I’d put on the super spy gadget sunglasses, so at least I wouldn’t have to make eye contact with them. They’d probably think I was embarrassed that my date had brought me here. While my glare would have been worthless, with or without the shades, my partner’s was in perfect working order. Men looked once, found themselves on the receiving end of Ian Byrne’s I-will-kick-your-ass scowl, and hurriedly looked away to find more interesting things to occupy their attention.
“If you’re concerned about your safety—” Ian began.
A man that bore a disturbing resemblance to a hundred-year-old Danny DeVito scurried back to his table counting out a handful of ones. I felt my lip curl. Either the bartenders made change, or Fairy Tails had its own ATM that spit out small bills.
“I’m more worried about the contents of my stomach,” I told him.
Though what I could use more than a handful of Tums were earplugs. The music was so loud it felt like the fillings were being vibrated out of my teeth, and the flashing disco lights were either going to give me a seizure or the mother of all migraines.
After my first scan of the club came up empty for leprechauns, I made myself at least glance at the dancers. Why not? I was wearing sunglasses that weren’t sunglasses, and could look without anyone, including my partner, seeing me watch. It was kind of daring and dangerous when I thought of it that way.
Cinderella had traded in her glass slippers for Lucite stripper heels, and her shoes weren’t all that see-through. Though after less than a minute of watching her perform moves with a pole that I wouldn’t have thought physically or gravitationally possible, I realized that I was a lot less embarrassed than I thought I’d be. I mean, let’s face it, the dancers had all the same boobs and bits that I had, just more of the former and were more imaginative with the landscaping and decoration of the latter.
But mainly they all looked bored. Sleeping Beauty was dancing like she was still asleep, or wished she was. And Cinderella looked like she was thinking that midnight would never get here. Their lips might have been set on smile, but their eyes said their minds were elsewhere. Maybe sorting laundry—don’t wash silver pasties with that hot pink G-string again. Or the bald guy drooling at the front table made one of them remember to pick up a honeydew melon at the store tomorrow.
They were the ones with their lady bits on display, not me. If they didn’t care, why should I be embarrassed? Stripping was a job, just like any other, except strippers could write off waxing on their taxes. When I thought about it like that, none of this was really that big of a deal. Speaking of taxes, SPI must have a creative accounting department to be able to slip things like strip club cover charges past the IRS as a business expense.
Did Ian think about it in a similar way or was he just that disciplined? He hadn’t gotten all that desk flair from letting anything affect his focus. Or maybe he simply preferred his women with factory-original parts rather than aftermarket enhancements. I took a quick glance down at my girls. As far as I could tell they weren’t anything special to look at, but at least I’d rolled off the line with them.
I glanced back up to find Ian Byrne—the senior agent at my new employment—watching me checking myself out in a strip club.
Oh, sweet Jesus.
Ignoring him—and the shadow of a smile I detected and any thoughts that may have been going on behind it—I resumed doing my job, scanning the club for leprechauns. And rogue goblins.
I saw plenty of hootin’ and hollerin’ men, but what I didn’t see where any horny leprechauns or greedy goblins, and I was frustrated by the former, and quite frankly relieved at the latter.
I leaned toward my partner. “You said we were gonna have goblins.”
“They’re the most likely competition.” Ian’s alertness increased by ten without his moving a muscle, including his lips. Impressive. “You see any?”
“No, but I’ve been wondering what we’re gonna do if or when they do show up.”
“Unless they’re standing between us and a leprechaun, we’ll just keep an eye on them. It’s a free country, and unless they break the law, that’s all we’ll do.”
“And if I see a goblin with a leprechaun?”
“We will encourage the goblin to mind his or her own business.”
“And if their business happens to be catching a leprechaun?”
“We’ll do whatever we have to do to stop it.”
Fair enough.
Fairy Tails’ seats left a lot to be desired in terms of comfort. I shifted in my seat to cross my legs—at least I tried.
And I froze in complete revulsion.
The bottoms of my shoes were stuck to the floor.
Ian must have seen my horrified expression even with the sunglasses, and his right hand instinctively moved toward his gun. “What is it?”
“My shoes are stuck to the floor.” Each word was higher, squeakier, and closer to panic than the one before. I couldn’t help it.
“It’s spilled beer,” Ian hurried to assure me.
“Beer is sticky?”
“Beer could be . . . sticky.” Ian reassured me in the same tone he’d use to talk someone off a ledge.
I wasn’t having it. Panic was in the driver’s seat and had taken the wheel. I felt tears welling up in my eyes. “It’s not beer.”
These shoes were going in the garbage as soon as I got home, if not before. Maybe I could convince Ian to add new shoes to his expense report. I loved these shoes. I’d spent more money than I should’ve on these shoes, but no amount of money was enough to pay me to keep them after tonight. And the bottle of hand sanitizer in my purse wasn’t nearly enough to wash this place off the rest of me.
I took a deep breath and tried not to think of my shoes and . . . beer.
Focus on the job, Mac. The nice job. The one you really like.
But Disney porn princesses, ATMs next to the bathrooms, fake fire, plastic goblets, even more plastic riding high in Red’s corset, and sticky floors from God only knows what. This wasn’t worth insurance and a 401k. Nothing was worth this.
Focus, Mac.
I glanced at my watch. It was a little before midnight. We had to find, apprehend, and deliver five leprechauns before dawn. And buy new shoes. This was New York City. There had to be all-night shoe shops. I’ll bet Elana knew.
Talk, Mac. Talking will help.
“You’d think that a leprechaun prince would have more . . .”
“Taste?” Ian finished for me.
“To say the least.”
Ian looked around with a dismal sigh. “Hate to burst your bubble.”
I wiggled my toes in my stuck shoes. “Oh, it’s long gone.”
I wasn’t the only one who was less than comfortable here. Mike and Steve the elves were both staring at Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty in open-mouthed disbelief. Elana had an impressive facepalm going, and her shoulders were shaking with laughter.
At a two-beat lull in the pounding music, I heard Steve say, “Can you say copyright infringement?”
Mike nodded in agreement. “Walt’s doing wheelies in his urn.”
Elana’s shoulders shook harder.
Ian put down his beer. “They’re not going to show. There’s something we’re missing.”
“Besides leprechauns—and new shoes?” I asked hopefully.
“Yes.” He stood. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get out of here.”
That was the best idea I’d heard all night.
I thought the next two clubs had to be better.
I was wrong.
And to make it even worse, I was running out of hand sanitizer.
Three sleazy strip joints. Three strikes. Same shoes.
Unfortunately, three strikes didn’t mean we were out by any stretch of the imagination, or that we could call it a night. Our night didn’t end until we found those leprechauns.
Ian had been talking on his Bluetooth, checking in with the other two teams. Not only were we running out of viable clubs to check, we were running out of night. The prince and his bachelor party were due home by dawn, and we weren’t any closer to getting the job done.