Page 21 of Dirty Work
I don’t tell her that’s what my father thought, too. But when he returned to the consulting firm that bore his name after his heart attack, the business was in shambles. And less than six months later, it was gone, along with our home and most of our savings, including my college fund. It took years for our family to recover, financially and emotionally.
Years I don’t particularly want to rehash with Ainsley.
“So, food,” I say, figuring that’s a safe change of subject. “What do you feel like? We can go out or order in. I have a bunch of menus in the kitchen. Burning water’s my specialty, too.”
Hell, I don’t even know whether my housekeeper stocked the fridge this week. I haven’t looked in there since I got back from the hospital. For all I know, there’s nothing on the shelves but craft beer and condiments.
“Let’s get out of here. You need a change of scenery.” She scoops up her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “And I know just the place.”
We take Roscoe for a quick walk to do his business then catch the C train at Chambers Street. Half an hour later, we’re sitting on vinyl-upholstered chairs in a fifties-style diner, surrounded by drag queens in poodle skirts and saddle shoes belting out show tunes while serving burgers and milkshakes. Or, in our case, root beer floats.
“What do you think?” Ainsley takes a sip of her float and eyes me over the top of her glass. “Pretty great, huh?”
A Cher wannabe finishes crooning “If I Could Turn Back Time” and hands the mic over to a queen in a tiara, feather boa and elbow length gloves who launches into a rendition of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” that sounds more like Marilyn Monroe than genuine article. The crowd—impressive for a weekday lunch—is totally into it, laughing and clapping as Marilyn ruffles the hair of an unsuspecting diner and drapes herself seductively across his lap.
“Great? It’s fucking genius.” I snag a napkin from the stainless steel dispenser, borrow a pen from a passing waitress and start scribbling. The wheels in my head are spinning fast and furious. Drag karaoke nights. A stage show. Maybe even a monthly Sunday drag brunch. There’s a whole market just waiting for us to tap.
“What are you doing?” Ainsley asks.
“Jotting down a few notes,” I answer without looking up. “I want to talk to Connor about doing some stuff like this at Top Shelf.”
Before I realize what she’s up to, she snatches the napkin out from under my fingers and holds it out of my reach. “No work. Not today. Today is for celebrating.”
She turns a blinding pearly white smile on me, and my dick twitches. “What are we celebrating?”
“Whatever you want.” She folds the napkin and tucks it safely away in her purse. “The sun in the sky. The leaves on the trees. The best root beer float in the five boroughs. And the fact that we’re here enjoying it all instead of wasting this beautiful day slogging away at work.”
She sips her drink, leaning forward to take the straw between her lips. She toys with it as she sucks, and my dirty mind replaces the red-and-white-striped cylinder with my cock, which hardens predictably, pressing against my fly. I take a sip of my own float, hoping it will act like a splash of ice-cold water to my libido, and reach under the table to surreptitiously adjust my jeans. When she finishes, she sits back and pushes her glass away with a satisfied sigh.
“What do you have against work?” I ask as a waitress drops off our entrées. Big, juicy cheeseburgers with thick-cut steak fries. Ainsley insisted on ordering for both of us, and I’m man enough to let her take the lead if that’s what she wants. I’ll have to put in some extra time at the gym to work off the carbs once my arm is out of this sling, but judging by the mouth-watering smells wafting from the plate in front of me, it’ll be worth it.
“I don’t have anything against work,” she insists. “But some people don’t know when to give it a rest. You know what they say. All work and no play makes Jake a dull boy.”
She crosses her legs, letting one sandal dangle from her prettily painted, cotton candy pink toes, and gives me a playful, come-hither stare over her burger that’s enough to make me forget we’re in the middle of a crowded restaurant. I’m about to haul her across the table, onlookers be damned, and remind her how not dull I can be, but I don’t get the chance. Marilyn’s on the prowl, looking for her next unsuspecting target, and she’s heading my way. The next thing I know, she’s got her boa wrapped around my neck while she sings in my ear about Tiffany and Cartier and rocks that are square cut or pear-shaped.
Some guys might feel threatened by having a drag queen hang all over them, but not me. I’m secure enough in my masculinity to laugh and play along. Marilyn finishes the number with a flourish, thanks me for being a good sport, and moves on, and I turn my attention back to Ainsley, who’s munching on her burger with a bemused smile on her face.
“Still think I’m dull?” I ask, popping a fry into my mouth.
“I never said you were dull.” She dabs at the corner of her mouth with her napkin, mischief dancing in her eyes. “Exactly.”
Her phone chimes from the depths of her purse, and she reaches inside to dig it out.
“Shit,” she mutters as she reads the screen, her face suddenly serious, all traces of amusement gone. “I have to take this.”
“Let me guess. Work.”
She nods, at least having the good grace to look ashamed.
“Who’s the dull one now?” I tease as I take a bite of another steak fry. I haven’t braved the burger yet. The thing’s the size of a small car. I’m still trying to figure out how I’m going to manage it one-handed.
“I’m sorry. It’ll just take a second.”
She ducks outside to take the call. When she returns a few minutes later, a worried frown creases her forehead.
“Is everything all right?” I ask as she slides back into her seat.
She shakes her head. A lock of hair escapes from her ever-present ponytail, and she tucks it behind her ear. “I have to cover for Erin. She’s stuck on the subway. I hate to eat and run, but I’ve got to get downtown before three to pick up a penis cake.”
