The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  piano in a chapel in Maine twelve years ago. The hotel was his.

  It belonged to him. And he could shut down a toxic church

  in the bargain—killing two birds with one f logger. “But the sale already went through,” Blaise said. “The

  church owns the building now.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll buy it from them or steal it from them.

  But I need to know more about this church before I try either. You know them?” he asked Søren.

  “I have heard of them,” Søren said. “What I’ve heard certainly gives me pause. The church is politically active—a fullf ledged member of the Religious Right. I’m a firm believer in

  the separation of church and state. Better for the state. Better

  for the church. Better for everyone. This particular ministry

  seems determined to turn America into an evangelical Christian theocracy, which, as you can imagine, doesn’t sit any better with Catholics than it does with heathens like yourself.” “You should ask Sam about the church,” Blaise said. “She’s

  the one who showed me the article in the paper. She knows

  all about them.”

  “Sam? Who’s Sam?” Kingsley asked.

  “Sam works at the club,” Blaise said. “At the Möbius. Your

  Möbius?”

  “Sam. Is she new?” He couldn’t picture a bartender named

  Sam.

  “She started a month ago.”

  “How do you know this and I don’t?” Kingsley asked. “Because you don’t pay any attention to the club except

  when you want to sleep with one of the dancers.” “You may have a point. So, who is Sam?”

  “Sam’s the new head bartender. And she’s amazing. Really

  smart and funny. She has history with Fuller’s church—bad

  history.”

  “How bad?”

  “She didn’t tell me much, just that if Fuller’s church moves

  in, she’s moving out. Which would be sad, because she gives

  me free drinks whenever I go in.”

  “Because you’re my girlfriend?” Kingsley asked. “Submissive? Whatever you are?”

  “No, silly.” Blaise rolled her eyes. “Because she likes me.” “Likes you?”

  Blaise gave him a wide-eyed and pointed look. “She. Likes.

  Me.”

  “Kingsley, I believe your ex-girlfriend, current submissive

  is attempting to tell you your bartender is a lesbian.” “Why are you in my office?” Kingsley demanded. “You summoned me,” Søren reminded him.

  “When did you start doing what I asked you to do?” “I promise, it won’t happen again,” Søren said, standing

  up. “If you have no further need of me in your divinely inspired quest to build the largest kink club in the world, I have

  a homily to write.”

  “Go,” Kingsley said. “You’ve done enough. You—” he

  pointed at Blaise “—you don’t leave the house. I’ll be back in

  a few hours, and your presence will be required in my bed.” “Where are you going?” Blaise asked as Kingsley grabbed

  his jacket off the back of his chair and headed for the door. “The Möbius,” Kingsley said. “I have a lesbian bartender

  to seduce.”

  13

  KINGSLEY ENTERED THE MÖBIUS THROUGH THE front door, not the back like he usually did. He wanted to be inconspicuous, and entering through the employees-only door would compromise his anonymity. He’d pulled his necklength hair back into a ponytail, and instead of a suit he wore jeans, a black T-shirt and black jacket. The stage f lashed with red lights and female f lesh, but he kept his eye on the bar.

  He didn’t see her at first. No one worked the bar tonight except for a slim young man with short shaggy hair. Once seated on a stool, Kingsley saw how mistaken he’d been. The young man was a young woman. She had a woman’s delicate features, smooth skin, high cheekbones and straight small nose. But she was dressed like a man. She wore straight-leg pinstriped trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows and a pinstriped vest. It even appeared she had spats on her shoes.

  “What can I get you?” the woman asked as she placed a napkin on the counter in front of him.

  “Information,” Kingsley said, suppressing his French accent. It would give away his identity immediately.

  “Information? I don’t serve that here,” she said with a tight smile.

  “Just on your clothes. Where did you get the suit?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

  “You want to know where I got my suit?”

  “I like your suit,” he said simply.

  “Are you insinuating something?”

  “Only that I like your suit.” Kingsley could see Sam was already on the defensive. No doubt she’d fielded her fair share of unpleasant inquiries about her clothes, hair, gender and orientation more than once in her life.

  “I have a tailor,” she said. “And you have to order something if you’re going to sit at the bar.”

  “A bottle of champagne.”

  “A whole bottle? Are you celebrating something?”

  “Not yet, but I plan to,” Kingsley said.

  “Then congrats on your future whatever,” she said, and pulled a bottle from the wine refrigerator under the bar. “Sixty for the bottle.”

  He put a hundred down on the counter and told her to keep the change. She looked at the bill with suspicion.

  “You from out of town?” she asked.

  “You could say that.”

  “Well, here in New York, the standard tip is a dollar a drink.”

  “I bought the whole bottle.”

  “That’s six drinks. Six dollars.”

  “I’m not usually this generous. You should take the money.”

  “I don’t take advantage of drunk guys.”

  “I’m sober.”

  “I don’t take advantage of them, either.”

  “You have integrity.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Sam said.

  “It’s inconvenient, but I won’t hold it against you.”

  “You’re too kind,” she said. “So, where are you from? You look Greek, but you don’t sound it.”

  “I’m—”

  “Sam? We’re low on ice.” The club manager, Mack, leaned over the bar. Before Mack could see him, Kingsley pulled back out of the light, hiding from view. “Get your shit together.”

  “We have plenty of ice.”

  “Go grab a forty-pound bag.”

  “That’s twice as much as we need for the night.”

  “You want to play like you’re a man, then you can carry a big fucking bag of ice like a man.”

  “Fine. Happy to.” Sam put on a stunningly fake smile and walked into the back. She returned a few seconds later carrying a large bag of ice.

  “Good boy,” Mack said to her as she ripped open the top of the bag and poured ice into the cooler. “I’d say there’s a man in that suit after all, but I’m guessing you’ve never had a man in any part of you.”

  Sam grabbed the ice pick from under the counter. Mack’s eyes widened momentarily. Sam smiled again and jabbed at the ice to break up the clumps.

  “Jesus, why did you make me hire her again, Duke?” Mack asked the other bartender. “Her? Him? It?”

  “Shove it, Mack. She’s the best bartender in the city,” Duke said as he loaded up a tray with drinks.

  “The Duke and the Dyke. What a pair. I miss Jason.”

  “All the girls hated Jason,” Duke said.

  “I liked Jason.”

  “Jason was a sexually harassing prick who treated the girls like shit,” Sam said. “Holly was about ready to file a lawsuit from what she told me.”

  “Ah, Holly…” Mack said, and spun on his bar stool to ogle the stage. “That’s a real woman.” He pointed at Holly, who wore nothing but a black thong and knee-high leather boots. Currently she had her knees ar
ound the neck of a man Kingsley recognized as the youngest son of a Mafia don. “Men should dress like men, and women should dress like women. And that is how women should dress.”

  Kingsley watched as Sam’s grip on the ice pick tightened even as her fake smile widened. Mack turned around, winked at Sam and went on his nightly ramble through the club.

  “The Duke and the Dyke.” Sam sighed. “You know he was up all night thinking of that joke.”

  “He’s going to be patting himself on the back for the next week,” Duke said. “Fucking hate that guy.”

  “I’d like to nail his balls to the bar with this ice pick.”

  Duke took his tray of drinks out to the f loor. Sam turned in his direction.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Bad night.”

  “He has an interesting definition of ‘real women.’” Kingsley pointed to the stage. “I’m fond of Holly myself, but if she’s not forty-percent plastic by now, I don’t know women. And I know women.”

  Sam studied Holly and tapped her chin in faux earnestness. “The tits are fake,” she said. “And the nose. I think she said she had lipo, too. So…more like twenty-percent plastic?”

  “Is your boss always like this?”

  “You mean a total asshole?” she asked. “Yes.”

  “Why don’t you quit?”

  “Someone has to keep an eye on the girls,” she said. “He’s worse to them than he is to me. And Duke only works two nights a week. I look out for them.”

  “So you’re fucking one of them?” Kingsley asked.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “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…”

  He bent over the bar and kissed her, a quick one on the lips.

  “Parfait,” he said and sat back up again. “Now everyone— back to work. The f loor show is over.”

  He turned the microphone off, tossed it to Raven and dropped down on to a bar stool.

  “You’re the boss?” Sam asked.

  “Le grand boss,” he said with a wink.

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have killer gams, Toots?” Sam asked. “Seriously, best legs I’ve ever seen on a man or a woman.”

  “The heels really bring out the muscle definition in my calves, don’t they?” Kingsley asked.