For the sake of any kind of conversation, I ask him, “So you live out here? Are you a Nevada native?”
He says, “Sure.”
“Not much lives out here in the desert, though. What are you, a rattlesnake? Nothing else lives out here except scorpions. Right?”
He shrugs. “Mountain lions. Bighorn sheep.”
“Bighorn. You’d like it If I called you that.” Then it occurs to me, “Roadrunner! You’re a roadrunner, baby.”
He lifts a hand. “Okay, okay.”
“Can’t stay in one place too long.”
He takes a slow breath. I’m getting in. I found a chink in his armor. “Meep Meep!”
He tries not to react. But I’m not buying it.
“Not going to lie,” I tell him, “That’s a fine and rare cock you have there.”
An eyebrows lifts, but his voice is steady. “Thanks.”
“Any time you feel like you don’t need it.”
“No, where it goes, I go.”
“Mm. Shame, really.”
There’s no trace of recognition on his stony face when we pull up outside Kings & McQueen’s.
He jumps out and holds the door for me like a proper gent. I have to say I like that and he does it with style.
When I take his hand, there’s another charge of energy between us. Different from the first time. More like a buzz than a flash. Lower down.
I stand and my hand goes onto his shoulder. For a brief second, I brush my cheek against the bulge of his upper arm. Feel his strength and warmth, through his gorgeous suit.
The doorman dips his head when he recognizes the roadrunner. As he shows us in, a great-looking guy with the open, welcoming manner of an owner comes to the door to greet my bodyguard.
“Gio. Great to see you.” His voice has a distinct burr, a smooth brogue.
“Hi, McQueen.” Giovani shakes his hand and does the man-style half-hug. “Good to see you, too. McQueen, this is Lily,” He turns to me, “Lily, McQueen is the boss of Kings & McQueens.”
“Lily. Let me welcome you. This club is only recently open, so I’m very proud of it, but I would love to have your impressions. You must tell me anything you see that you like or that you don’t like.”
McQueen shows us into the club. “Let me get you a table.” There’s a look between them as Giovani nods and thanks him. McQueen takes us to the best booth. I’m impressed.
He asks what he can offer us to drink. I choose a whiskey sour.
Roadrunner says, “Water for me, McQueen. With ice and lemon. Thanks.”
McQueen leaves with a nod to Giovani and to me.
“Whatever services you want, just tell me. I’ll make sure you’re well taken care of.”
We sit across the table, on opposite sides of the soft horseshoe bench around the inside of our booth. The place is amazing. Like the decor consists solely of lights in constant motion. Reds and blues everywhere, with shiny gold highlights.
The dancers all look fantastic. A long, deep central podium has poles, suspended cages, and is sculpted with branches, runways, and islands.
A spur juts out toward our table.
When I take out my phone, McQueen is back at my shoulder instantly. Smiling sadly, he says, “Sorry. I know you’ll understand.”
I tell him, “Yeah. But, it’s okay. I’m an influencer.”
Giovani laughs. “You make it sound like a first responder service. Last I heard, nine-one-one don’t connect you with an influencer.”
McQueen almost sputters, too, fighting to keep a straight face. He tells me, “Our customers get all the influence they need from the dancers.”
Our drinks arrive, brought by a gorgeous waitress. Bubbly and buxom, she tells Giovani she would love to get him anything he wants. “Really,” she flashes her eyes at him with a coy up-and-under look. “Anything at all.”
He shows her the most courteous reaction. I feel an urge to give her a backhand slap.
Acrobatic dancers in thin, sheer fragments of costume, or less, spin up and down the poles. They splay and lean for customers to accessorize their straps and flimsy lace and string adornments by slipping in folded money.
A pair of dancers pull away from the pack and strut toward our table. The woman wears mostly glitter, a wet sheen with some string. She twists and twirls around him, a savage hunk of man. He wears boots, a cap, a tie and a thin white cotton jockstrap, bouncing, slow and weighty, hanging off a heavy leather tool belt.
I’m getting hot as he approaches. Heating up in the baddest places as he menaces hungrily at me. Then I catch a glimpse of the look in the roadrunner’s eye. My tool belt treat turns on his heel, like a fire found him and started chasing.
“Are you determined to spoil all of my fun, roadrunner?”
“My job is to keep you safe. What fun you do or don’t have, doesn’t matter to me. All I care about is keeping all potential threats away.”