Page 40 of Twisted Prince
I give her a cold stare, unamused by her attempt at humor.
She clears her throat uncomfortably, color flooding her cheeks as she straightens. “Sorry. I can’t give out employees’ personal information.”
“So he does work here, then?” I press.
Her blush intensifies as she realizes she unwittingly gave me more information than I had to start.
“I-I-I?—”
“It’s fine. What’s the cover charge?”
“Fifty dollars,” she says, seeming relieved that I’m ready to move on.
I place the crisp bill on her host stand and head inside before she can stop me.
The massive club is filled with music and laughter, and I’m mildly impressed to find it’s a full house, even on a Tuesday night. Tiers of table-side seating fill the first floor, with several balconies’ worth of finely made dinner tables looking out on the stage as well.
Each one is lit with a dim lamp, allowing just enough light for customers to enjoy their meal. But the real lighting is reserved for the showgirls on stage. Several beautiful women dressed in skimpy costumes dance there now, performing to an energetic song. From the hats and color scheme, I’d assume they’re supposed to be sailor girls. But their outfits are little more than themed lingerie, so I can’t be positive.
Finding little to interest me on stage, I scan the club for its owner and come up empty. But I do recognize several of his men sitting among the audience—and three of my brothers hidden in the shadows of the stage. No doubt there to keep any rowdy customers from trying to climb up and join the girls.
Making my way to the bar, I lean against the dark-stained wood and catch the bartender’s eye.
With a sultry smile, she strides over. “What can I get you tonight, handsome?”
“Sascha Lycaon. He here?”
Suspicion flickers across her face, and she eyes me more pointedly now. “Who’s asking?”
“His brother.”
The bartender snorts. I’m sure she hears that one all the time. She’s probably been trained to take it with a grain of salt.
“Look, if I leave a message with you, could you get it to him?”
After a momentary hesitation, she gives a stiff nod, making the short, dark hair that frames her face bounce.
“Just tell him Gleb’s in town. I’m here for a few days and would love to see him. I’m staying at the Beacon, room 303.” Leaning across the bar to snatch the pen from behind her ear before she can stop me, I take a cocktail napkin and scribble my cell phone number on it. “If he wants to call me.”
She cocks an eyebrow and reaches out slowly to accept the napkin and her pen once more. “You sure this isn’t some strange tactic to try and hit on me?” she asks mildly. “Because if it is, it might be working.”
“You’ll give him the message?” I press, ignoring her flirtation and sweeping my gaze across the space behind her to make sure I’m not missing anything.
“Yeah, handsome. I’ll give him the message. You want a shot or anything? On the house. You look like you could use a drink.”
Shifting back to meet her heavily painted eyes, I study her coolly. “I don’t drink.”
“Hmm,” she says glibly. “Maybe you really are related.” Slipping the pen back behind her ear, she stalks away.
The song comes to an end behind me, and as the live band goes silent, signaling curtain close, I turn around. I think that’s my cue to leave. I’m not going to get any more useful information here tonight—not until after the club is closed. I can come back then to speak with my brothers once they’re off shift. They’ll be more willing to talk.
Pushing off the bar, I give one last sweep of the room with my eyes. And as the soft, crooning notes of the next song begins, the curtain rises.
It’s her.
Mel.
Standing before the prop microphone.
