by TJ Klune
“Oh,” Paul said. “Well. Thank you? That’s… weird. I mean nice! That’s nice of you.”
The man’s friends laughed behind him as the man said, “Ain’t nothin’ nice about me. But I’m sure you’ll find that out.”
“Is he hitting on Paul?” Vince whispered to me.
“I… think so?” I whispered back. “Either that or we’re about to get in a gang fight.”
“Oh,” Vince said. “I don’t know which one is worse. He looks like he wants to eat my husband.”
“Well,” I said, “maybe he thinks Paul tastes like hamburger, with how much cow we’re wearing.”
“That makes sense.”
It actually didn’t, but I was too busy getting ready to throw down should the situation call for it. I almost hoped it did.
The man was getting all up in Paul’s business. “You ever been here before?”
Paul shook his head. “No, I can’t say that we’ve ever been to this fine establishment. I don’t typically come this far west. It seems safer that way.”
The man grinned around his cigar. “I like you. You ever been fisted?”
“Whoa,” Paul breathed. “Do people just ask that now? No buildup at all? Like, Jesus. I don’t even know your name. You don’t even know mine.”
“Then allow me to introduce myself,” the man said, bowing low. “My name is Trigger, and you’re definitely pulling mine.”
“Yikes,” I said. I tried to make a fist that I could use to punch, but it looked pathetic, given that Trigger’s hands were the size of my entire existence. I felt bad for Paul’s asshole if he ended up getting that shoved up there.
“I’m Paul,” Paul said. “And now that we’ve been introduced, we’ll be on our way.”
“Whoa,” Trigger said. “What’s the rush? You can stay here with—”
“Don’t touch them,” a deep voice said from behind us. “They’re with me.”
Trigger’s eyes widened as he took a step back. His group behind him looked like they were about to collectively shit themselves.
We all whirled around to see Charlie standing behind us, arms across his chest, glowering at the men along the wall. He was dressed in full leathers, something I’d only seen once or twice. He wore all black from head to toe, and even though I knew Charlie was a big ol’ softie, I absolutely believed at that exact moment that he was capable of destroying every single person around us.
And they apparently believed it too. While most of the men looked at Charlie in awe, Trigger had pulled off his hat and clutched it in front of him. He tilted his head in deference. “Sorry, Charlie,” he said, and whatever act he’d been putting on before was done, seeing as how his voice was soft. “I was just having some fun.”
Charlie glanced dismissively at him. “I bet you were, Trigger.” He raised his voice. “But you should all know that these three are mine. As are the drag queen inside and her partner. If anyone lays a hand on them that they do not explicitly ask for, then that man will have to answer to me. And you won’t like what I do.”
Most everyone mumbled their acknowledgment. The ones that didn’t actually look frightened.
“Sorry,” Trigger said to Paul. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“It’s okay,” Paul said. “Just don’t offer to fist someone without knowing them first. It’s only polite.”
Trigger nodded. “Only polite fisting from here on out.”
“Follow me,” Charlie said, spinning on his boots and heading back toward the entrance.
We did.
Everyone in line that we passed nodded at Charlie. He barely paid them any attention. It was so badass that I could barely contain myself. I wanted to squeal over him, but instead I sneered at all of them, because I was with Charlie.
No one complained when we cut in the front of the line. The bouncer, a black man with a thick mustache, glanced up from his clipboard and smiled. “Charlie! Go right on in.”
“Thanks, Jerome. These three are with me.”
“Of course,” Jerome said, pushing open the door, music spilling out. “All legal age?”
Charlie nodded. “They wouldn’t be here if they weren’t.”
“Of course,” Jerome said. “It’s good to see you, Charlie. We miss you here.”
Charlie patted him on the shoulder before walking inside.
We looked at each other as we stood in the doorway.
“Move your asses!” Charlie barked.
That meant, of course, that we all tried to fit through the doorway at once. Paul almost fell down. Vince managed to grab my arm before I smashed into the wall.
We righted ourselves and looked at Charlie.
He was trying not to laugh.
“Yeah, yeah,” Paul muttered. “We know.”
BUILD-A-BEAR SWEAT Shop was not like Jack It.
Oh sure, there were queer men inside, and music blared overhead with the bass turned up as far as it could go, but that’s about as far as the similarities went.
It was larger than it looked from the outside, almost like it’d once been a warehouse, though not quite as big. The ceiling was high, lined with exposed pipes. The wall to the right was a bar, and there had to be at least eight bartenders working furiously behind it.
Two other walls were lined with booths and tables stuffed full with groups of people drinking and shouting at each other above the music.
The last wall had a stage built onto it and a DJ booth next to it. The back of the stage was covered in a red curtain.
In the middle of the room was a large dance floor, though no one really seemed to be dancing as the lights flashed overhead.
“Follow me,” Charlie called back to us. I thought we’d have to push our way through the thick crowd, but it parted quickly as Charlie walked through, people reaching out to slap their hands on his shoulder, calling out greetings as he went by. Charlie nodded but barely spoke. His chin jutted out, and I could have sworn he was strutting.
“He’s like a god,” Paul shouted in my ear.
He was. Charlie was obviously in his element, and the people here respected him. It made me happier than I expected to know he had this and strangely sad that we didn’t know before. I wondered just how selfish we were to not know this about our friend. We were so wrapped up in our own lives that we missed this.
Charlie led us to a booth near the stage, the only one that was empty. There was a placard fixed to the wall with stark lettering:
RESERVED
IF YOU’RE NOT INVITED TO SIT HERE,
A WORD OF ADVICE:
DON’T.
—MANAGEMENT
Charlie motioned for us to sit down.
Vince pointed toward the sign. “But doesn’t that—”
“This booth is mine,” Charlie said.
“This is a really weird time to find out that I’m attracted to you,” Paul said. “Just in case you were wondering.”
Charlie snorted. “If at all possible, try and control yourself.”
“No promises,” Paul said and sat down in the booth. Vince followed him, and Charlie sat on the other side, moving over until he sat directly under the sign. I climbed in after him. We had a perfect view of the stage, as no one seemed to be standing in front of Charlie’s table.
“Have you murdered anyone?” I asked him.
He glanced at me. “Why do you ask?”
“Because everyone seems to be scared of you.”
“Not scared,” he said. “They respect me. There’s a difference.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
He leaned over until his mouth was near my ear. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”
“Yeah,” I said, swallowing thickly. “You and Nana have a lot in common.”
He laughed, shaking his head.
I kept waiting for people to approach the table. They looked like they wanted to. They kept glancing over at us, at him, but no one did. Charlie, for his part, seemed to ignore them. He handed eac
h of us one of the thin folders that had been stacked in the middle of the table. It was a drink menu. I wasn’t planning on drinking too much, given that I had work in the morning, but I figured one wouldn’t hurt. I heard Paul choke when he saw the same thing I did as I opened the menu.
The fourth drink down from the top was called THE CHARLIE. It was whiskey based (and therefore the bane of my existence). Charlie loved whiskey.
“You have a drink named after you?” Paul demanded.
Charlie shrugged. “So it would seem.”
“You’re so cool,” I breathed.
“I know,” he said. He sat back against the booth, crossing his arms over his chest, looking intimidating as all fuck.
“Do we need to go to the bar?” Vince asked, looking down at the menu.
Charlie shook his head. “They’ll send someone over.”
And someone did come over, though it wasn’t a bartender or barback. Apparently he’d worked up the courage to approach Charlie’s table, and I blinked when I saw it was the leader of the Dairy Queens. He was a large, brutish man in full leathers. He took off his hat as he stood in front of the table, holding it in front of him. He had neck tattoos, and he looked nervous. I didn’t know you could be nervous and have neck tattoos at the same time.
“Charlie,” he said, his voice deep and rough. “It’s good to see you here.”
“I suppose it is,” Charlie said, and I barely bit back the squeal that threatened to explode from my mouth. Who the fuck was this Charlie?
Biker Leader looked ecstatic, as if the casual dismissal was the best thing that had ever happened to him. I’d seen them talking at Jack It before, and it was never like this. They’d been friendly. “I would be honored if you allowed the Dairy Queens to buy your drinks for the night.”
Charlie nodded. “That would be fine. I’ll have the bar put it on your club’s tab.”
“Thank you,” Biker Leader said. He relaxed slightly. He looked at each of us in turn. “Paul. Vince. Corey. Welcome to Build-a-Bear Sweat Shop. If you need anything, just ask.”
He turned around quickly, putting his hat back on as he disappeared into the crowd.
“He knows my name?” I asked, staring after him.
“Of course he does,” Charlie said. “You’re with me. If he didn’t, he would have asked before coming over here. It’s a sign of respect.”
“Is Charlie the head of a crime syndicate?” Vince asked Paul.
“Yes,” Paul said. “He has to be. We can never tell Nana. She would be here in a leather muumuu, and that’s something I’ve never thought about before and never want to again.”
And then he came.
I didn’t know what had happened to him. Last we’d heard, he’d been banished to the pits of Hell after Poco’s closed due to health violations, which he had undoubtedly been a part of. He never came to Jack It because Sandy had threatened his life if he ever showed his face there. And when Helena Handbasket made such a decree, it was made gay law. The bouncers were under strict orders to put their boots into his ass if he ever tried. I always figured he was lurking somewhere in the shadows, waiting for the moment when he could strike. That was the funny thing about pit demons: they always found a way to crawl back when you least expected them to.
He was wearing what amounted to a leather Speedo that barely covered his balls. We were fortunate enough that he apparently was a big believer in manscaping. And aside from two leather bands wrapped around his biceps and chunky boots, that was all he wore.
That and the devilish grin on his face as he stared at Vince.
“Well, well, well,” he said, his voice a silky purr. “We meet again, mi corazón. It is as if the fates have decided we must be together.”
“Santiago,” Paul hissed. He bared his teeth as he made the sign of the cross in front of him.
Santiago ignored him. He leaned forward until his junk was practically resting on the table. He looked up from under his half-lidded eyes, biting his bottom lip seductively. Against my will, I was almost impressed. If I tried that same expression, it would look as if I was trying to eat my own mouth while having a stroke.
“Have you missed me?” Santiago asked. “Because I have missed you. Oh, but don’t fret. I haven’t been pining. No. I have had many lovers while we’ve been separated.”
“Hi, Santiago,” Vince said. “You work here?”
He giggled. “Oh, how would you know that? Have you been asking about me?”
“You’re carrying an empty drink tray and an order pad,” I told him.
He glanced at me, eyeing me up and down before dismissing me. He turned back to Vince. “Yes, I do work here. I am into leather now. As it appears you are. Come, let Santiago make all your wildest dreams come true.”
“Great!” Vince said. “My wildest dream right now would be to have the pineapple drink thingy.”
Santiago was practically crawling on the table now. I almost had to admire how flexible he seemed to be. “That’s it? Not anything involving you, me, and your brother doing something that is illegal in all fifty states?”
Vince looked confused. “Like what? Robbing a bank? I wouldn’t be a very good bank robber. I don’t like guns or making people scared of me or taking something that doesn’t belong to me. Just the drink is fine. Paul, what do you want?”
Santiago blinked, turning his head to look at Paul, as if just now seeing him for the first time. “You are here with your father accountant? Vincent, tax season has come and gone. He doesn’t need to exist again until February of next year, like all tax preparers.” He raised his voice at Paul. “Hello, sir? We do not have bread and butter here. You cannot order that. I remember how much you like it, but I fear that is not an option. You’ll have to eat your own bread at home.”
“I hate you so fucking much,” Paul muttered.
“Boy,” Charlie said, and his voice was so deep, it sent shivers down my spine. “Look at me.”
Santiago did, eyes widening slightly. “Yes?”
Charlie leaned forward until their faces were only inches apart. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes,” Santiago said. “The manager said that you were to be taken care of while you’re here. He called you a VIP.”
“Exactly,” Charlie said. He reached up and traced a finger along Santiago’s cheek. Santiago trembled when Charlie gripped his face. It wasn’t tight, but Charlie’s hand was big. “And if I see you at this table again, it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
Santiago swallowed thickly. “But I—”
“Have them send another boy to bring out our drinks,” Charlie said, squeezing just enough that Santiago’s face began to dimple. “And if I hear that you’ve bothered Paul or Vince or Corey, you’ll be out looking for another job by the end of the night. Are we clear?”
Santiago nodded.
“Good,” Charlie said, pulling his hand back. Santiago gasped as he stood upright. “You will do two things for us, then. First, you will take our drink orders. And then you will apologize to Paul for treating him with such disdain. Vince wants the pineapple drink thingy. Paul will have the tequila sunrise. I want a whiskey. Neat. And Corey will have a screwdriver. It’s to be billed to the Dairy Queens, who have made a generous offer that I couldn’t refuse.”
Santiago scribbled furiously on his pad of paper. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” He turned to leave.
Charlie cleared his throat.
He stopped and turned back around slowly. “Paul, was it? Yes, Paul. I’m sorry that I do not have bread—”
“You get one more chance,” Charlie warned.
“Eep!” Santiago said. Then, “Sorry, Paul. I did not mean to make you feel like your chosen profession was unnecessary. And especially in front of your son.”
“He’s my husband!” Paul snapped.
Santiago frowned. “What, really? Vince, are you being held against your will? If so, scream my name like you’re in the throes of extreme passion—”’
“You shou
ld run now,” Charlie said. “While your legs are still unbroken.”
Santiago did just that.
“That was weird,” Vince said. “He must have really wanted to put our drink order in.”
Paul sighed. “Yes, Vince. That’s exactly it.”
OUR DRINKS were brought by someone who wasn’t Santiago. He set them down on the table, smiled nervously at Charlie, and then left without saying a word.
“You need to call Robert,” I told Charlie while Vince handfed Paul pieces of pineapple.
“Why?” Charlie asked.
“Because you have to tell him that it’s over,” I said solemnly. “That you care about him but that you’ve decided to run away with me. We’ll tour the world, where I’ll sit by you while you threaten overzealous waiters.”
Charlie chuckled. “Quite an offer.”
“Figured it would be. Robert will understand.”
“Maybe I should hold off on that.”
I sighed. “If you must. Though it’s probably for the best.”
“It is,” Charlie said. “I have a feeling you’re going to forget I even exist in the next few minutes, anyway.”
I squinted at him. “What are you talking about?”
He smiled as he took a sip of his whiskey. “Just wait.”
“No, seriously. What are you—”
The music cut off. The lights dimmed.
The crowd roared as everyone turned toward the stage.
A spotlight shone on the curtain as an absolutely filthy beat of music growled through the speakers, heavy on the bass. So much so, in fact, that the booth was vibrating.
“Ooohhhhhh,” Helena Handbasket moaned from somewhere off stage. “I smell men.”
The men were very appreciative of this.
A long leg stuck out from behind the curtain. The foot had a black heel on it with a stiletto spike. The calf and thigh were wrapped in what looked like black tape.
“Oh Jesus,” Paul said. “She really went for it.”
Before I could ask what he meant, that same beat rolled through the bar again and the curtain parted.
Helena Handbasket stood on the stage, and Paul wasn’t kidding. She really went for it.
As it turned out, the black wrappings around her leg pretty much constituted her entire costume. It must have taken hours to get it just right and still be technically legal, though I was sure she was violating something.
