Rain, Tulliver mused. Rain was always good for business.
Of all the clubs Tulliver owned, The Spiderhole was his favorite. That was due, in large part, to the brothel he operated out of the upper floors of the building. The whores there were fresher, not yet run down by the cocktail of drugs required to keep them willing and compliant. After that happened, they would be sent to one of Tulliver’s other, less reputable establishments, but that was okay. There was always fresh meat to take their place. Always.
Tulliver sat at the bar and watched with his one good eye as the customers gradually trickled out into the night. He wasn’t sad to see them go. He’d already made a killing since the crowd had come in that afternoon to get out of the weather.
Yes, rain was always good for business.
Tulliver signaled for another dram, and the barman quickly brought him one. Not the pisswater that was served to the paying customers. A man could go blind drinking that swill, and Tulliver was already halfway there. He only drank the expensive offworld stuff.
“Do you mind if I join you for a drink, sir?”
The unexpected voice startled Tulliver, and he jumped a little in response. Whoever had spoken was standing in his blind spot. The one created by his bad eye.
His startlement quickly shifted into anger. Everyone in town knew better than to approach Tulliver from his blind side—and if they didn’t, they soon learned.
He whirled in the direction of the voice.
“What the fuck do y—”
Tulliver froze. His heart stopped. The man standing before him was tall, maybe seven feet or more, with a mane of golden hair spilling down to his broad, muscular shoulders. But it was the face that really got Tulliver’s attention. It was the face of an angel. High cheekbones. Patrician nose. Full, feminine lips. It was, in short, the most beautiful face Tulliver had ever seen, and it came with a voice to match, as smooth and sweet as offworld honey.
“My apologies,” the stranger said. “It was not my intention to startle you. I merely saw you sitting over here by yourself and thought you might enjoy some company.”
The full lips parted seductively, a subtle invitation.
Tulliver smiled. He was no buggerer—or buggeree, for that matter—but he had a use for handsome men. They were almost in as high demand as pretty girls, and a great deal harder to come by.
“Have a seat,” Tulliver said, gesturing to the barstool beside him. “You must be new around here, huh?”
The beautiful man sat.
“What makes you say that, sir?”
“Well, everyone around these parts knows who I am, but I get the impression you don’t.”
“I confess, you are correct, sir.” The man arched a flirtatious, golden brow. “With whom do I have the pleasure?”
With whom do I have the pleasure. Shit, who did this jinker think he was, some highborn aristocrat?
“Name’s Tulliver,” Tulliver said.
The long-lashed eyes widened, pale and pretty.
“TheTulliver?”
“The one and only.”
The supple lips broke into a wide and radiant grin.
“My sincerest apologies, sir! I am indeed new here in town, and did not recognize you, but I have certainly heard a great deal. Please, sir, allow me to buy you a drink.”
Tulliver just chuckled and waved his hand.
“No need for that,” he said. “I own the place. Let me get you a drink instead, on the house. What d’you want?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having, sir.”
Tulliver motioned to the barman to bring him another dram. This time, however, he used his pinky finger. It was a signal, and the barman nodded in understanding. He would drug the cocktail. In a few minutes, the big handsome stranger would be unconscious and totally helpless. It was one of Tulliver’s favorite methods for acquiring new prostitutes.
