HOT Spelled Out Across His Rump
No one was looking at the back of the house, so I half climbed, half jumped the brick fence to Katie’s. I could hear the sounds of hammers, electric skill saws, and other noisy equipment from nearby, and tracked the sounds to the house near Katie’s. Renovation had started in the old building, and the back attic window was cracked open. The smell of sawdust and old plaster filtered out into the night. Hoping that the new owners knew about Katie and wouldn’t later cry foul about living or having a business next to hers, I went on to the back door and waved at the security camera.
Katie’s Ladies was the oldest continuously operating whorehouse in New Orleans, catering to both humans and vamps. The owner was Leo’s heir, was scary powerful, and wasn’t totally sane—even as far as sane vampires went. Katie was also my former landlady, before I was given the deed to the house. And if I was honest, Katie didn’t like me much.
When Troll let me in, I joined the Youngers. The guys were at the big bar in the huge kitchen, watching raw footage from different vantage points, on several screens, as the robot approached the box on my front porch. I smelled food and tea and coffee and liquor and perfume. Way too much perfume.
“Civilian?” I demanded, as I took one of the tall stools and stuffed a nigiri sushi into my mouth.
Eli gave a one-tenths smile, more a twitch than an indication of amusement as Deon, Katie’s chef, placed a Coke in my hand. “Eat. You bein’ starved, Tartlet, in that house with all that military eatin’,” he said, in his lovely island accent. Eli’s smile widened at the nickname. I pretended to not see it and ate another sushi piece, a ball of rice with a strip of raw salmon on top. Deep inside, Beast chuffed happily at the raw meat. It wasn’t Mona Lisa’s pizza—the box was, not surprisingly, empty—but it was totally delicious in its own raw-meat way.
The slight, dark-skinned chef shoved a full plate at me and batted his eyes. Deon was wearing mascara and some kind of glitter eyeliner. His hair was swept back and around in an Elvis Presley swirl, with little pink bows at the sides that matched his skintight pink tee. “What are you all gussied up for, Deon?” I asked. “You been taking lessons from HBO reruns of True Blood?”
“Lafayette Reynolds is my idol, Tartlet. He be frisky and outrageous. Like me.”
I shook my head and ate another sushi piece as he answered my original question. “These lovely tasteful pants is in case some reporter-man want a ‘hot man on the street’ interview after your house blow up.” He pranced away, showing off his glitter shorts with the word HOT spelled out across his rump. Matching pink sneakers did a dance move, accompanied by a come-hither gesture directed at Eli.
The former Ranger backed almost into the next room. Fast.
I burst out laughing. Deon was more flamboyant than a Bourbon Street cross-dressing stripper, and no way was the local news going to interview him for their Bible Belt viewers. Most of the citizens liked to pretend that the steamy side of the city, with its strip clubs, nudie bars, and cross-dressing musical revues, didn’t exist. As Deon would say, Au contraire, sweetie. Deon’s outrageous antics and excellent hors d’oeuvres were perfect for Katie’s Ladies. Some of the city’s most upright, Bible-thumping leaders and media moguls were regular customers here, and, in private, many of them thought the three-star chef and, um, entertainer, was delightful.
Eli, not so much. I wasn’t sure whether Deon really had the hots for my partner, or just liked yanking his chain. Maybe both. Eli wasn’t generally homophobic, but the recent zealous attention had made him a little gun-shy.
“Civilian,” I muttered the insult to Eli. “Big man can’t take a little honest adoration?”
Eli shook it off and retook his stool, to focus on the screens. Deon turned his attention to making more sushi as some of the girls came down from their rooms upstairs to see what was going on. The set of Eli’s shoulders relaxed as scantily clad females joined the mix, and the scents of lotions, perfumes, hair products, and sex pheromones filled the room. By their scents, I recognized Christie, Ipsita, and Tia, who started to drape herself all over Alex until I cleared my throat. She halted mid-drape and sat instead on a stool, arranging her body over the bar in a languid pose. Alex gave me a nasty glare, which I also pretended not to see.