Night Shift (Kate Daniels #6.5)(71)

I had to say it. “Maybe you should bring Yasha here for his birthday. He and Red might hit it off.”

My partner didn’t dignify that with a response.

We were seated by Tinker Bell.

She was made up and dressed just like the Disney version, that is if Tink was about to shoot a porno with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. I didn’t think Pete and his boys would have been quite so lost if Tink had been flitting around in what the hostess was mostly not wearing.

Moments later, our Disney parade continued when Snow White showed up to take our drink order. Her getup was the familiar Disney version except the bodice was way lower, and the skirt cut so much higher as to be virtually nonexistent. I guarantee Snow would have had a whole different relationship with those seven dwarves if she’d been sashaying around their house in that.

I don’t think Snow even realized I was there. Though it was obvious she had no trouble seeing Ian, and was making it abundantly clear that drinks weren’t all she was offering. I told myself right then and there that if she offered him a lap dance, leprechauns on the lam be damned, I was out of there. Though I really couldn’t blame her; most of the men in this place wouldn’t have been called prized bulls on their best days.

Ian ordered a beer—thankfully without a side order of Snow.

Pursing her red lips in a disappointed pout, she turned to leave.

I cleared my throat loudly. “I’ll have a Coke, please.”

“Will that be diet?” Snow White asked sweetly.

“No.” I forced myself to smile. “Thank you.” Where was an evil queen and poison apple when you needed one?

Snow flounced off, and I closed my eyes and briefly pondered the insides of my eyelids. Maybe the caffeine would help my headache, and keep me from having to prop my eyes open with those little plastic swords Fairy Tails probably used to spear the olives in their martinis, though from the looks of their clientele, they didn’t get many requests for those.

Snow brought our drinks, Ian’s came in a faux pewter stein, and apparently Coke warranted a goblet. Though after baring her teeth in a smile frosty enough to give the Wicked Queen a run for her money, I decided to leave that Coke right where she put it. Caffeine was overrated, and if I needed help staying alert, I’d just pinch myself occasionally.

Mike, Steve, and Elana came in a few minutes later and were seated at the table nearest to ours, but even closer to the back exit. I guess if I saw our quarry, and one or more of them tried to make a break for it, our agents’ job would be to cut off their escape.

While looking around the club for our wayward leprechauns in disguise, I couldn’t help but notice that more than a few of the men in the club were looking at me. Maybe I was being overly sensitive, but it seemed to me like Elana and I were getting more attention wearing clothes than the women on the stage who were one step up from starkers. You’d think they’d never seen women before, at least not any with all of their clothes on. Either that or they liked the idea of women watching other women. Pervs.

I’d put on the super spy gadget sunglasses, so at least I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with them. They’d probably think I was embarrassed that my date had brought me here. While my glare would have been worthless, with or without the shades, my partner’s was in perfect working order. Men looked once, found themselves on the receiving end of Ian Byrne’s I-will-kick-your-ass scowl, and hurriedly looked away to find more interesting things to occupy their attention.

“If you’re concerned about your safety—” Ian began.

A man that bore a disturbing resemblance to a hundred-year-old Danny DeVito scurried back to his table counting out a handful of ones. I felt my lip curl. Either the bartenders made change, or Fairy Tails had its own ATM that spit out small bills.

“I’m more worried about the contents of my stomach,” I told him.

Though what I could use more than a handful of Tums were earplugs. The music was so loud it felt like the fillings were being vibrated out of my teeth, and the flashing disco lights were either going to give me a seizure or the mother of all migraines.

After my first scan of the club came up empty for leprechauns, I made myself at least glance at the dancers. Why not? I was wearing sunglasses that weren’t sunglasses, and could look without anyone, including my partner, seeing me watch. It was kind of daring and dangerous when I thought of it that way.

Cinderella had traded in her glass slippers for Lucite stripper heels, and her shoes weren’t all that see-through. Though after less than a minute of watching her perform moves with a pole that I wouldn’t have thought physically or gravitationally possible, I realized that I was a lot less embarrassed than I thought I’d be. I mean, let’s face it, the dancers had all the same boobs and bits that I had, just more of the former and were more imaginative with the landscaping and decoration of the latter.

But mainly they all looked bored. Sleeping Beauty was dancing like she was still asleep, or wished she was. And Cinderella looked like she was thinking that midnight would never get here. Their lips might have been set on smile, but their eyes said their minds were elsewhere. Maybe sorting laundry—don’t wash silver pasties with that hot pink G-string again. Or the bald guy drooling at the front table made one of them remember to pick up a honeydew melon at the store tomorrow.

They were the ones with their lady bits on display, not me. If they didn’t care, why should I be embarrassed? Stripping was a job, just like any other, except strippers could write off waxing on their taxes. When I thought about it like that, none of this was really that big of a deal. Speaking of taxes, SPI must have a creative accounting department to be able to slip things like strip club cover charges past the IRS as a business expense.