Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(129)
Nodding, I leaned forward so he could hear me better. “Fantasia said I had a private dance paid for?”
“Yeah, about that.” Louis’s eyebrows pulled together and he braced his hands on the bar top. “It’s the blond guy near the front—don’t look yet, he’s, uh, kind of scary.”
I kept my eyes trained on Louis. “Okay.”
“So, he asked and I told him I’d have to check with you, but he wants to buy five private dances, all in a row. Is that allowed? I didn’t think it was allowed.”
“Uh, no.” Alarm had me automatically searching for this man who’d asked for five consecutive private dances.
Hank would lose his damn mind if we did that. Consecutive dances were not allowed. A bouncer was always stationed outside the door to the champagne room, and no customer could be alone with a dancer inside the room for longer than five minutes. “That is definitely not—”
I stiffened.
Oh. My. God.
The words I’d been about to say died on my tongue, and my train of thought derailed into a field of wildflowers and fantasy. The blond man hovering at the front of the club was absolute perfection. Six-foot-something, long, beautiful body, piercing blue eyes, cliffs for cheekbones and a granite jaw. Even the way his chin came to a point felt perfect.
And I knew him.
And he was looking right at me.
Isaac.
All Folked Up is coming in the future!
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Sneak Peek of Homecoming King, Three Kings Series Book #1
“The moment you doubt whether you can fly, you cease for ever to be able to do it.”
J. M. BARRIE, PETER PAN
“To bang, or not to bang? That is the question.” Kaylee peered at me from behind her black-rimmed glasses and set a briefcase on the stool to her left. She’d just walked in, and instead of saying hi like a normal person, this was how she greeted me.
Frowning at the empty highball glass I’d just finished drying, I debated how to best respond to my good friend’s noteworthy dilemma. “Are we talking about a guy? If so, I recommend making a pro-con list.”
“No, Abby. My hair. I love your bangs.”
“Oh. Thank you, it has pockets.” I’d taken to saying Thank you, it has pockets as a means of dealing with the discomfort caused by unexpected compliments.
Picking up a second highball glass, I wiped it clean of watery residue and checked my watch. Kaylee was an hour early, not that I minded. She usually shuffled in ten minutes before closing on the nights she had custody of our car, already wearing her pajamas and a silk bonnet on her head. By then Walker, my boss, would be playing “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley over the bar’s speakers. He had this automated to happen every night, four times in a row, even when he wasn’t here. His way of driving out the stragglers.
Currently, “Monster Mash” reverberated from overhead, a herald of the season, with Halloween just around the corner. The end of October to January 1 was my favorite time of the year for so many reasons, not the least of which were all the decorating opportunities. Orange lights zigzagged across the bar shelves behind me, and I’d covered every tealight on the dining tables and bartop with ceramic ghost covers. I’d also set up a creepy, black Halloween tree—like a Christmas tree, only a spooky and leafless fake willow instead of a lush and vibrant evergreen—in the corner of the dining area, complete with cobwebs, strings of spiders, an eyeball, finger, and miniature ceramic doll head ornaments.
More doll heads—larger ones, fifty or so—were strung back and forth high above the entire bar. They hung from fishing line, which gave them the appearance of floating midair. I’d spent all spring and summer cackling in hilarity while making the heads at my pottery studio via slip cast molds procured for fifty cents each at Goodwill. Their freakishness did not disappoint, and I’d loved watching some of the customers cringe, smile, and then laugh uncomfortably while drinking under the doll head canopy.
“I’m tired of this haircut.” Kaylee tossed her long braid over her shoulder, curls straining against and protesting the tidy style. She slid onto the stool adjacent to the one holding her briefcase.
I gave Kaylee’s hair a quick once-over. I liked her hair, and she’d mentioned before that cutting bangs would require her to chemically remove the natural curl.
So I said, “I like your haircut and the curls.”
“I knew you’d say that. But thank you. I like it too.”
The bell over the front door jingled, announcing one or more new customers just as the song switched to Frank Sinatra’s version of “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” I liked Frank, but I’d always considered it an impertinent and bossy song; who was he to tell me how to spend my Christmas? Plus, late October was entirely too early for Christmas music.
“Be with you in a sec,” I called without looking toward the sound, keeping my eyes on Kaylee as I reached for a few drink menus and cocktail napkins. “I don’t understand wanting to change something about yourself you already like. If you like your hair, don’t change it. If you don’t like your hair, have at it.”