Collaboration between myself and OverEasy...long time in the making, and this is just the first part. We'll be updating as we go. As always, comments, critiques and opinions are welcomed.
He could feel the heat from the fire, the heat that had only moments before licked at his flesh and his tux as he completed his final trick of the night. Shackled and bound, he had been raised above it, heels over head, dangling more than ten feet from the floor. His eyes burned from the smoke that had clouded his vision and seared his lungs. He rubbed his hands together a moment and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it. The flaming pyre was still raging, and the rope that had dangled him over it began its slow ascent to the rafters. After a moment to steady himself, he opened his eyes and flashed a grin to the audience, who held their own breaths in anticipation. He raised his hands, palms to the ceiling, in a flourish.
"Ladies and gents, the King of Hearts has done it again. He has defied death's embrace and proven once more than he is, without a doubt, the Suicide King," Daisy Butterfield said, the relief in her voice betraying the sensual smile on her lips. Calvin grinned wider as the audience cheered. His assistant and partner in crime exaggerated a motion to the audience, presenting Calvin to them, bending over slightly in a move that accentuated her shapely figure--her breasts to the audience and to Calvin a rather spectacular view of her ass. Her act was just that, for he had performed this trick dozens of times in practice. It was as dangerous as she said, no doubt, but to the King of Hearts, Calvin Huntington...it was just another day at the office.
The crowd continued to applaud and cheer as the curtain fell in front of Daisy and Calvin, wisps of smoke still trailing from his tuxedo. Smiling like a child that had just done something naughty, she laughed aloud. "Great show tonight, boss man." Daisy stretched her arms above her head, her barely there, glitter covered dress rising just above her buttock.
"Sure was," he mumbled, brushing at a black spot on his jacket and turning toward the stage door.
Daisy glanced up upon hearing the tone in his voice, "what's wrong?" She asked, a small tilt to her head and the slight compassion in her voice the only indicator that she cared at all.
"Hm?" He looked up, meeting her gaze with a movie-star grin. "Nothin' at all, Duke. Just feelin' the fire, is all."
She followed him backstage, to their dressing room. Her eyes narrowed and her hand went to her hip, that no-nonsense look he had grown to dread covering her features. "Did you get burned again, Calvin?"
"I was dropped fifteen feet into a towering inferno of pine wood. What do you think?" Came the smart reply.
Her brow creased together. "How badly?" she asked, hand still firmly on her hip.
"Bad's relative. Relative to my overall experience with pain? Maybe a two."
She shook her head with a sigh, even if was oozing puss with a gaping wound in his gut, he'd say the pain was a two. "Go sit and I'll get you bandaged up."
"You just wanna get my shirt off..." He muttered, plopping down into the chair in front of his mirror.
She came from behind him and pulled his shirt up over his head, enjoying the gasp of pain and the slight whimper that escaped his lips. "Sure, sugar, keep tellin' yourself that." When she saw the burn, though, she immediately regretted the amusement she felt. His flesh was an angry red, with large blisters already bubbling up across his shoulder.
"Ow! Don't touch it!" he cried out, flinching away at her touch.
She closed her eyes tightly. "I'm sorry, Cal, Didn' realize how bad it was. Lemme bandage you up?" Daisy moved away before waiting for his reply--he always let her bandage him up. She went immediately to the first aid kit she kept under the cabinet, clenching her fingers around the cold aluminum and silently cursing herself as she walked back to him. She dragged her own chair across the room, positioning it behind him before taking her spot atop it--just like she did every night. Once situated, she looked down at the little box before continuing. She didn't see Calvin's eyes following her through the mirror, nor the small smile that adorned his lips.
Her hands were steady and calm as she massaged ointment into his oozing blistered skin, trying to be as sensitive as she could. She applied the thick goopy salve in an even layer, carefully avoiding the areas that were looking the worst. She didn't want to touch them, she knew she had to. Sighing to herself she prepared to cause him more pain for the night. Finally, she worked her way into the center of the wound, her fingers working the calming cream into his skin as gently as possible. His brow creased in pain anyways, and he pulled away from her slightly, mumbling what sounded an awful lot like "Bitch" under his breath.
She put on her best smile, and glanced at him through the mirror."Oh hush, you big baby." she mock giggled, hoping to brighten his mood.
"Well it hurts, you sadistic woman!" He teased back, earning himself a genuine smile from her.
"Then maybe next time you shouldn' go showin' off and move a little faster. You leave it down to the last second! A half a second more and this little thing would be the last of your worries." Daisy grit her teeth as her fingers worked diligently over his wound. The burn was serious, but nothing life threatening. If he kept it clean and bandaged, it would heal nicely. That was a big if.
"Maybe, but what's the fun in escaping before I fall? It's so much funner to hear the audience scream." He winced slightly as she finished putting the last bit of tape in place.
"Oh yes, and I am the sadistic one. You're gonna go get yourself killed one of these days, and I tell you I am not scraping your dead body off that stage."
Henry grinned, enjoying himself far too much for his own good. “After they pull me out of the fire there won't be much left to scrape, darlin'"
"Yeah, and then my pretty ass is out of a job, so let's try to keep yours alive." Daisy flounced around the dressing room, the florescent lighting making her shimmering bleach blonde hair almost glow. The remains of the glitter from her costume making her fake-and-bake tanned skin iridescent.
"...I have a pretty ass?"
She laughed "Sure, darlin', you keep tellin' yourself that."
"You said it, not me."
"Well if yours is pretty, mine is god like." Her hand went to her hip, and she gave him a cocky grin. "Anyways, I really think you should see an actual doctor about this one, boss."
"Nah." He pulled a shirt over his head, "it'll be fine. I've been through worse. The road to success is paved with the blood of your mistakes, right?"
"Your mistakes are nightly, so where is all that glorious success?" She smirked.
"In my bank account."
"Yeah, how 'bout some of that gets transferred to mine one of these days?"
"It's not my fault you spend all your cash on makeup, kiddo. I pay you better than any other stripper in town."
She gasped. "I don't strip! My job is way harder than a stripper... I have to stand there and stuff." Her eyes met his in a death glare as she mumbled, "I don't strip..."
"And yet, I still pay you better than the strippers that actually do. Something is terribly wrong with me."
"You're a perv, you know that?"
"Keenly aware, thanks."
She hung her head and grumbled, "yeah, yeah, yeah. I should get paid double for putting up with your crap all day."
"You should. Unfortunately, double would mean that I get less money."
"Greedy bastard. If we're done here can I leave?" Daisy tapped her foot impatiently and looked at her nonexistent watch.
"You're the one that insisted on patching me up." He jumped off the chair with a little too much energy for someone that had once again almost lost their life that night.
"You were dribbling on the floor, boss, it doesn't do good things for business."
"Night, Duke." God, how she hated that nickname. As if her Southern twang and first name weren't bad enough, he had to relate her to that Godawful TV show.
She turned, crumpling the bandage wrapper into a ball and throwing it at him before stalking towards the door. When the crumbled wrapper hit her in the back of the head a second later, she ignored it entirely. Throwing things at a magician didn't usually end well, as he tended to catch them and send them back effortlessly. She was startled to see a man standing on the other side, wearing a tattered brown duster that hit his knee caps. His hair was tousled, his skin looked like cracked leather, and he had a scar that ran across his cheek down his neck. Daisy visibly gulped.
“You here to see Cal?” she asked quietly.
“Yeah, gotta talk to him.” The man didn’t look at her, so she just hurried past, hardly sparing a glance back at Calvin, he kept his own company, she didn’t need to question.
Calvin Huntington, the King of Hearts, rubbed his hands together, resisting the urge to crinkle his nose at the grimy sweat that accumulated in the lifelines of his palms. As a man so renowned world-wide for his death-defying escape acts and seemingly impossible feats of sleight of hand, the fact that he had sweaty palms was more disturbing than the fact that he had the business end of a shotgun jabbing into his lower back.
The man holding the shotgun was of no consequence; he was a lapdog, nothing more. He wouldn't pull the trigger unless his master said so. The balding man in front of Calvin, however, with the waistline of his fine suit straining and the eyes that had seen too much violence to be called human anymore...he was the one that put the sweat in Cal's palms. This man controlled much of the criminal underworld in Vegas, and even owned a few of the legitimate casinos in town. He was the Godfather of Las Vegas, a running joke that even he partook of. He was the man that decided whether or not Cal walked out of the room or was left face down in a pool of his own blood. Calvin didn't like that; usually it was him tempting his own fate.
“Ah, King!” The man's voice made him weak in the knees, and he wanted nothing more than to collapse to the—lush, always so lush—carpet beneath his Amadeo Testoni's. He blinked, instead. “Brilliant, brilliant show tonight! The thing with the shackles and the fire and the dangling? Instant classic!”
Calvin swallowed the massive lump in his throat. “Thanks—it's new,” he croaked more than said, for his mouth had gone utterly dry.
“I know! George was losing his mind when you stepped out of the fire.” George—Clooney, who else—was one of Daddy's regulars at his casinos.
“Didn't disappoint, I hope,” Cal said dryly, wiping his hands on his Georgio Armani pants.
Daddy waved the remark away and indicated with his hand the beautiful oak desk that sat between the two men. As he did so, Cal felt the muzzle of the shotgun leave his back as the crony stepped away from him, his cue to step forward. He pulled back the chair on his side of the desk and sat down, the cushion of the chair every bit as heavenly as the carpet he so admired.
Next comes the cognac, Cal thought, eying the crystal jug positioned carefully in the desk's left hand corner farthest from Daddy. Sure enough, the old man reached for the jug and the two glasses, overturning the latter and pouring a glass of the former for each of them. Calvin knew this act well, for it was as practiced as his own stage shows. He'd heard of it from many of Daddy's—former—associates.
“Now King,” Daddy said, sliding one of the glasses to Henry. “I need you to do something for me.” Cal's heart plummeted to his toes, but he took care to keep his shoulder square and his back straight; he would not give the sadistic bastard the pleasure of knowing he had no choice but to accept. When Daddy needed something done, you did it or you disappeared. Cal picked up the glass and swirled the cognac is slow circles at the bottom of the glass
“What can I do for you, boss?” Calvin asked, trying to keep it light.
“A number of my associates have started talking.” Daddy took a sip from his own glass. “Saying things that disturb me greatly. Saying I'm getting too old for this job, sayin' I need to appoint a successor or one will be appointed for me. That last one came from Victor Torelli himself, the industrious bastard.” Victor was Daddy's younger cousin, if Cal recalled correctly. Liked to gamble far too much, but usually came out on top, regardless. Never came to Calvin's shows.
Focus.
Calvin had no idea where his was coming from or where it was going; successor? Did the old man agree? Was he considering Calvin? Moron, of course not. He blinked to show he was still paying attention.
“I need you to kill the fuckers for me, King.”
Calvin's heart stopped and he quickly set the cognac down to keep from dropping it and ruining the carpet. It slowly dawned on him that he had angered Daddy somehow in the recent past, and this was his vengeance. He scrambled to come up with the source. Gambling debts? No, very minuscule and easily paid off. The crack about the mob during Tuesday's show? No, too petty—Hell, he'd laughed! No, Calvin had invited Daddy's wrath without ever knowing he was doing something wrong. He panicked.
“Kill—why—how—me?” Henry couldn't stop the stammers from escaping his lips—the thundering metronome in his temples was too loud, his chest too tight, for him to control his tongue. Panic was an emotion the talented magician was not familiar with.
Daddy smiled—he smiled! “Yes, you. After all, who better to take care of my unfinished business than the guy that's been fucking my sister's kid?” Now Calvin had to grip the table to stop from falling from his chair. His world-renowned confidence had failed him completely. “Darla is your--”
“My niece, yes.”
“--But I didn't know—I couldn't have known!” And in truth, he hadn't. Cal and Darla had only gone out three times, neither of them really looking for anything more than some fun.
“Yeah, Darla never wanted anything to do with me. Said I was too shady, too cruel. Smart girl.”
Calvin remained silent, for he didn't trust himself.
“Doesn't matter now. She's dead.” Cal froze. His eyes narrowed, and his fingers held fast to the polished oak of the desk.
“She's dead,” Daddy repeated. “After your hot date last night, after you fucked her silly in her bed and kissed her sweet lips good night, some bastard, working for that scumbag Torelli, broke into her house and put a bullet right in her head. The bastard followed you, King.”
“Darla's dead?” Cal felt a pang of guilt, but he knew that this was all just a front to con him into doing Daddy's dirty work. His shoulder's slumped, regardless, and his eyes drifted to the floor.
“And you're gonna avenge her for me, Calvin. You'll do it, or Vegas will be missing their Suicide King—who'll live up to his name in a rather messy fashion.”
Cal's eyes shot up to meet Daddy's. “Don't threaten me,” he whispered. “I know what the consequences are for disobeying the great 'Godfather of Vegas.' Just tell me what you want done, you fuckin' gummer.”
Daddy's eyes widened slightly in as much of a surprised look as Cal had ever seen from him. “King's got a backbone? Never would have imagined,” he said.
Calvin smiled, his eyebrows still narrowed. “Comes from cheating death on a daily basis.”
“I bet.” Daddy opened his mouth to say more, but Cal cut him off with an upraised hand.
"Fuck you. Get on with it."
It makes it really hard to review, but I will anyway! 
I think you can drop the "away" in this, dearie, because it's kind of... deadwood. 
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