Brutal Prince (Brutal Birthright)

“We might be in her section. If not, I’ll go find her.”

He looks around at the busty waitresses, and the bartenders who are wearing skin-tight pleather bodysuits, unzipped to the navel.

“So this is what Zajac’s into, huh?” he says.

“I think everybody’s into this, to one degree or another,” I reply, biting the edge of my lip and grinning just a little.

“Oh yeah?” Callum says. He’s looking at me, curious and more than a little distracted. “Tell me more.”

I nod to the corner of our booth, where a pair of silver handcuffs dangle down from a hook.

“I could see you making good use of those,” I say.

“Depends,” Callum growls, his eyes dark. “On how you behave yourself tonight . . .”

Before I can answer, our waitress comes to take our order. It’s not my friend Jada. But she says Jada is working.

“Can you send her over?” I ask.

“Sure,” the girl nods.

While we wait, the lights lower even further, and the DJ drops the music.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he croons. “Please welcome to the stage the one . . . the only . . . Eduardo!”

“Oh, you’re going to like this,” I whisper to Callum.

“Who’s Eduardo?” he mutters back.

“Shh!” I say.

A spotlight follows a slim young man who poses for a moment in its light, then saunters down to the stage. He’s wearing a fedora and zoot suit— well-tailored, with exaggerated shoulders. He has a mustache and a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

His presence is magnetic. Every eye in the room is fixed on him and on his outrageous swagger.

Right before he ascends to the stage, he pauses next to a slim, pretty blonde girl in the front row. He grabs her hand and drags her up on stage, despite her protests and obvious shyness.

Th

en he goes through a little comedy routine where he instructs the girl to hold a flower for him. The top of the flower immediately falls off, tumbling down the front of the girl’s blouse. Eduardo plucks it out again before she can move, making her shriek. Then he teaches her a dance routine, a very seductive tango, which he performs masterfully, whipping her around like a mannequin.

All the while he’s keeping up a patter of jokes and insults, making the audience howl with laughter. He has a low, smooth voice, with a slight accent.

Finally, he tells the girl that he’s finished, and asks for a kiss on the cheek. When she reluctantly puckers up her lips, he holds out his cheek to her, then turns his head at the last minute, kissing her square on the mouth.

Of course the crowd eats it up. They’re cheering and chanting, “Eduardo! Eduardo!”

“Thank you my friends. But before I go—one last dance!” he shouts.

As the music plays, he dances across the stage, swift and sharp. He grabs his fedora and yanks it off his head, letting down a spill of white-blonde hair. He tears off his mustache, then rips open the front of his suit to reveal two absolutely spectacular breasts, full and bare, except for a pair of red tassels covering the nipples. “Eduardo” hops and shimmies to make the tassels spin round, then blows the crowd a kiss, bows, and leaves the stage.

Callum looks like he got slapped in the face. I’m laughing so hard that tears are running down my cheeks. I’ve seen Francie’s show three times now, and it still blows me away. Her ability to walk and dance and speak like a man, even laugh like one, is just incredible. She never breaks character for a second, not until the very end.

“That’s Francie Ross,” I say to Callum, in case he still hasn’t figured it out.

“That’s the Butcher’s girlfriend?” he says in astonishment.

“Yup. If the rumors are true.”