When it came down to it, I preferred not seeing the Peach. I’d seen him so rarely over the previous year that it had been easier to forget he existed. Most of my meetings with Abe had been held in the morning since he was my only club owner who woke up before noon. Going to get the orders from my other pansy parlors at night had made it more convenient for me to expel my energy there. It had also ensured my interest was mostly in the bottom line rather than wrapped up in distractions. A never-ending line of men was more comfortable to cope with than wanting one in particular. Though the mantra “Mikhailovs don’t need women” had always been my truth, I edited it in my brain to remind myself we didn’t need men, either. Unions were a liability, whether they were romantic, labor, or both. The quickest way to lose your footing was to think it was alright to fall head over heels for another person, the ultimate surrender and a perpetually unsuccessful negotiation. The last thing I needed was a distraction on my climb to nowhere, seeing as how I spent my whole life working to exist. The idea of stretching beyond stasis was daunting. Like a prudent quarterback, I belonged in the pocket, not rushing the line. I’d rather lob the ball toward something than risk everything. Cash was the goal, not glory, but it bothered me that Abraham had both.

“Do you need to be topped off?” a shaky voice asked.

I looked to my right to find Rosebud standing beside me, pigeon-toed in a pair of scuffed black T-strap heels. “Is that some kind of come-on?” I questioned, wondering why the bitty boy tried to fuck every time I was in his presence, even after he’d been consistently rejected. It was as though he lacked even a shred of pride. Perhaps hookers had happened upon hard times, too, with the conventionally employed less willing to spend their hard-earned money on private time with a prostitute.

“Not really,” he answered, pointing a slim finger toward my empty glass. “I know your drinks are on the house, and Abe trusts me behind the bar, so I figured I would get you one while he was busy. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“It’s fine,” I assured as he began to slink away. “I mean, that’s nice. I’d like another drink.”

“Really?” he asked eagerly, as if I had paid him a high compliment. “Okay. Thank you.”

He ducked through the other patrons waiting for service and hurried behind the bar to fetch my drink. I wasn’t sure what the chorus moll was thanking me for since he was the one doing the favor, but I felt less disturbed by his presence than I had before.