Mickey looked back, and he gritted his teeth when he saw the envelope of money in the man’s hand. The bastard had robbed him, and he hadn’t felt a thing.
That’s because you were too busy gettin’ fuckin’ felt up.
Mickey’s patience had run out. He snatched the money back and grabbed the man’s arm, twisting it behind him at an unnatural angle. He pushed him face first up against the rack, ignoring how very nicely his hips were now lined up with that very shapely ass.
“Now, you fuckin’ listen up—” Mickey raged.
“Oooh, you like to play rough?” The man grinned. “What a coincidence! Me too! My safe word is ‘werefish.’”
Mickey was stunned. He was supposed to be shaking this asshole down, showing him what was what. Instead, it felt like they were flirting.
“What thefuckis a werefish?”
“Like a werewolf. But a fish. You know, full moon, glub glub all blowin’ bubbles then rawrrrr.” The man made a clawing motion with his free hand. “Rawr?”
“Piss off, you fuckin’ nutcase,” Mickey snarled angrily. He gave the man’s arm one final twist and shoved him away.
The man laughed, stumbling into some donuts and knocking several packages to the ground. He held up his hands and backed a few feet away, safely out of Mickey’s swinging range, before he made a kissy face at him.
Mickey couldn’t believe how fast his heart was pounding. He was furious, insulted, and he wanted to wipe that smug smile right off this man’s face.
Later.
“If I see you again, your fuckin’ ass is mine,” Mickey warned.
“Promises, promises.” The man winked.
All Mickey could do was stare. He was so mad he almost forgot what he was doing there. He quickly got back on track, squaring his business away with the owner, an elderly man named Mr. Leon. He nodded along with Mr. Leon’s promises and pleas that he would catch up next month, took the payment, and left as fast as he could.
He didn’t see the man again, but he couldn’t help but remember what it was like to shove him up against the rack, how his firm body had felt against his… shit.
Who the fuck was that guy?
He jumped back in the car, passing the money over for Duncan to count. It was quite short as expected, and Mickey didn’t say anything about what had happened with the crazy guy. He tried to shake off the strange encounter and head over to Slick Rick’s.
It was a gay bar, once exclusively leather but now open to all. Rainbow flags were hung outside, a disco ball was put up, and Cher got added to the musical lineup. Large steel cages had also been mounted in the center of the dance floor and more along the mirrored walls. At night, the cages would be occupied by young male dancers, exotic nymphs covered in body glitter who wore next to nothing.
Mickey found it all a bit tacky, but it was safe here.
It was one of the first gay clubs he’d ever set foot in, and it also happened to be the heart of Cold’s territory. The Luchesis were only too happy to give it away, and Mickey was sure those pricks thought they were so clever.
The original owner, a sharply dressed man named Alistair Star, was still around. Cold kept him on even after he took over, and he was privy to their meetings.
Alistair was at least twenty years Cold’s senior, and as best as Mickey could figure had served as a mentor or advisor of sorts. Alistair claimed to be a simple businessman who enjoyed collecting real estate, but Mickey imagined it was the same simple way that the Luchesi family claimed to be businessmen.
No way that man’s hands didn’t have blood on them, not in this city.
Not that Mickey cared. He was hardly innocent, and as long as Alistair did right by Cold, Mickey didn’t give a fuck how Alistair made his money.
Mickey parked and walked into Slick Rick’s with Duncan in tow, leading the way to the office behind the bar. The club only had a few patrons this time of day, old regulars, and they kept their eyes on their drinks as Mickey swept by them.
The office was clean, well lit, and the furnishings modest. There was a desk and a large table with enough chairs for seven people, three on either side and one at the end. It was quite the contrast from the colorful club outside, nearly sterile save for the fresh calla lilies ever present on the corner of the desk.
Cold liked them.
Crybaby and Jules were seated across from each other at the table, heatedly discussing some sports team fiasco. Pym was over at the desk, typing away on the computer. Jerry was leaning against the wall, looking bored and smoking a cigarette.
Cold was standing behind Pym, reading whatever it was he had pulled up on the monitor. Alistair was beside him, and they looked like brothers in their well-tailored suits.
