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He had a point. I watched him carry the now-empty plate to the kitchen, his much-prized, bloomered rear end swaying as he walked. There was a black fascinator pinned into his short curls with a huge silver feather sticking out of it.
“Nice head piece,” I said, and it wasn’t sardonic. I did like it.
He turned back to me, the smile there again. One thing great about Robin… He never stayed mad.
“Do you like it?” He touched the tip of his finger to the edge of the feather. “Sebastian says it makes me look like a nineteen-twenties flapper.”
I nodded as I put my boots in the tray. “It’s cute.”
He threw me a saucy smile. “Likeme?”
“Of course.”
“Ta-ta, then. We’ve got a good-looking crowd tonight, by the way.” He waggled his eyebrows again.
Robin Webb was British. Customers loved him because of his cheeky attitude, cockney accent and soft, plump curves. Robin was on the chubby side, and it totally worked for him. He could pull off innocent and diabolically perverse in one goddamned sentence. I alternately loved and hated him.
He looked incredible in a corset and stockings. That kind of self-confidence and the ability to feel comfortable wearing women’s underthings was an asset for any server at Molly’s. It was more important than objective good looks. Working the tables at Maverick Molly’s in Victorian lingerie all evening was not an easy way to make a living, but it was more amusing than working at a regular eatery. It still involved being on one’s feet for long stretches of time, fielding curious questions from the men who came to enjoy the ambience and pretending to be amused by suggestive jokes that had been heard countless times already.
We were also required to perform. By that I mean that over the course of an evening, two or more of us had to get on the small stage and perform bawdy skits, sing scandalous ditties and otherwise entertain the gents who were drinking, playing cards and engaging in other vintage games like backgammon and chess.
Most of the men who came to Maverick Molly’s behaved themselves. Jacob and Sebastian ran a tight operation, and the regulars—men who enjoyed the alternative types of entertainment Molly’s offered—knew what they could, and couldn’t, get away with. Occasionally, men who dropped in out of curiosity violated one of the set boundaries and were promptly and summarily dealt with. Rules of behavior were posted in several places, and there was rarely any real trouble. It was a safe and entertaining place to work.
I went past the door to the kitchen and through the one that led to the staff changing area.
“Heyo,” I said, in case of anyone in a state of undress who needed to cover their bits. But the only person in the room was still wearing his jeans and staring at the pile of vintage-looking undergarments before him with terror.
“You must be Patrick.”
He had a shock of red hair that would have made Raggedy Andy jealous and freckles that made him look like an adolescent. But what I could see of his slimly muscled body was all man.
“Yeah. Hi.”
I dumped my backpack on the hideously patterned settee. When Jacob and Sebastian had been looking for antiques to furnish their club, someone had donated this eyesore, and they’d found a place for it in here, where we needed something practical but customers wouldn’t be turned off by the unappealing aesthetic. Maybe they also figured we wouldn’t linger on our breaks, but honestly, we didn’t care what it looked like when we were exhausted and just wanted to sit down.
“I’m Toby. I was supposed to be here an hour ago, so I need to get moving. But I can help you with all that.”
Patrick seemed relieved but still overwhelmed by the task ahead.
“Um. You did realize you were gonna have to put on women’s knickers for this job?”
He swallowed. “I…yeah. But it just now hit me.”
“Yeah, it’s intimidating at first. You’ll look amazing, though.”
He blew out a breath and attempted a smile. “God, I hope so.”
I laughed. “Trust me… The customers’ll be passing you their business cards all night. Smile and pocket them but don’t say anything. All you have to do is bring them the food and drinks they ask for. Anything else is not your mandate.”
“Right. Sure.”
“Unless you want to follow up when you’re not at work. But it’s your choice. Jacob and Sebastian don’t want you serving more than they have a license for, if you get my drift.”
Patrick seemed to relax. “Yeah, I get it. Thanks.”
I grabbed the stuff off my shelf and threw it all onto the settee.
“Right. Strip,” I said to Patrick.
