“Really?”
Sam gave him a smile, a real smile this time.
“I’m fucking 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…”
“Or what?” Mack demanded.
“Or you can get the fuck 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…”