It’s about three a.m. when the guy comes in, Frank guesses, because he’s just getting the itch for a cigarette but knows he doesn’t have another break coming for a while. The guy is young, although not that young, not a college kid on his first strip joint tour or hazing for a frat, and anyway he doesn’t look like the type.
He looks, more or less, like a regular guy, but he’s not a) balding, b) hugely overweight, or c) wearing anything that looks particularly grimy, which puts him light-years ahead of the last three guys Frank danced for.
He also looks a little lost, which is unofficially Frank’s specialty.
“Nuh-uh,” he says, cutting Pete off by the bar. “Mine.”
Pete changes course without missing a beat, although he’s got a good-natured smirk on his face which means later he’s going to give Frank shit about stealing his customers. Whatever, Frank totally saw this one first.
Up close, the guy’s maybe a little pudgy, his clothes a little wrinkled, but it’s hardly the worst Frank has ever had to deal with. They’ve only had one fit, clean-cut guy walk in here within the last few months, and that one ended up buying in on the club, so Frank isn’t holding his breath.
“Hey,” he says with a smile. “I’m Frank. Can I get you a drink?”
The guy actually recoils at that, and Frank thinks he might be just startled, but then the guy shakes his head, dark stringy hair falling into his face, and no, definite miscalculation.
“Ice water?” Frank presses, at his most charming. “Soda? We offer a full range of Pepsi products as well as several quality juices.”
The guy stares at him. Frank just keeps smiling. Eventually black-haired dude breaks the standoff, looking down and tugging at the hem of his black hoodie. “Um, sure, thanks. Pepsi’s fine.”
“I’ll be right back,” Frank promises, but hooks the guy’s wrist just to be safe, bringing him down further onto the floor. “Why don’t you have a seat here?”
“I’m not actually…” the guy begins, and then stops, looking confused. Frank crosses his fingers that the guy stays put and doesn’t freak out, and then sashays his way hastily over to the bar.
“Pepsi, and make it quick,” he says in a low voice to Ryland across the bar. “I think I’ve got a runner.”
“Pete says I’m supposed to sabotage you for getting him first,” Ryland replies, but he’s already filling a glass, ice tinkling as it floats to the surface. “How do you always end up with the runners?”
“It’s a gift,” Frank tells him honestly, and then makes his way back over to where the new guy is sitting, fidgeting in his chair and keeping his eyes obviously off the stage. Frank doesn’t even have to look to know it’s Butcher; he recognizes the song, even if he wasn’t already keeping track of the sets.
As predicted, new guy starts to stand just as Frank reaches him, looking ready to bolt. Frank stops him with a hand on his shoulder and a smile, pretending not to notice how the guy jumps at his touch. “Pepsi,” he says cheerfully, waiting until the guy’s seated again before passing him the glass. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, and the unease seems to double when Frank swings into his lap and perches lightly on his thighs.
“Hey, relax,” Frank says. “I’m just getting comfy. What’s your name?”
“Gerard,” new guy says. “Look, uh…”
“Frank,” Frank supplies again.
“Frank,” Gerard echoes. “I’m not really…I mean, this is kind of an accident.”
