I put the phone down.
“The hell’s got you smiling like something the cat just humped, honey?”
Lamé is standing silhouetted in the doorway, propped up on crutches, wearing an entirely new outfit from the one they had on earlier. This one is a flowing robe with kimono sleeves and slits up both legs, in a head-to-toe fuchsia that makes me wish I had sunglasses. Possibly the most impressive part is the crutches, which are entirely blinged out in matching crystals.
They’re flanked by a beautiful young man wearing a tank top made of chain mail and very tight, shiny booty shorts.
Let it never be said that Lamé doesn’t make an impressive entrance.
“Lamé!” I start forward and meet them halfway across the room. “How are you?”
“I’m grand, honey. I mean, the show must go on, right, Jonas?”
“Yes, Mistress,” the young man says in a deep, resonant voice, his eyes glued to the floor.
“What had you smiling?” Lamé asks. “Come on. Out with it.”
“What?”
“When we came in. You looked…” They flick their fingers at my face. “All dreamy about something. A certain kiss, perhaps?”
“Probably.”
“Who was on the phone?”
Why don’t I want to say? “Your boss.”
“The Overlord?” Their eyes go comically wide. “And?”
It takes me a second to come up with a response. “He was just checking in, I think? I told him about your ankle. He thanked me.” My smile edges in again, remembering the gruff warmth of his voice as he joked about Lamé, full of affection. “He’s not old, is he? I mean, I think I’ve seen him a couple times and he seemed kind of, what? 30-something?”
“He’s 33, baby.” Their intense focus pushes me to explain.
“He joked about how you called him an old man. For the eyes out comment, you know? The skates? It was kind of funny and…” I flail, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut instead of blubbering on and giving the whole silly conversation more importance than it deserves.
Except I’ve got a hunch that he’s my stranger. In which case, I guess I consider the call important.
“Liev is the Overlord, right?”
“He is.” Lamé nods, watching me. “He’s an old soul, honey. The body, though.” They wink. “Good stuff happening under those rags he wears.” Head at an angle, their eyes shine bright and expectant as a crow’s. “You might already have noted.”
“Huh, maybe.” I turn to the counter. Honestly, though. What am I supposed to do here? Admit my suspicions? Pretend I’m clueless?
Lamé cackle, nearly losing their footing, which causes Jonas to swoop in and wrap a big arm around them. “Put me down there,” they tell him, imperious as a queen. Once settled, complete with a beaded satin pillow Jonas produces from out of nowhere, Lamé turns back to me. “So, anyone give you trouble here?”
“Not at all.” I head back to the counter and grab the tip jar. “This is yours.”
“Hell no.” They turn away, a toddler refusing dinner. “The money’s for you.”
“No way! You’re injured. I just helped out. I’m not accepting your—”
“Take it or else.”
“Lamé will hurt you,” says Jonas, who clearly has experience in the matter.
With a sigh and an eyeroll, I grab the jar and stuff the cash and coins into my pockets. I’ll just give it back to them next time they work.
“Looks like you raked in the tips. Must make good coffee.”
