The King
Page 37
“Kingsley, I believe your ex-girlfriend, current submissive is attempting to tell you your bartender is a lesbian.”
“Why are you in my office?” Kingsley demanded.
“You summoned me,” Søren reminded him.
“When did you start doing what I asked you to do?”
“I promise, it won’t happen again,” Søren said, standing up. “If you have no further need of me in your divinely inspired quest to build the largest kink club in the world, I have a homily to write.”
“Go,” Kingsley said. “You’ve done enough. You—” he pointed at Blaise “—you don’t leave the house. I’ll be back in a few hours, and your presence will be required in my bed.”
“Where are you going?” Blaise asked as Kingsley grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and headed for the door.
“The Möbius,” Kingsley said. “I have a lesbian bartender to seduce.”
13
KINGSLEY ENTERED THE Möbius through the front door, not the back like he usually did. He wanted to be inconspicuous, and entering through the employees-only door would compromise his anonymity. He’d pulled his neck-length hair back into a ponytail, and instead of a suit he wore jeans, a black T-shirt and black jacket. The stage flashed with red lights and female flesh, but he kept his eye on the bar.
He didn’t see her at first. No one worked the bar tonight except for a slim young man with short shaggy hair. Once seated on a stool, Kingsley saw how mistaken he’d been. The young man was a young woman. She had a woman’s delicate features, smooth skin, high cheekbones and straight small nose. But she was dressed like a man. She wore straight-leg pinstriped trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and a pinstriped vest. It even appeared she had spats on her shoes.
“What can I get you?” the woman asked as she placed a napkin on the counter in front of him.
“Information,” Kingsley said, suppressing his French accent. It would give away his identity immediately.
“Information? I don’t serve that here,” she said with a tight smile.
“Just on your clothes. Where did you get the suit?”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“You want to know where I got my suit?”
“I like your suit,” he said simply.
“Are you insinuating something?”
“Only that I like your suit.” Kingsley could see Sam was already on the defensive. No doubt she’d fielded her fair share of unpleasant inquiries about her clothes, hair, gender and orientation more than once in her life.
“I have a tailor,” she said. “And you have to order something if you’re going to sit at the bar.”
“A bottle of champagne.”
“A whole bottle? Are you celebrating something?”
“Not yet, but I plan to,” Kingsley said.
“Then congrats on your future whatever,” she said, and pulled a bottle from the wine refrigerator under the bar. “Sixty for the bottle.”
He put a hundred down on the counter and told her to keep the change. She looked at the bill with suspicion.
“You from out of town?” she asked.
“You could say that.”
“Well, here in New York, the standard tip is a dollar a drink.”
“I bought the whole bottle.”
“That’s six drinks. Six dollars.”
“I’m not usually this generous. You should take the money.”
“I don’t take advantage of drunk guys.”
“I’m sober.”
“I don’t take advantage of them, either.”
“You have integrity.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sam said.
“It’s inconvenient, but I won’t hold it against you.”
“You’re too kind,” she said. “So, where are you from? You look Greek, but you don’t sound it.”
“I’m—”
“Sam? We’re low on ice.” The club manager, Mack, leaned over the bar. Before Mack could see him, Kingsley pulled back out of the light, hiding from view. “Get your shit together.”
“We have plenty of ice.”
“Go grab a forty-pound bag.”
“That’s twice as much as we need for the night.”
“You want to play like you’re a man, then you can carry a big fucking bag of ice like a man.”
“Fine. Happy to.” Sam put on a stunningly fake smile and walked into the back. She returned a few seconds later carrying a large bag of ice.
“Good boy,” Mack said to her as she ripped open the top of the bag and poured ice into the cooler. “I’d say there’s a man in that suit after all, but I’m guessing you’ve never had a man in any part of you.”
Sam grabbed the ice pick from under the counter. Mack’s eyes widened momentarily. Sam smiled again and jabbed at the ice to break up the clumps.
“Jesus, why did you make me hire her again, Duke?” Mack asked the other bartender. “Her? Him? It?”
“Shove it, Mack. She’s the best bartender in the city,” Duke said as he loaded up a tray with drinks.
“The Duke and the Dyke. What a pair. I miss Jason.”
“All the girls hated Jason,” Duke said.
“I liked Jason.”
“Jason was a sexually harassing prick who treated the girls like shit,” Sam said. “Holly was about ready to file a lawsuit from what she told me.”
“Why are you in my office?” Kingsley demanded.
“You summoned me,” Søren reminded him.
“When did you start doing what I asked you to do?”
“I promise, it won’t happen again,” Søren said, standing up. “If you have no further need of me in your divinely inspired quest to build the largest kink club in the world, I have a homily to write.”
“Go,” Kingsley said. “You’ve done enough. You—” he pointed at Blaise “—you don’t leave the house. I’ll be back in a few hours, and your presence will be required in my bed.”
“Where are you going?” Blaise asked as Kingsley grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and headed for the door.
“The Möbius,” Kingsley said. “I have a lesbian bartender to seduce.”
13
KINGSLEY ENTERED THE Möbius through the front door, not the back like he usually did. He wanted to be inconspicuous, and entering through the employees-only door would compromise his anonymity. He’d pulled his neck-length hair back into a ponytail, and instead of a suit he wore jeans, a black T-shirt and black jacket. The stage flashed with red lights and female flesh, but he kept his eye on the bar.
He didn’t see her at first. No one worked the bar tonight except for a slim young man with short shaggy hair. Once seated on a stool, Kingsley saw how mistaken he’d been. The young man was a young woman. She had a woman’s delicate features, smooth skin, high cheekbones and straight small nose. But she was dressed like a man. She wore straight-leg pinstriped trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and a pinstriped vest. It even appeared she had spats on her shoes.
“What can I get you?” the woman asked as she placed a napkin on the counter in front of him.
“Information,” Kingsley said, suppressing his French accent. It would give away his identity immediately.
“Information? I don’t serve that here,” she said with a tight smile.
“Just on your clothes. Where did you get the suit?”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
“You want to know where I got my suit?”
“I like your suit,” he said simply.
“Are you insinuating something?”
“Only that I like your suit.” Kingsley could see Sam was already on the defensive. No doubt she’d fielded her fair share of unpleasant inquiries about her clothes, hair, gender and orientation more than once in her life.
“I have a tailor,” she said. “And you have to order something if you’re going to sit at the bar.”
“A bottle of champagne.”
“A whole bottle? Are you celebrating something?”
“Not yet, but I plan to,” Kingsley said.
“Then congrats on your future whatever,” she said, and pulled a bottle from the wine refrigerator under the bar. “Sixty for the bottle.”
He put a hundred down on the counter and told her to keep the change. She looked at the bill with suspicion.
“You from out of town?” she asked.
“You could say that.”
“Well, here in New York, the standard tip is a dollar a drink.”
“I bought the whole bottle.”
“That’s six drinks. Six dollars.”
“I’m not usually this generous. You should take the money.”
“I don’t take advantage of drunk guys.”
“I’m sober.”
“I don’t take advantage of them, either.”
“You have integrity.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sam said.
“It’s inconvenient, but I won’t hold it against you.”
“You’re too kind,” she said. “So, where are you from? You look Greek, but you don’t sound it.”
“I’m—”
“Sam? We’re low on ice.” The club manager, Mack, leaned over the bar. Before Mack could see him, Kingsley pulled back out of the light, hiding from view. “Get your shit together.”
“We have plenty of ice.”
“Go grab a forty-pound bag.”
“That’s twice as much as we need for the night.”
“You want to play like you’re a man, then you can carry a big fucking bag of ice like a man.”
“Fine. Happy to.” Sam put on a stunningly fake smile and walked into the back. She returned a few seconds later carrying a large bag of ice.
“Good boy,” Mack said to her as she ripped open the top of the bag and poured ice into the cooler. “I’d say there’s a man in that suit after all, but I’m guessing you’ve never had a man in any part of you.”
Sam grabbed the ice pick from under the counter. Mack’s eyes widened momentarily. Sam smiled again and jabbed at the ice to break up the clumps.
“Jesus, why did you make me hire her again, Duke?” Mack asked the other bartender. “Her? Him? It?”
“Shove it, Mack. She’s the best bartender in the city,” Duke said as he loaded up a tray with drinks.
“The Duke and the Dyke. What a pair. I miss Jason.”
“All the girls hated Jason,” Duke said.
“I liked Jason.”
“Jason was a sexually harassing prick who treated the girls like shit,” Sam said. “Holly was about ready to file a lawsuit from what she told me.”
