The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(40)

“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.”

“Ah, Holly…” Mack said, and spun on his bar stool to ogle the stage. “That’s a real woman.” He pointed at Holly, who wore nothing but a black thong and knee-high leather boots. Currently she had her knees around the neck of a man Kingsley recognized as the youngest son of a Mafia don. “Men should dress like men, and women should dress like women. And that is how women should dress.”

Kingsley watched as Sam’s grip on the ice pick tightened even as her fake smile widened. Mack turned around, winked at Sam and went on his nightly ramble through the club.

“The Duke and the Dyke.” Sam sighed. “You know he was up all night thinking of that joke.”

“He’s going to be patting himself on the back for the next week,” Duke said. “Fucking hate that guy.”

“I’d like to nail his balls to the bar with this ice pick.”

Duke took his tray of drinks out to the f loor. Sam turned in his direction.

“Sorry,” she said. “Bad night.”

“He has an interesting definition of ‘real women.’” Kingsley pointed to the stage. “I’m fond of Holly myself, but if she’s not forty-percent plastic by now, I don’t know women. And I know women.”

Sam studied Holly and tapped her chin in faux earnestness. “The tits are fake,” she said. “And the nose. I think she said she had lipo, too. So…more like twenty-percent plastic?”

“Is your boss always like this?”

“You mean a total *?” she asked. “Yes.”

“Why don’t you quit?”

“Someone has to keep an eye on the girls,” she said. “He’s worse to them than he is to me. And Duke only works two nights a week. I look out for them.”

“So you’re f*cking one of them?” Kingsley asked.

“No, I’m not.”

“Really?”

Sam gave him a smile, a real smile this time.

“I’m f*cking all of them.”

Kingsley laughed. “I like you, Sam. I’m going to do something for you.”

“Look, you already over-tipped me. What—”

“You need a better boss,” Kingsley said and hopped off his bar stool.

He could feel Sam’s eyes on him the entire way across the f loor. He slipped down a back hall and into the locker room where he was greeted, as usual, with inordinate displays of affection and enthusiasm, which he didn’t let go to his head. He did own the place after all. When he mentioned to Raven and Shae what he had in mind, they threw themselves into helping him. Anything to get back at Mack, they said. Anything at all.

In ten minutes he was ready. The music started, and Kingsley walked out onto the stage to the accompaniment of “Sweet Transvestite.”

Kingsley looked at Sam who was in the process of f lipping a bottle of vodka. She barely caught it in time. He had on high heels, black stockings, black underwear—turned around backward for extra room—and a black corset. Plus a feather boa, of course.

“I heard someone say tonight,” Kingsley intoned in his French accent into the microphone, “that women should dress like women and men should dress like men. I’m a man. And this is how I dress. Like it?”

All the dancers and waitresses had gathered round and were standing on chairs and tables, applauding and cheering. The men stared in silence, a few booed and a few cheered, too drunk to know what the hell was happening.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, and scanned the crowd as he stalked across the stage in long, confident strides. This wasn’t his first time in heels, and he wasn’t afraid to show it. “Now where is Mack?”

“Over there, King.” Raven pointed at a table. Kingsley jumped lightly from the stage to the top of a table, stepped from one table to the next until he stood looming over Mack. Kingsley squatted down and smiled at the man.

“Bonjour, Mack,” Kingsley said. “Do you like my outfit?”

“No,” Mack said, looking pale and pasty.

“Non? The girls like it. Don’t you, ladies?”

Every woman in the place, including and especially Sam, yelled their approval at the top of their lungs.

“Now, Mack, I have a question for you,” Kingsley said. “The question is very simple. Who am I?”

He held the microphone out.

“You’re Kingsley Edge.”

“Very good. And why do I get to take over the stage whenever I want?” Kingsley asked.

“Because you own the club,” Mack said, swallowing audibly. He looked terrified now, and Kingsley was pleased to see it.

Kingsley looked over at the bar and saw Sam’s eyes widen to the size of wineglasses.

“Since I own this club, you work for me,” Kingsley said. “And since you work for me, you have to do whatever I say. And I say you have to go backstage, dress like this—” he pointed at himself “—come back on stage and let all these lovely ladies put a dollar in your garter. Or…”