My gaze darted around the dark, cloudy room. The tables were full, but that was to be expected. The BP wasn’t the most exclusive club in town, but we had decent girls, a hospitable crowd, and we kept it clean. Those inclined to visit a topless bar could get their Johnson on in relative safety and enjoyment as long as they kept their hands to themselves.
Old-school David Bowie blasted from the speakers and Destiny launched into another dance. She sashayed past the pole, the white glow of the stage lights bringing the crowd’s attention front and center. One of the few dancers who chose not to tan, her skin was soft and luminescent in the stage lights, her pink bikini appearing to glow and sparkle. Despite being new, Destiny was one of my favorite dancers. She told it like it was and always kept it real. Like when she used her double-jointed limbs to work the pole.
You can’t get more real than that.
Disco appeared in front of me and I attempted to act as if I’d seen him coming. The way they moved always creeped me out—so fast it appeared instant. It was unnerving and jolting.
Fucking vampires.
“Can we talk later?”
“Uh…” I wasn’t sure what to say, my thoughts obliterated in a tailspin.
A lush requesting a refill on his Wild Turkey saved me. I hurried over and reached under the counter for the bottle. I poured him a little something extra for the assistance. When finished, I stayed put, feet firmly planted, but I knew I was delaying the inevitable. I would have to speak to Disco at some point. I couldn’t have him showing up like this every night.
“Bartender!” Lonnie yelled.
I rolled my eyes. The most demanding of them all was the shittiest tipper to boot.
What I wouldn’t give to shove a bottle of Crown up his ass.
I unplanted my feet, rubber-soled boots squeaking against the wet plastic floor mats. I always wore my shit-kickers, even on nights like tonight. The laced-up boots were reminiscent of emo goth punk, but they did far more than help me seem fashionably depressed. The reinforced steel toe was great for shots to the crotch when I needed to exert a little extra bartender attention.
“What do you want, Lonnie?”
“When’s Deena coming back?” He didn’t bother looking at me. That would take too much effort. Instead, his beady eyes remained locked on the stage. Typical.
“When she comes back,” I answered flatly. “Can I get anything else for you?”
He shook his head, and I rolled my eyes again.
Poor Deena. Her best client was a pot-bellied pig living in the bright lights of New York City. I hoped she was enjoying her time away from this clandestine hellhole while soaking up the cancer-laced rays in sunny Florida.
A surge of black snagged my attention and I chanced a glance. Disco was there, staring at me again. I couldn’t read his expression.
Shit.
My thoughts tumbled back, taking me into the past.
Why did his undead—and I mean un-dead—friend have to show up on the one night I decided to take a breather, shoot a game of pool, and serendipitously rub elbows with Disco and his partner in crime, Cash? I remembered our introduction all too well. I was on the nine, slinging the money, when I noticed someone standing over the pocket. When the eyesore in question didn’t move after a polite request, I lost my genteel sensibilities and yelled for him to get the fuck out of the way. I realized my mistake, of course, when I took a better look and could see the people directly behind his airy body.
The ghost had revealed my nature to Disco.
I had been at the wrong place at the wrong fucking time.
Necromancy—or as it is defined in the dictionary, divination by means of the spirits of the dead—is a bitch, and I hate the hell out of it. I see some pretty insane shit whether I want to or not. Since the state in which a person dies is the state they maintain in spirit, it’s a constant box of chocolates, and I don’t mean the momma always says kind, either.