Page 32 of Sins of a King

“Ah, if only I had that power,” he said with a grin.

“The feigned humility freaks me out.”

“Sorry, I’ll stop.”

After we ordered drinks from a sever, I said, “So, have you ever thought about having more than just burlesque?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean what about singers? You could give a little more variety to the performances. Maybe even do vaudeville style vignettes.”

“It’s a good idea. I’ll think about it.”

“Yeah?” I asked in excitement.

“You have any more good ideas?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Well, when you think of more, let me know.”

“I will,” I promised.

Sitting in Flynn’s booth, not being able to touch him, was killing me. But there were eyes watching.

“I should head back to my table,” I said with obvious reluctance.

“Probably,” he agreed.

I sighed and unenthusiastically stood up. As I made my way back toward Ash, I heard a shout, followed by Alia’s scream. I watched as someone pulled her down into the fray of the audience.

Security monitoring the club rushed to her aid, extracting Alia from the turmoil. She was sobbing and holding her face while a burly security guard escorted her out of the club to the lobby. The four-piece band had gone silent and patrons were shouting and screaming. Two security guards hauled a tall, muscular man by the arms into the club’s office. Flynn zoomed past me. Before I could think about what I was doing or who would see me, I followed him, shutting the office door behind me. The security team threw the man into a chair. No small feat considering his size. Brad Shapiro, Flynn’s head of security, stood with his arms crossed over his bulging chest. He looked like he could tear a man’s arms from his body. I was surrounded by giants.

Flynn, cold with fury, loomed. “What’s your name? Look at me, bastard.”

“Simon Lewis,” the man mumbled, lifting his head, showing glassy eyes.

“He’s on something,” Brad said.

Flynn muttered a curse and then gestured with his chin. A security officer went to the computer and typed something on the keyboard. A moment later, Simon’s photo and information appeared on screen.

“What are you on?” Flynn demanded.

Simon shrugged, and then his eyes rolled back into his head. He slumped into the chair and started seizing.

“Someone has to call an ambulance,” I said, my voice rising in panic.

“No!” Flynn barked.

“He could be—”

“No one can know,” Brad clipped.

I didn’t suggest it again, but I had no idea what to do, feeling utterly useless as I watched everything unfold. Simon stopped seizing, and his limbs stilled. He was breathing, but it was shallow.

“Get Jordan to handle this,” Flynn demanded to Brad. “Then find out how Alia is and call me.” Flynn looked at me and commanded, “Wipe that look off of your face. Smile.”

Obediently, a smile flashed across my mouth. Flynn opened the office door and went out first. The band was still silent and patrons looked at us, hoping to discern the truth.