Chapter Five
May
The floor vibrates beneath my heels as Dee lands her spin with extra flair.
Patti shrieks “Yes, bitch!” while fanning herself with the laminated drink list. Alexa’s over-the-top extensions keep turning our routine into a sweaty, horny free-for-all.
Mondays at Sleigh Queen mean rehearsal, cleaning, restocking, and the kind of bickering you only get with people who know all your sharp edges and still stick around.
Behind the bar, T and Carlyle, our bouncer-turned-backup bartender, reset glass racks, their chatter and clinks weaving through the beat.
They pretend not to dance, but their hips betray them when they think the rest of us aren’t looking.
I perch on the edge of the stage, one fishnet-clad leg crossed over the other, my new ultra-cunty, fir-trimmed red boots swinging as the Post-Christmas medley loops for the umpteenth time.
On the floor, Dixie, Felix, and Anna bicker through a new number.
Felix keeps sneaking in pelvic thrusts; Anna threatens to staple his “dick print” to the bathroom wall.
I don’t even turn around. “Behave, or I start charging an emotional pain-and-suffering tax.”
I should be focused on the chaos around me, but my mind keeps flickering back to Friday night.
Miles was at the bar, drink in hand, elbows deep in shadow, his gaze a low hum under my skin every time I hit the stage.
He vanished before the final number, and when I checked with T, they said he paid for his twenty-dollar drink with a hundred and disappeared without a word.
I played it off, but the memory sits on my chest like a cinder block.
Since he moved back, we’ve been texting nonstop: voice notes, memes, shared playlists, and ungodly amounts of flirting.
He still remembers every stupid detail, still makes me laugh like no one else.
But every flutter in my chest is tempered by how we fell apart.
First love. First heartbreak. Two kids promising we’d circle back after college and careers.
Spoiler alert: we didn’t. We were too proud, too scared to keep the promises we made.
My daydream shatters when Patti nearly decks Dee with a candy cane prop. Dee collapses in a dramatic heap, demanding hazard pay.
“You are the hazard, darling,” I purr, flipping the hem of the velvet mini-skirt of my slutty little riff on a Martha May Whovier Santa outfit I’m testing for this number. “Now stop bitching and run it again.”
I’m halfway through hollering at Patti about her missed cue when the front door groans open.
Miles steps through, toolbox in hand. He’s in a navy work shirt, sleeves rolled just so, collar popped.
His hair’s a little wild, and there’s a smudge on his collar that’s almost definitely paint, but honestly?
A little grime only makes him hotter. No notes.
He freezes in the doorway for half a second, surveying the chaos.
Then there it is. That slow, lopsided grin.
The way he looks at me is all smolder and affection.
It takes the rest of the room three seconds flat to catch on. When they do, every single queen, bartender, and go-go boy in the joint abandons any pretense of professionalism to ogle my ex.
Nobody even pretends to hide it.
Felix nearly trips over Anna trying to get a better look.
Dee props herself up on one elbow, gives Miles an appreciative once-over, and calls, “Daddy, please fix my pipes,” like the shameless hussy she is.
Patti’s fanning herself again, this time with real commitment, and Alexa’s mouthing oh my god.
So, yeah. Subtlety is not a core competency today. Not that I can blame them.
The circus blurs into background noise as I slide down from the stage. I make a show of adjusting my skirt, letting the hem ride up a little more than strictly necessary. If Miles is going to look, and he is, that much is obvious, I’m going to give him the full holiday special.
He tries to play it cool, but I catch the tiny crinkle at the corner of his eye. He’s affected. I’m in his head. Good. I approach slowly, soaking up the attention, letting it fuel me. His gaze tracks every inch, from boots to hem to lips.
“Fancy seeing you here,” I murmur, brushing a kiss to his cheek and lingering just a little too long. “Wasn’t expecting you, handsome.”
He grins that crooked grin. “Got a call saying the place was falling apart. Figured I’d better show up before the whole bar implodes.”
I glance back at the crew, all of whom are suddenly doing everything in their power to appear extremely busy. T is polishing at Olympic-level speed. Carlyle’s cleaning the same square foot of bar like it’s cursed. Dee has discovered an urgent need to tie and re-tie her boots.
“Which one of you little bitches called the handyman?” I shout.
Crickets.
“Mm-hmm,” I mutter. “Subtle.”
I spin back to Miles. “Guess you’re here to save us from disaster.”
“Just doing my civic duty, babe.”
Something about the way he says babe knocks the wind out of me. Like we never left off. Like the last few years didn’t happen.
God, I’m in trouble.
Alexa snorts. “If you two are done eye-fucking, some of us would like to get work done.”
“Wench,” I toss over my shoulder. Then, to Miles, “Since you’re here, mind checking the upstairs fridge? It’s on the fritz again.”
He grabs his toolbox. “Lead the way.”
The stairs to the upstairs lounge creak with every step.
It’s quieter up here, the music softer, and the air smells faintly of old wood, citrus cleaner, and whatever fancy whiskey T keeps trying to push on the regulars.
The bar glows with soft purple LEDs, and the lounge itself is all overstuffed couches, retro wall art, and an abundance of private corners.
I lean against the bar with deceptive casualness, which is impressive considering I’ve spent years perfecting my angles and I am absolutely using every single one right now. After all the texting, voice notes, and flirting of the past few days, I want to bring this man to his knees.
Sure, I’m still not certain where any of this is going now that he’s back. Hell, I don’t even know if there’s an us yet. But if the flirting is anything to go by, Miles is down for at least a little fun.
He’s propped against the doorframe, hands shoved into his pockets, and looking, if I’m honest, entirely too edible for a Monday afternoon. His gaze meets mine and lingers, nothing but heat burning there.
I look at him, really look at him, the way I used to when we were both stupid kids with nothing to lose. The years have done him favors. So many favors. His stubble is thicker, his shoulders broader, and there’s just enough gray at his temples to make my stomach do embarrassing things.
I draw myself up to my full height, which in these boots is nothing to sneeze at, swishing the velvet hem of my miniskirt and petticoats as I sashay toward him.
There’s a metallic tick tick tick of my heels against the old wooden floor, echoing through the empty lounge, and it’s honestly delicious.
The anticipation, the showmanship, the way his breath hitches as I close the gap.
“See something you like?”
Miles’s lips curl into a lazy, crooked half-smile. “Just appreciating the view,” he says, openly raking his eyes up and down my body. No shame whatsoever. It’s almost cute.
Backing up, I slip behind the bar, letting my hip brush deliberately against his as I pass. He smells like sawdust and aftershave, a hint of sweat lingering beneath it, and I want to climb him like a tree.
I open the fridge with a flourish, bending at the waist just enough to give him a show. The air is chilly up here, prickling my thighs above the tops of my stockings. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll let you have a pick,” I toss over my shoulder.
Miles inhales sharply. I grin into the fridge. This is what we do. This is what we’ve always done. Wind each other up, push buttons, see who cracks first.
Behind me, he laughs, a low, hungry sound that slides right down my spine. When I turn, I catch him watching, eyes dark and intent. “Depends on your definition of good,” he says softly.
The tension in the room is not subtle. If I could bottle it, I’d make a killing selling it as poppers.
I step out from behind the bar, pressing into his space. “So, this is your plan, huh?” I purr. “Fix the fridge, flirt with the owner, see if you get to go home with a prize?”
His hands hang loose at his sides, but there’s nothing casual about the way he stands. “Not a plan,” he says, voice thick. “More like wishful thinking.”
I trail a manicured finger down his work shirt, catching on that smear of paint. I laugh, soft and wicked. “You’re easy.”
He leans in, crowding my space but not quite touching me. “Only for you.”
The words are simple. But they hit like thunder.
I tilt my head, studying him. “Is that what this is? You coming back around to finish what we started?”
“I want a second chance,” he says, voice low and rough. “At all of it. You. This. That a problem?”
The way he says you makes me ache. And the challenge underneath it, that quiet, daring question. Is it a problem? Oh, baby. He really has no idea who he’s up against.
I keep the game going, lips twitching. “Depends. What are you going to do to get it?”
“Anything,” he says without hesitation, almost a growl. My stomach flips.
My smile sharpens. “Anything,” I echo, savoring the word. “You’re sure?”
He nods, jaw set, eyes never leaving mine.
I let the moment stretch before I finally give in, letting my hand trail up his arm, lingering over the rolled sleeve and paint-stained skin beneath.
“Tell me what you want, handyman,” I whisper.
Miles’s eyes go dark, heat blazing there. “You.”
Simple. Honest. No hesitation.
I run my finger along his jaw, then let it slip down to his collar, tracing the edge where his work shirt gives way to skin and muscle. “You’re going to have to earn it.”
“Oh?” His mouth is close enough now that I can taste his breath. Mint and coffee and something that’s always been him. “And how do I do that?”
My nails ghost along the edge of his beard. “Start by kissing me like you mean it.”
His hand comes up to cradle my face, careful, reverent.
Then he kisses me. Not tentative, not polite.
It’s urgent, messy, real. Everything we never got the chance to be back then.
I moan into him, fisting his shirt to drag him closer.
He grips my waist, lifts me without effort, and sets me on the bar like I weigh nothing.
My legs wrap around him, skirts bunching, fur trim brushing his hips as he presses between my thighs.
“You’re playing with fire,” he growls against my lips.
“I am the fire,” I whisper back, biting his lower lip just enough to make him groan.
His hands roam, confident, hungry, mapping familiar territory rediscovered. My heart hammers, every nerve alight. Familiar and new all at once.
Then, with a sound torn from his chest, I pull back. Not far. Just enough. His eyes open, dark and searching, breath already uneven. I smile, sweet and dangerous.
“Easy,” I murmur, brushing my thumb over his lower lip. “If you think you get to walk back into my life and have me fall apart immediately, you’ve got another thing coming.”
I slide off the bar and give his shoulders a gentle shove.
A corner of his mouth lifts. “I didn’t say immediately.”
“Good.” I circle him, heels clicking softly. “Because you’re going to work for it.”
I trail my fingernails along his arm. “Strip. Let’s see what you’re working with.”
His brows shoot up for half a second before his mouth curves into an appreciative smirk. He starts with his shirt, popping the buttons without breaking eye contact. The fabric slips away, revealing tan skin and muscle earned through real work.
I bite my lip, letting the anticipation burn.
He kicks his boots off, followed by his jeans and briefs in one fell swoop.
He’s trying to go slow, to tease and tantalize, but his movements are just a little too jerky, a little too rushed to be fully controlled.
Once he untangles from the heap of fabric at his feet, he stands there and lets me look.
He always knew how to give a show, even when he pretended otherwise.
I circle him, heels the only sound in the empty lounge besides the rough edge of his breathing.
My hand traces his shoulder, his chest, the sharp line of his hip.
His skin is warm, alive, tension vibrating beneath it.
I let my nails scrape lightly across his abs just to watch him jump. “Not bad,” I murmur, faux-critical. “But I think you can do better.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”
I linger, drag the moment out, tasting the power of it. Then I smooth my skirt and meet his gaze.
“On your knees.”