A Queen Among Gods

Unexpected Reunion - Gabriella

The lights are flashing, the music is pumping, the drinks are flowing, and I’m drowning in tips.

Let’s be real, how many people can say they have a job that is genuinely fun and exciting? I know it’s a pretty common practice for people to hate and complain about their jobs, but I love mine. I get to spend paid time somewhere that’s like a second home to me, surrounded by all my friends and for the most part, really nice patrons. I’m either working behind the bar, or I’m up on stage dancing like there’s no tomorrow and gracing the crowd with the voice nature gave me. I couldn’t imagine being stuck behind a desk, or worse, working retail. I shudder at the thought.

The music transitions into playing that summer banger from a few years back Rush by Troye Sivan and almost immediately I see several shirts come off on the dancefloor. My eyes lock with Cassandra who is working behind the bar with me, as we begin to sing and dance along while we serve the customers.

“Can I get two Singapore Slings?!” A patron yells out. I nod and get to work on making his cocktails while I continue to groove along to the music.

As I’m mixing away, Cassandra gives me a few hip bumps which I happily return as I slide the drinks across the bar. I put his order into the machine, then hand over the POS machine and allow him to tap his card on it. As he takes his drinks and walks off, I print out the receipt and see he left me a $10 tip. With a big grin on my face I circle the tip on the receipt in green – my most hated colour – to indicate the tip was for me and then put it in the back of the till.

When Derrick took over as manager he implemented a colour code system for tips. He doesn’t believe sharing tips is fair because someone who did less work shouldn’t be rewarded with the money that was freely given to someone who did more. So, when we get tips, if it’s on card we have to identify using our coloured markers who the tip goes to, and if it’s in cash, we each have a designated jar behind the bar. There was one little b***h who used to try stealing other people’s tips, but Derrick installed a security camera under the bar which put a stop to it. Also firing her ass helped as well.

The music eventually transitions into the dance mix version of No More Tears (Enough is Enough) featuring the iconic Barbra Streisand and Donna Summer, and when I tell you the gays are losing their s**t, I mean that wholeheartedly. The Glitter Hole doesn’t shy away from playing classic songs from gay icons and I couldn’t be more grateful because they just don’t make music like this anymore.

I continue to serve drinks, but when the chorus drops Cassandra and I simultaneously lose our composure – if we had any – and bust out some classic seventies dance moves. I reach out for her hand, which she takes as I spin her into my arms and spin her back out with smiles plastered on our faces. Everyone is cheering and hollering, loving every second of it, that is until my shoe catches on the rubber matt, and I end up flat on my ass on a sticky as hell floor.

Sticky asses aside, I can’t get back up because I’m too busy laughing, and Cassandra can’t help me because she’s too busy keeping her thighs clenched in an attempt not to pee herself.

“You went down harder than most of the customers have in the bathroom tonight!” she cries, laughing hysterically.

I lay back on the ground with no regard for my dignity, clutching my stomach as I continue to laugh. “Stop it, I can’t get up,” I say between laughs.

“She’s fallen and she can’t giddy up,” Cassandra taunts, only making herself laugh harder with a resounding snort. She clutches the bar trying not to fall down as her body is wracked by laughs, and at this point, I’m f*****g gone. That epic snort that would shame a farm of pigs was the final nail in my coffin.

“My god you two are hopeless,” I hear a familiar voice tsk on the other side of the bar. That shouldn’t be as funny as I find it, and yet all I can do is laugh like a hyperactive dolphin.

I manage to take air into my lungs and slowly get up off the ground and wipe the tears from my eyes as I look at Dan, who is the manager on shift tonight.

“We were just having a bit of fun,” I say as I finally gain back my composure.

“You should try it sometime. I guess I don’t need that ab workout tomorrow,” Cassandra chuckles, making me snort in amusement. I love this girl.

“Well, when you two are done giving yourselves an on-the-clock workout, I need you, Ella to go and serve a couple of patrons up in the VIP lounge. They’ve ordered ten shots of tequila and ten shots of whiskey,” he says, snapping his fingers.

I stare at him in confusion, “Um, why are you asking me?”

He blinks for a moment and looks off with a befuddled expression, “Huh, I actually have no idea.” He shakes his head straight and focuses on me. “But it doesn’t matter. I’m your boss tonight, so if I tell you to go serve a couple customers, then you go serve them.”

“I’m a bartender, not a server. Bartender means I tend to the bar, it’s literally in the job title,” I argue.

“It’s not going to kill you, and you might even make a good tip. So quit your whining and just go and do it,” he says, tossing his long brown hair over his shoulder – hair extensions by the way – and walking off.

“That guy needs some serious d**k. Maybe then he’ll stop being such a b***h,” Cassandra mocks.

I smile and get to work pouring the drinks and placing them on a serving tray. “He’s just one of those people with a power complex. He’s too chicken to try that s**t when D is on shift because he knows my boy would eat him alive,” I say proudly.

“Nothing makes my night more than watching him read a b***h to filth,” she says, raising her hand to the sky in praise.

“I’m just going to take these upstairs; will you be good for a few minutes?”

“You mean will I be okay making all the tips for a few minutes? I think I’ll manage,” she says cheekily.

I smile at her, carefully lift the tray, and make the arduous trek through the crowd and up to the VIP lounge trying not to spill twenty shots of hard liquor on myself or anyone else. The club has three dimly lit VIP lounges, each small and intimate, decked out with silver cushioned lounges forming a U-shape around the room, lined with pillows and if that wasn’t enough padding, the walls themselves are covered in velvet silver cushion padding for an intimate aesthetic that also helps dampen some of the music. The ceilings are fitted with lights to give it this galaxy effect, and speaking from experience, getting high in one of these rooms and staring at the ceiling is a f*****g trip.

I walk up the stairs with cautious steps managing to balance the tray in one hand while I open the door with the other. I enter the lounge only to be hit with this wave of static electricity so thick it’s almost suffocating, yet incredibly comforting at the same time. I take a few steps and place the tray on the small table and as I do I feel a set of eyes burning a hole in my skull. I lift my head only to freeze in place as I look into an extremely familiar pair of liquid silver eyes, staring at me with an intensity that makes my mouth go dry.

It’s him!

Holy f*****g s**t!

What the f**k is he doing back here? I mean, I know it’s him. How many guys have long voluminous snow-white hair that looks like something out of a Pantene commercial, with unbelievable silver-coloured eyes and are built taller and bulker than a Sherman Tank? The dude stands out like a sore thumb. The corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, that not even his equally white beard can hide. Does that mean he recognises me? I watch, glued to the spot as his eyes slowly roam my body as if committing it to memory and I do a quick mental check of what the f**k I put on tonight.

I went with beige khaki flag pocket booty shorts, a half button-down white halter-neck top with a collar and black platform wedge sneakers with diamantes over the toes and around the ankle. My makeup is always on point – ain’t no one clocking my mug – and my hair is done in a long plait that reaches down my back. I look hot, so I have absolutely no issue being reunited in this outfit. He, on the other hand, is dressed more down than when I last saw him and yet still looks good enough to eat. He’s wearing one of those black hooded workout tank tops with a drawstring collar, super tight ripped-out white jeans and white sneakers. Given the size of the muscles littering his body, I can’t help but wonder whether or not the jeans were ripped before or after he put them on.

I hear the sound of a throat being cleared, which breaks me out of this hypnotic staring contest I found myself in. I straighten up and notice the person next to him, and as soon as I see the fire truck red dreadlocks, I know this is the same person who was with my mystery man the other night. Now that he – or more likely they – is maskless I can appreciate just how inhumanly good-looking they are too. Seeing as how they aren’t dwarfed by Zeus over here; I have to guess they are also over seven feet tall. I’ve never in my life met someone who was over seven feet tall, and now I’ve encountered two in a week.

I briefly blink in surprise when I notice they have the exact same liquid silver eyes. I’m trying to see a contact line on either of them, but I just can’t see one, and now that I’m this close to both of them, I can’t clock a wig line either. If both their hair is real then I do not want to see their salon bill.

The one with red hair has the smoothest dark espresso skin, full lips with cheekbones and a jawline cut so sharp they should be listed as deadly weapons. They’re dressed in high-waisted black leather pants, a black fitted – I assume – long-sleeved top with a black leather turtleneck collar, a long black coat with a wide black fur collar with once again, fabulous heels! Well, no heels actually. They’re black latex heelless platform boots. They look like a Caribbean, b**m fantasy, and I’m seriously here for it. I’m also really hoping they’re just friends, and this isn’t some open relationship or some polyamorous thing I’m being invited into. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but I don’t share.

The redhead suddenly turns their head away as if to keep from laughing, and I can’t figure out what they suddenly find so amusing. Nevertheless, I’m on the clock so I try to be professional, even though I’m just a couple feet away from a guy who had his fingers inside me a few nights ago.

“Enjoy your drinks and if there’s anything else you need, just hit the buzzer and a server will be with you,” I say with a smile and turn towards the door.

“Thank you, Gabriella,” says that deep magnetic baritone voice that sends my nerves into hyperdrive.

I freeze with my hand on the door handle as every libidinous thought quickly exits my brain. I slowly turn to face my former seducer with distrustful eyes.

“What did you just call me?” I ask.

He quirks a bushy but sculpted brow, “Gabriella?”

“How the hell do you know my name?” I ask accusingly as the redhead looks between us in amusement, taking a shot of tequila and downing it like it was water.

“I asked around,” he shrugs nonchalantly.

“Bullshit,” I clap back, crossing my arms over my chest.

The look of shock on this man’s face is as if no one has ever dared speak back to him. Well, he’s in for a rude awakening. I don’t care if he has the body of a 28-year-old Adonis with hair whiter than pure amphetamines.

“Why exactly do you think that’s bullshit?” he asks with genuine curiosity.

“Because we have a code here, no one on staff refers to anyone by their real name and we sure as f**k don’t go handing out each other’s personal and private information to strangers. It’s a safety precaution we all follow, and since these people are like family, I know there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that any one of them told you my name,” I say churlishly.

The redhead’s face breaks into a wide smile, “Oh, I like her,” they comment.

“Get out,” my mystery man orders without breaking his eyes away from me.

The redhead looks annoyed, “You know you really need to stop kicking people out of places you don’t own.” His companion just looks at him with a face that says, ‘Don’t f**k with me.’ The redhead huffs in exasperation and gets up. They picks up another shot and down it before walking over to me then lean down bring their lips to my ear, “Good luck with him,” he whispers, then leave the room.

It’s now just me and mystery man alone in this room and I don’t know how I feel about that. He leans forward with his elbows on his knees, still looking at me with that same intensity. “You’re right, I didn’t ask for your name,” he confesses, surprising me. I was sure he’d keep trying to lie to me.

“So then how did you know my name?”

“Would you believe me if I said I read your mind?” he says, with not a hint of humour in his voice.

So, I’m normally someone who can spot a lie a mile away. And don’t go using my ex against me, technically he never lied, he just never told me anything, so my record still stands. Point is, I would swear he’s telling the truth if his version of the truth didn’t sound so ludicrous.

“You really expect me to believe that?” I say dubiously, “Do I look stupid to you?”

He gets up, his head almost hitting the ceiling as he walks over to me. As he gets dangerously close to my personal space, I start to back up until my back hits the door with a thud. Now boxed in, he leans his forearm against the door above my head and leans down so we’re at eye level, “I wouldn’t lie to you,” he says wholeheartedly, as his scent invades my senses with this heady aroma that feels like it’s trying to rob me of my faculties. He smells sweet, but warm with masculine undertones and yet at the same time smells exactly like a thunderstorm in the middle of summer.

I try to focus my thoughts as I place my hand on his chest, feeling my fingertips burn where they touch his bare skin. I have to suppress the gasp wanting to escape me as I focus on the task at hand: getting this guy out of my personal space for the sake of my sanity.

“Listen budget Thor,” I snap, causing his eyes to widen in incredulity, “I think you need to back up on out of my personal space, comprende?”

Instead of listening to me, he leans in further until I feel his warm breath against my ear, “That’s not what you wanted the other night,” he says in a husky voice.

I gulp as a shiver comes over my body and I resist the impulse to clench my thighs, “The other night was different, and I gave my consent.”

He instantly straightens up and takes a step back, surprising me again, but immediately making the air easier to breathe.

“Ezillus and I are not in an open or polyamorous relationship,” he says while sliding his hands into his pockets, and something about that action tells me it’s done in an attempt to keep himself from touching me.

“Who?” I ask in confusion.

“The friend who was in here. You thought we were possibly an item; I assure you we aren’t. While Ezillus does not discriminate when it comes to the gender they bed, I’m far more selective,” he says with a smirk.

I stare at him in disbelief… holy f**k. How the hell did he know I was thinking that?! There’s no f*****g way he can read my thoughts.

“How are you doing that?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

“How?” I ask sceptically.

“Because to explain how I can, I would have to explain what I am, and I don’t think you’re ready for that,” he says, with an almost anxious tone to his voice.

“You could start with a name. You know mine, but I don’t know yours.”

He smiles and nods, “My name is Jartre,” he says, holding out his hand in greeting.

I’ve never heard of such a name, but I like it. It’s unique, like him.

I cautiously reach out and shake his hand, feeling my hand burn from the contact, but the burning is more likely to make me moan than scream.

“Okay, Jartre. What do you mean you’d have to explain to me what you are? What are you? A CIA agent? Secret government experiment?” I say mockingly.

“A God,” he deadpans.

“Oookaaay, I think that’s enough talking now.” f*****g hell, why do I always attract the crazy ones? “So, I’m going to go now, and you are not going to follow me.”

“You’re going to believe me sooner or later,” he says confidently as if he’s stating a known fact.

“Right… Well, this was fun, but I have to get back to work now so… bye,” I say as I quickly dash out of the lounge.

The moment I shut the door behind me I can feel my senses clearing and the air becoming lighter. I make my way down the stairs in disbelief and an overwhelming amount of shame. The first guy I let touch me in months and he’s a f*****g nutcase, can I pick them or what?

I compose myself, make me way back down to the bar, and immediately start helping Cassandra with the drink orders, the whole while my head is spinning. I’ve never had someone look and sound so sincere while telling me something so unbelievable, but at the same time, there is no possible way he could have known I thought they were in a polyamorous relationship, not even in a gay bar. Maybe the God part was a joke, or he’s just got that much of an inflated ego. Common sense tells me he’s talking crap, but there’s that voice in the back of my head that wants to believe him. After all, if it were reversed and I told him, I knew his name because I saw it in a dream because in my dreams I see the future, he’d think I’m as crazy as I think he is. Who am I to judge what’s crazy and what isn’t?

“Ella, are you okay?” Cassandra suddenly asks, making me jump out of my skin. I didn’t even notice her approach me.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine,” I say dismissively. Even in this light, I can see her ebony skin wrinkle in concern.

“I’ve never seen you this jumpy before, are you sure you’re okay?” she presses.

I hand a customer their drink, take their cash and put it in the till before I face her, “Did you give out my name to anyone who asked?”

She frowns in confusion, “No. You know none of us would do that, not after that time Billie’s dad came looking for him,” she says with disgust. Yeah, that was not a good night. “Why, what’s going on?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“Ella…”

“I mean it Cass. I just bumped into a one-night stand, that’s all,” I say. I figure a half-truth will get her off my back.

“Ugh, I hate when that happens. Like honey, if I wanted your name or number I’d have asked. Take the hint and move on,” she says walking to the other end of the bar, “If he starts getting pushy with you, you come get me and I’ll put these acrylics to work,” she says, flaunting her stiletto nails.

I chuckle but smile at her graciously, “This is why I love you.”

“Girl, who doesn’t?” she says confidently.

With Cassandra now appeased, I get back to work, but the whole time I can’t shake the feeling that Jartre is somewhere around here watching me, but whenever I look around I don’t see him, and he’s not easy to miss, so I guess it’s all just in my head.

***

It’s 4 am and my shift is finally over, but I can safely say my head has been swimming all night. I tried to be my usual effervescent self, but that interaction with Jartre hasn’t left my mind. I have to admit it’s nice to be able to put a name with the face – or fingers – instead of calling him ‘my mystery man’, which had gotten old real damn fast.

As I’m walking down the street, making my way to my loft, I have my keys in my hand as usual, armed with a spiked ring, a whistle, and pepper spray. Not saying this is a bad neighbourhood, but no woman should take the risk when walking home alone in the middle of the night. I would rather be overly cautious and not need it than need it and not have it.

I take my earbuds out of my bag and plop them in my ears then open up my phone to put on some music. As I stop at the crossing to pick a song, I can hear the sounds of screeching tires and suddenly my field of vision is filled with blinding headlights as a car floors it around the corner way over the speed limit and comes straight towards the curb where I’m standing. It’s coming so fast that I don’t even have time to shut my eyes as it’s just about to hit me when I suddenly feel strong arms wrap themselves protectively around me and a familiar scent surrounds me. I shut my eyes tight bracing for impact that never comes.

I slowly open one eye, still expecting to see bright headlights coming for me, but I don’t see anything. Actually, I see something, but it doesn’t make any sense. I tilt my head back to find bright silver eyes staring down at me as if they saw a ghost. I break my eyes away and look around only to find myself growing increasingly more confused by the second. Jartre’s arms slowly drop as I step back and look around at the inside of my loft.

How the f**k did I get here?

I carefully look around recognising the various nickknacks and photos of me around the room that prove this is undoubtedly my loft. But I don’t understand how the f**k I got here. Did I black out? Even so, how does he know where I live? How did he even get in the building?! I look over at Jartre’s mountain form eclipsing my living room with his size as he stands there patiently watching me.

“There was a car… and then… but how…” I blabber in confusion.

“Now can we talk?”