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Zee pointed a finger at the jukebox, then me. “This is . . .” He threw his glare toward the ceiling. “He’s buying you. I know their kind. Flashy fucks who throw their cash around, believing anything can be bought. Anything. It starts with little gifts, then favors, and before you know it you’re on your knees, taking it up the ass with a leash around your neck. Is that what you want?”

I hadn’t—didn’t—definitely did not want that. Mostly. Did I? No. Wait. “What was the question?”

Zee frowned, and all the flashy arm waving and wing flicking vanished, leaving just his large, pleading eyes, that went to my heart like a sucker punch. “It’s bad news. Send it back.”

“We do need a jukebox for the bar . . . ?”

“Kitten.” He marched to me, grabbed my face in his warm hands, and peered into my eyes. “Listen to my voice. He is buying you with shiny things.”

“Maybe.” I tugged my head back, breaking free. “But we also could use a jukebox, and just so long as he’s not signing any legal documents, what does it matter if he’s throwing cash around? We can benefit. I’ll make it clear he’s not buying his way into our business. We’ve got this. And now we have a jukebox.” I skipped my gaze from his concerned face to the 1930s jukebox, with its neon arch and classic retro style. “Must be an antique.”

“Reynard’s a fucking antique. You know he’s like a thousand years old or something? Probably creaks when he fucks.” But he looked at the jukebox, eyebrow arched, and sighed. “It’s fuckin’ chic though.”

“Right? We should try it out?”

Zee rolled his eyes, and head, then his wings, and lastly his tail did a flip-flop. “Ugh. I could have bought a jukebox, but you said no, we’d already spent all the money. And I’m not allowed to”—he air-quoted—”“suck cock for cash.”

I’d tried to set up music in the bar, but as with most electronics, the speaker systems hadn’t worked. This old jukebox was analogue. Reynard had thought about it and come up with a solution. I had to give him credit for that. “Let’s plug it in.”

After a great deal of bumping, grinding, huffing, moaning, and puffing, we manhandled the jukebox into the bar, cleared a space by the wall, and plugged it in, all while Tom Collins watched on—proving yet again how generally useless he was.

Zee flicked the socket on, and the jukebox blazed to life, lit up like a rainbow chasing away storm clouds. “The last time this thing played was probably the last time Reynard got laid.”

I snickered, and hit a random button. The selection arm behind the glass shifted along the library, picked up a record, and dropped it onto a turntable. It was all very mechanical, and rather delightful. The unmistakable guitar riff from “House of the Rising Sun” by The Animals, boomed from the huge front-facing speaker.

Zee arched an eyebrow, reluctantly impressed.

I tapped my finger on the glass to the beat. “They caaaaaaall the rising sun . . .”

Zee laughed. “No, Kitten, just no. Yours is not a voice for radio.”

“You sing it then?” I suspected he could, since he lived to perform.

His eyes lit up. “Moi? Well, I couldn’t possibly—al-fuckin’-right-then.” And he sang. Not only did he sing the song word for word, he grabbed a discarded mop and strutted through the otherwise empty bar, weaving between the tables, singing as though he owned the stage in a theater full of thousands. I was enthralled, watching him sing and sway, and the song was over way too soon, with Zee left standing in front of the bar, panting hard.

The jukebox clicked.

Zee bowed—wings spread—and a crowd who had unbeknownst to me joined us, let loose a burst of applause. I clapped too.

Zee straightened as electric sparks sizzled through his wings, absorbing the attention like an addict getting his overdue fix.

“Fuck,” he breathed, bounding over and handing me the mop. “That was better than sex. Almost.”

He’d clearly loved the attention, and the guests all beamed. Some came up to him, thanking him, telling him how brilliant and talented he was, which he of course adored. I scanned the bar, visualizing how much space we had to play with. “So, here’s an idea. Shall we install a stage?”

Zee followed my gaze. “Will it have a pole?”

I opened my mouth to immediately shut him down, then paused. The idea had some merit. I wasn’t going to take advantage of his status as an adult-movie star, but he clearly thrived on attention, and just so long as he wanted to perform, where was the harm in having a pole? “Do you want a pole?”

He laughed. “Is that a trick question?”

“Just so long as you’re happy.”

“Kitten”—he chuckled—“the things I can do with a pole will feed your wet dreams for weeks.” That laugh might have been the truest, most honest laugh I’d ever heard from him. My insides did a little flip-flop at hearing it. There he was, the real Zodiac, buried deep under all his sex-obsessed layers. It was an honor that he trusted me enough to truly relax. Even if he shouldn’t trust me at all.

“Breakfast?” he asked, sauntering toward Tom Collins at the bar.

“Sure.”