The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2)(41)

“Or what?” Mack demanded.

“Or you can get the f*ck out of my club, you piece of shit. And never come back.”

“I’m out of here, fag,” Mack said, every word dripping with disgust.

“You won’t be missed. Au revoir.” He waved his feather boa. “Adieu.”

He stepped off the table onto a chair and then to the f loor. He strolled right over to the bar and hopped up on the counter.

“And now,” he said into the microphone. “I’m going to kiss the most beautiful woman in this club. Wonder who she is…”

He placed his hand over his eyes and pretended to scan the crowd.

Raven and Shae, Holly and Ivy, and every other woman in the place waved and pointed at themselves.

Instead, Kingsley spun to face Sam. She stood up straight in surprise.

“May I kiss you, mademoiselle?” he asked.

Sam grinned broadly. “I await the kiss with antici…”

He bent over the bar and kissed her, a quick one on the lips.

“Parfait,” he said and sat back up again. “Now everyone— back to work. The f loor show is over.”

He turned the microphone off, tossed it to Raven and dropped down on to a bar stool.

“You’re the boss?” Sam asked.

“Le grand boss,” he said with a wink.

“Has anyone ever told you that you have killer gams, Toots?” Sam asked. “Seriously, best legs I’ve ever seen on a man or a woman.”

“The heels really bring out the muscle definition in my calves, don’t they?” Kingsley asked.

“And the thighs. You dress like this often?”

“When necessary,” Kingsley said with a shrug. There wasn’t much he hadn’t done in his twenty-eight years for business or pleasure. “You always dress in men’s clothes?”

“I’m a woman. If they’re my clothes, they’re women’s clothes,” Sam said. “I’m not a cross-dresser. I’m a good dresser.”

“You are. The spats are a nice touch.”

“When you work in a strip club that’s a front for a bathhouse, you need the extra shoe protection. Speaking of shoes,” she said, pausing to tap her chin and point at him. “Where did you get shoes big enough?”

“I stole them out of Petra’s locker.”

“Petra? Oh, Peter. Our Thursday-night drag queen. Should have known. Anyway, thank you for getting rid of Mack. I’ll buy you a drink as long as it’s not an entire bottle of champagne.”

“I don’t need a drink. I wasn’t kidding earlier. I do need some information.”

“Ask,” she said. Kingsley was pleased to see his little stunt had gained her confidence.

“Do you know a woman named Blaise?”

Sam slapped a hand over her heart.

“Blaise? Blaise of Glory Blaise? The future mother of my children Blaise? Hair like Rita Hayworth, eyes like Ingrid Bergman, dresses like Lauren Bacall?”

“You know her, then.”

“Know her? I worship her. If there is a God and if that God loves me, I will wake up tomorrow morning with no work to do, no place to go and that perfect piece of ass in my bed. I’d tie her down spread-eagle and turn her inside out. I’d make her come so often she’d forget how to go. I want to spend so much time inside that girl I’d have to get my mail forwarded to her *. So, yes, I know her.”

“So do I. We’re sleeping together.”

Sam opened her mouth and closed it again.

“Well, bully for you,” she said at last.

“I’m a lucky man.”

“I guess I should apologize for saying I’d forward my mail to your girlfriend’s vagina.”

“Don’t apologize. I feel the same way. I did have my mail forwarded there until she started complaining about paper cuts. Women,” he said.

“You’re a very understanding boyfriend. So, what information do you need?”

“Blaise mentioned you told her about a church that’s moving into Manhattan.”

Sam paused long enough to let Kingsley know he needed to tread lightly on this topic.

“Yeah, The Way, The Truth, and The Life Ministries. I saw in the paper they’d bought an old hotel. They’re turning it into a church and office complex. It’s supposed to be the new WTL HQ.”

“This pissed you off?”

“I’m not a fan of them, no.”

“Is it personal?”

“Kind of personal, yes,” she said.

“So you know the Fullers?”

“Never met them. But I know a lot about them, a lot about the church. I know enough to not enjoy chatting about them in a bar on Friday night.”

“Then let me ask you a different question—why are you working here?”

“Why? A bartender tends bar. I came here a couple times to see friends dance. The last head bartender was an ass. He hit on all the girls. All of them. Constantly. They told Mack either he goes or they do. So he fired him. Duke told him to hire me. No straight guys hit on me, and the women feel safe around me.”

“They must feel more than safe around you if you’re f*cking them all.”

“They have needs. And I have needs. I have the need to meet their needs. We get along well.”