her eyes, to be done with this so she can go home, she finds she’s captivated. There’s just something about the way he plays, the way he owns the space and the crowd around him, that makes it impossible to write any of it off some sort of joke.
When he hits the chorus, his low, soft voice seems to have everyone holding their collective breath, but he looks like he’s forgotten there’s a crowd at all. Like he’s lost in the music and couldn’t be happier about it.
“You can’t always get what you want
But if you try sometimes
You just might find
You get what you need...”
Chloe glances around at the crowd. Not one person is laughing. No one seems to think a piano in a nightclub is out of place. They’re all watching Lucifer, hanging on every note, every lyric. Even she is starting to think it isn’t all that ridiculous.
Despite the lyrics resonating with the reason she’s here, she doesn’t allow herself to fall completely under his thrall. This isn’t what she’s here for, and yet, she can’t seem to take her eyes off him. Sipping her drink, she hardens her resolve—she’s here for a favor, to save her career. Nothing more or less.
Definitely not here to watch some showoff nightclub owner perform for his legion of fans.
Still...her gaze turns back to his fingers, continuing to move across the piano keys, perfectly at ease in his own world and weaving a spell she refuses to admit she might be falling under.
The song comes to a flourishing end, and just like that, the spell is broken. Around her, the crowd bursts into thunderous applause with Chloe reluctantly joining in—just a couple quiet claps. Because it actually was a decent performance. The man at the piano is soaking up the accolades with a smugness that nearly has Chloe reconsidering this entire situation. But she reminds herself she’s nearly out of time and completely out of other leads.
As she approaches, Lucifer Morningstar doesn’t rise to greet her, or even lift his gaze as he reaches for his crystal tumbler. Of course he doesn’t. Instead, he sets down the glass and ghosts his fingers over the piano keys again as the club music switches back on. When she’s close enough, his eyes dart over and give her a once-over that’s slow, deliberate, and borderline obscene.
“Hmm... Well, if I’d known my next appointment would be quite so...compelling, I’d have worn something tighter,” he says, his voice a low purr.
Chloe raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Lucifer Morningstar?”
“The one and only, darling,” he says with what she suspects is meant to be a charming grin as his hands finally fall away from the keys. He folds his hands into his lap, head tilted and eyes shamelessly raking her over. “And who might you be? No, no, let me guess,” he adds when she starts to answer. “Judging by your attire, which is outside Lux dress code, by the way—but don’t worry, I’ll allow it—”
She rolls her eyes so hard it actually gives her a slight headache. Or maybe that’s him.
“I’d say...cop? No! Detective. Definitely a detective. You’ve got that,” he waves at her vaguely, “tense, morally-conflicted posture about you.”
Her jaw tenses. “Detective Chloe Decker,” she says coldly. “I’m not here to play games. I heard you grant favors.”
“Ooh, is this a shakedown? I love those! But perhaps we could skip the theatrics and jump straight into...what is it you desire, Detective Chloe Decker?” He holds her gaze with the intense look of someone who’s about to either rip off her clothes or eat her alive—or both.
“Do you always start deals with that question? It’s a bit cheesy.”
Lucifer blinks. “Cheesy?” he says, outraged. “I’ll have you know—hang on.” He furrows his eyebrows, studying her closely. “How did that not work?” She isn’t sure if the question is directed towards her or himself. Then he grins again. “Oh, you must be one of the complicated ones. Lovely!”
And the regrets just keep piling up. “Look, I’m not here for...whatever-this-is. The favor thing—is it true or not?”
“You know, I must say, most people don’t lead with asking for a favor. They usually start with drinks, or a bit of flattery and flirtation...the gentle slide into seduction. Were you dropped on your head as a child?”
Closing her eyes, she takes a breath, searching for patience she doesn’t have. “I’m not here for seduction,” she says through gritted teeth.
He looks at her with twinkling eyes, like he’s having the time of his life right now. “Oh, well, that’s all right,” he murmurs, smirking. “We’ll get there in the end, they always do. But for now, the fact of the matter is, you are here, Detective. Which means something imperative has brought you to my doorstep.” He taps his chin in thought. “What might that be, I wonder? Usually, it’s a spot of bother, or a smidge of existential desperation. With you, though...mid-career crisis? You certainly wouldn’t be the first woman to seek out the Devil when she’s run out of options.”
Chloe struggles not to facepalm. Or strangle him—too many witnesses. “Are you for real?”
“Completely,” he purrs, smirking. “Want to come closer, explore for yourself?”
“No.”
He actually looks taken aback. “Are you for real?” he counters seriously.
Taking a long sip of her drink, Chloe counts to ten in her head, reminding herself why she’s here. “Look. I’m not here for...this,” she says again, setting down her glass with a bit too much force on the nearest table. “I need information. Or a lead. There’s a case I’ve been working for months that might get me kicked off the force if I can’t close it in the next two and a half weeks. And rumor has it, you’re a guy who can make things happen, who can pull strings. Get people to talk. So unless that’s all club lore and bullshit—”
“Careful, darling,” he says lightly, still grinning. “You’re dangerously close to besmirching my reputation.”
Chloe narrows her eyes in a glare. She isn’t sure this was worth the gas it took to get here. “Look, are you going to help me, or should I just finish my watered-down, overpriced drink and go?”
For a moment, he just looks at her as if she’s the oddity in the room. Then he slowly gets to his feet, smoothing down the front of his white shirt in a way that annoys her just from watching. He steps around the piano and approaches, each step precise and theatrically restrained.
“You are a fascinating little creature, aren’t you?” he murmurs, sizing her up. “Angry, cornered, pretending not to be desperate. But I do find myself wondering, why come to me? You seem the rule-abiding type who wouldn’t know fun if it sat in her lap.” He leans in, just enough to make her bristle, but not enough to make her uncomfortable. “Unless, of course, you’ve already tried everything else?”
“I told you, I heard you make deals, grant favors,” she repeats.
“Oh, I do. When it suits me,” he confirms. “But you should know, a deal with the Devil always has its price and is not to be entered into lightly.”
Uneasiness creeps over her at his words, spoken like a warning. “What sort of price?”
“Usually a favor for a favor. Tit for tat. Quid pro quo,” he says, rolling his hand in an et cetera gesture. “Sometimes to be named later, if I don’t have something in mind already. Not your soul, if that’s what you’re worried about, Detective. Souls are so...thirteenth century. And utterly useless as currency.”
“So...an IOU?” she says without flinching, though admittedly with the way he’s looking at her, it takes effort. “You help me, I owe you one. Something legal.”
The bastard actually laughs, tossing his head back in genuine amusement. “Oh, I like you,” he purrs, and it sounds like he means it. “Are you sure you want to owe the Devil a favor, though? I’ve been known to be terribly unpredictable.”
“I’ll take my chances,” she says dryly. But her voice feels tighter now, an edge creeping in that even she can hear. He’s exhausting and infuriating, and it’s only been five minutes.
Also...he isn’t at all what she was expecting.
Lucifer tilts his head again, studying her more intently. The playful glint in his eyes is fading just a little. “You’re serious?”
“Of course I’m serious.”
He takes a step back, leaning against the piano and crossing his arms. She doesn’t notice the way his tailored suit tightens around him—really, she doesn’t... “Well, then, I’d say you’ve got my attention.”
Chloe blinks. Surely it can’t be that easy?
“Now, I can’t promise anything,” he adds. “I don’t lie, and I can’t say I know a thing about this case of yours. I’m no crime-solving Devil. But I do enjoy a good puzzle. And I do so hate watching interesting women get crushed by boring, male-dominated systems.”
She opens her mouth to argue that she isn’t interesting, she’s desperate, but he’s already turning away from her.
“Come back tomorrow,” he says over his shoulder as he slides back onto the piano bench with impossible grace. “Midday. We’ll talk logistics then.”
She blinks. “Wait, that’s it?”
He’s playing again, something slow and sweet that she doesn’t recognize, and doesn’t look at her as he says, “For now. Unless you’re in the mood to stay and let me guess your safeword.”
Her fingers curl with the need to strangle him, but she resists again—barely. Turning on her heel, she doesn’t doesn’t storm out or even growl under her breath. She walks calmly—well, evenly—while ignoring the throb in her temple and the infuriating voice echoing in her head.
The guy is a complete joke. A narcissistic weirdo with a piano fetish and a God complex. Not to mention a grade-A asshole. Don’t give him what he wants.
But she only makes it to the stairs before she pauses, feeling her pride caving beneath the weight of practicality. She needs this favor, needs a lead that will pan out, and she’s convinced that if she can find even the smallest piece of evidence, everything else will unfold. What she isn’t convinced of is that Lucifer Morningstar is what he says he says—not the Devil, that stuff isn’t real. But some sort of favor genie. The problem is, she really is at the end of her rope...and she’s quickly losing her grip.
Cursing under her breath, she turns around with the sort of tightly coiled energy that warns people to get the hell out of her way. The only person who doesn’t seem to heed that warning is Lucifer himself, who doesn’t even flinch as she stalks back across the club floor. Even over the music, she can hear the click of her black-heeled boots on the polished marble, her anger bottled just enough to keep it from spilling out.
“I know you said come back tomorrow,” she says, stopping a few feet from the piano. “But I’m here now, and I don’t like wasting time.” Even if she had time to waste.
His fingers still on the keys, mid-chord, and he turns his head to give her a look that’s equal parts curiosity and mischief. A look that can mean nothing good. “And here I thought you were storming off in a huff. You’ve quite a lovely...huff, by the way.” He smirks. She scowls. “All righteous fire and tight...shoulders.”
Chloe ignores...all of that. “Look, I’m not leaving until you give me something. I don’t care if it’s a name or a rumor or a scribbled phone number on a cocktail napkin—just...something.”
Lucifer narrows his eyes just slightly. Not in a hostile way, but more curious. Calculating. Maybe he hears the desperation edging her tone. Or maybe he’s just bored. “All right. And what case is it that you’re trying to solve, anyway? Or am I meant to guess that as well?”
She hesitates. Simply saying the name feels like pulling scabs off old wounds, but she forces it out anyway. “Palmetto.”
He blinks at her. Just once. “Is that a fruit?”
She huffs and gives him a flat look.
“No?” He leans forward on the bench, elbows resting on the edge of the piano as he watches her with something dangerously close to genuine interest. “Ah, it’s a case. Quite the messy one, I presume?”
“You could say that,” she mutters, crossing her arms. “A cop got shot. He was meeting with a drug trafficker and things went sideways. I’d been investigating him for corruption up until then, and after that, it blew up. Now I’m being pushed out, and I have nothing to go on. If I don’t find something soon, make real progress, then I’m done.”
“And here you are,” he says, standing again. He moves closer this time, not exactly invading her space, but like he has no sense of personal space at all. “You, a woman who clearly despises every second of this, have walked into my den of sin and desire to ask me for a favor. Tell me, Chloe—may I call you Chloe?”
“No.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Detective, then,” he says without pause. “What exactly do you think I can do for you?”
Sizing him up in return, she lifts her chin defiantly. “I think you have connections, the kind that don’t talk to cops. I think you know people who know things. And I think maybe you don’t play by the rules the way I do.”
Lucifer gives her a slow smile, clearly pleased by her assessment. “Well, you’re not wrong about that.”
She shrugs. “So, are you going to help or just keep circling like a smug little shark?”
The smile grows toothy, his eyes dancing. “Oh, Detective, I can assure you, there is nothing little about me. And I am very good at circling.”
Rolling her eyes, she turns as if she’s about to walk away, but his voice catches her mid-step.
“You fascinate me, you know.”
She doesn’t look back at him. “Why? Because I’m not falling all over myself to sleep with you?”
“That’s part of it,” he confirms. “You’re not intimidated or even interested. You’re...skeptical, and that is so very rare these days. Rarer than you know. Makes a Devil wonder what it would take to shake those delicate sensibilities of yours.”
“Try offering real help. That’d be a great start.”
Chloe waits, not turning or speaking. She knows men like him, and nothing irritates them more than a woman who doesn’t fall for their charms. It’s more than that, though—at least, she thinks so. There’s something in his eyes that seems genuinely intrigued by her, something more than the fact that she refuses to sleep with him. Like she’s a mystery to be solved.
After a brief pause, he all but confirms that theory. “Very well. Consider me intrigued enough to assist. I’ll poke around, see if any of my less...savory contacts have heard murmurs of this Palmetto affair of yours.”
She turns back, eyebrows raised. “Really?”
“Really.” When he steps closer this time, his expression softens just a touch. “On one condition.”
Her stomach drops. “Here we go,” she mutters to herself.
He holds out his hand, his gaze turning far more serious than she’s seen it during this conversation. “As I said before, a favor for a favor—an IOU, if you like. To be named later. Nothing illegal or untoward, you have my word. When the time comes, of course.”
She stares from his hand to him. “That’s the deal?”
“That’s the deal. And before you shake, just know that deals with the Devil are binding. No backing out, no subterfuge, no evading. I assure you, you won’t like the consequences.”
Chloe blinks. Was that a threat? She genuinely doesn’t know; it sounded more like a warning, like he was trying to scare her off and change her mind. But this is what she came here for, and despite his...weirdness, despite her reservations, she does need help.
“Fine,” she says quietly. “You’ve got a deal.”
He wiggles his fingers, raising his eyebrows.
With a sigh, she places her hand in his, ignoring the way her stomach tightens and an odd tremor runs up her arm. Long, strong fingers wrap around her hand as he gently shakes it, but instead of releasing her immediately, he lifts her hand to his lips, warm breath brushing over her skin, and kisses the back. Another jolt, this one barely noticeable, almost like a static charge passes between them.
Her eyebrows furrow, but he just smiles at her. “Deal, Detective,” he murmurs, releasing her hand.
Swallowing, she flexes her fingers to rid herself of the tingle in her palm. She steps back, needing air and distance, needing to leave before she regrets everything. “I’ll, um, be in touch,” she mutters, turning away without awaiting a response.
“I look forward to it,” he says to himself, under his breath.
Chloe doesn’t look back as she pushes through the crowd. She can feel his gaze on her the entire way, and has to force herself not to speed up or take the stairs two at a time. Unwillingly, at the top, her eyes drift back to the piano, finding he’s still watching her. She can see the curiosity from here. The next time she looks, right before she leaves the club, his attention has wavered to a beautiful brunette with mile-long legs.
Shaking herself, she continues out, not stopping until she’s in her car again. “What the hell did I just do...?” she mutters to herself, staring at nothing.
After a few moments, she leaves. She has some research to do.