Connor (Boys & Toys Season 2 1)

In no time, I’m sitting at a table by myself, I’ve already drained my whiskey sour with cherry, and now I’m staring at the stage, forlorn, no smile left on my lips. Everyone looks irritating somehow. I keep noticing a group of loud and obnoxious men near the stage guffawing over the loud club music and cheering on the dancers.

One of the men peers over his shoulder with an annoyed scowl. “Where the hell’s our shots??”

I glance at the bar. A tray full of shots sits on the counter, ready, likely left there by the bartender who prepared them. With another glance, I spot the server—wearing nothing but a bowtie and a pair of tight purple bootie shorts with big black boots—standing by the curtain of the main stage, gossiping and laughing with someone backstage.

I roll my eyes, tired of it all, and ditch my glass to head for the bar. I grab the tray myself, lift it onto a shoulder with ease, then bring it to the table of hooting men. “Here you go, boys,” I say with mock sassiness.

The man looks me up and down, then frowns. “Is tonight’s theme business attire or something?”

“More ‘or something’ than ‘business attire’,” I tease him. “Can I get you boys anything else?”

He twirls a finger in the air. “Give me a little spin-around, that’d be nice. How’s your ass look in those slacks? They fit you like a glove.”

“You can see it for yourself as I walk away,” I throw back at him, feeling smart, or perhaps simply a bit loose from my one drink, then turn around.

A finger slips into the waist of my pants.

I spin around to protest … until I realize it’s a twenty-dollar bill he just tucked into my waistband.

“I, uh …” I pull it out, suddenly feeling wrong. “I … don’t actually work here. I can’t accept this.”

“You will accept it,” says the man, “and that is a damned shame, because I’d pay to see your sweet ass every night.” He squints at me. “You’ve got a bit of a twang. You from Arkansas?”

I’m going to get people guessing every damned state in the south before someone actually gets it right. “Kansas,” I tell him, the twenty pinched between my fingers, “and thank you, but I still can’t accept—”

He pushes the twenty to my chest. “You can.”

Then the dancers on stage start to do a clever maneuver around the same pole, and a new wave of cheering erupts from the men at the table. I walk away with that twenty pinched between my fingers, my eyes wide, my mouth unable to close.

Well, at least I’m not going home empty-handed.

I return the tray to the bartender, who is too busy cleaning glasses to acknowledge me, enjoying the lack of customers, no doubt. I quickly pull out my phone to text Alan about what just happened.

I’m halfway through typing the sentence “I just got tipped twenty dollars at a bar for doing someone else’s job” when I feel a presence at my side. I look up to find a round-bellied man in a tight leather vest and matching pants, with a thick bushel of hair on his chest and absolutely none on his pale, freckly head.

A pair of glasses rests at the end of his big nose. He peers at me over them. “Hey, you,” he says in a curt, clipped manner—no hint of suggestiveness in his tone. “Why’re you doing my shot boy’s work?”

“I … Sorry, what?”

“I’m the general manager here at Aubergines. I asked you a question. Hey, why’re you looking at me with those doe eyes like I’m speaking Russian? I saw you bring those men their shots.”

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, finally pulling out of my daze. “I didn’t mean to do your shot boy’s work.”

“Of course you did, hon. You saw a distressed customer, and you took the right action. I’m Larry. Everyone’s heard of me, even if they haven’t.”

“Hi. I’m Connor. Am I … in trouble …?”

“Sweetie, are you always this skittish? I saw you here the other night with Brett. He’s a good guy. If he trusts you, I trust you. Tell you what.” He sniffs loudly, his reddened bulb of a nose jumping. “You ever work in a nightclub before?”

I blink, staring at him wet-eyed. “No.”

“I happen to be in need of a new shot boy. My last one was fired. By me. Just now. You want the job or not? I got shit to do, hon, just say yes.”

11

“Are you serious??”

“Yep! Just like that!” I exclaim to Alan, then let out a bubbly burst of laughter. “I’m still in shock. I can’t even describe to you how much rejection I’ve been facing, left and right. It isn’t easy getting a job here! Shoot, back home …”

“Aw, shoot,” teases Alan, mimicking my twang.