Dirty Work - Regina Kyle Page 0,25
everything under control. And if they have any problems, they know how to get in touch with me.”
Grad students? Is she fucking serious? If they’re anything like the ones I knew when I was an undergrad at the City College of New York, they’re more into booze than business. “Are you sure you can trust them?”
“Sure, I’m sure.” She waves a hand, like the company she’s built from the ground up is a fly she can shoo away and forget. “They’re totally reliable. Been with me since I started.”
Connor’s been with me since the beginning. Since before the beginning. We took a seedy strip club and turned it into one of the hottest nightspots in Manhattan. I know Top Shelf is in capable hands with him. But that doesn’t mean it’s not killing me taking a step back, even if it’s only temporary. The club isn’t just my livelihood. It’s my life.
I stare at her, slack jawed. “I don’t get how you can be so unconcerned.”
She lifts a shoulder nonchalantly then lets it drop. “I’m not unconcerned, I’m delegating. Besides, it’s just work. It’ll still be there when I get back.”
I don’t tell her that’s what my father thought, too. But when he returned to the consulting firm that bore his name after his heart attack, the business was in shambles. And less than six months later, it was gone, along with our home and most of our savings, including my college fund. It took years for our family to recover, financially and emotionally.
Years I don’t particularly want to rehash with Ainsley.
“So, food,” I say, figuring that’s a safe change of subject. “What do you feel like? We can go out or order in. I have a bunch of menus in the kitchen. Burning water’s my specialty, too.”
Hell, I don’t even know whether my housekeeper stocked the fridge this week. I haven’t looked in there since I got back from the hospital. For all I know, there’s nothing on the shelves but craft beer and condiments.
“Let’s get out of here. You need a change of scenery.” She scoops up her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “And I know just the place.”
We take Roscoe for a quick walk to do his business then catch the C train at Chambers Street. Half an hour later, we’re sitting on vinyl-upholstered chairs in a fifties-style diner, surrounded by drag queens in poodle skirts and saddle shoes belting out show tunes while serving burgers and milkshakes. Or, in our case, root beer floats.
“What do you think?” Ainsley takes a sip of her float and eyes me over the top of her glass. “Pretty great, huh?”
A Cher wannabe finishes crooning “If I Could Turn Back Time” and hands the mic over to a queen in a tiara, feather boa and elbow length gloves who launches into a rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” that sounds more like Marilyn Monroe than genuine article. The crowd—impressive for a weekday lunch—is totally into it, laughing and clapping as Marilyn ruffles the hair of an unsuspecting diner and drapes herself seductively across his lap.
“Great? It’s fucking genius.” I snag a napkin from the stainless steel dispenser, borrow a pen from a passing waitress and start scribbling. The wheels in my head are spinning fast and furious. Drag karaoke nights. A stage show. Maybe even a monthly Sunday drag brunch. There’s a whole market just waiting for us to tap.
“What are you doing?” Ainsley asks.
“Jotting down a few notes,” I answer without looking up. “I want to talk to Connor about doing some stuff like this at Top Shelf.”
Before I realize what she’s up to, she snatches the napkin out from under my fingers and holds it out of my reach. “No work. Not today. Today is for celebrating.”
She turns a blinding pearly white smile on me, and my dick twitches. “What are we celebrating?”
“Whatever you want.” She folds the napkin and tucks it safely away in her purse. “The sun in the sky. The leaves on the trees. The best root beer float in the five boroughs. And the fact that we’re here enjoying it all instead of wasting this beautiful day slogging away at work.”
She sips her drink, leaning forward to take the straw between her lips. She toys with it as she sucks, and my dirty mind replaces the red-and-white-striped cylinder with my cock, which hardens predictably, pressing against my fly. I take a sip of my own float, hoping it will act like