“Abraham,” I greeted, reaching my hand out toward Abe as he smiled at me from behind the bar. He was attractive with his warm brown hair and caramel eyes. He gave me faith that in two decades, time may remain gracious to me, allowing me to keep my looks while garnering glances from the type of people I wanted attention from.

“Viktor,” he said, knowing damn well I didn’t want to be called by my proper name. “How about Viki?” he teased, making me wonder if I had shot him a look of warning. “Let’s set on Vik.”

“Better,” I grinned. “Do you have any time to talk?”

“I can make time for you,” Abraham assured, wiping his hands on his suit pants unceremoniously.

The way he looked at me should have bothered me, but it didn’t. Abraham collected beautiful things, and he regarded me like I was one of them, even if I wasn’t one of his acquisitions. I peeked over my shoulder toward the stage, focusing on a man dressed as a woman singing a slow and sultry song. The gold sequins on his gown didn’t make him more feminine, yet he held the microphone stand like a broad, aching and warm. There was nothing in him as her that attracted me—after all, if I wanted to be with a woman I would have sought the real thing—but I could tell by the way some of the belles were looking at him that they found him to be a prize.

“She’s amazing, isn’t she? Ms. Misstic,” Abraham noted as he led me through a relatively quiet corridor to his office.

“I hate to break it to you, Abe, but your she is a he.”

“Not when she’s in drag she’s not.”

“Is that what they call it? Drag?” I asked. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard it, but it never stopped being confusing to me.

“That’s what they call it,” he confirmed, sitting down at his desk and gesturing for me to take the seat across from him.

“I don’t get it.”

Abe shrugged, nonplussed. “It’s not for you to get, right?” From the look in his eyes, I could tell he was on to me, that maybe some queen talked, but I chose to ignore it. He pulled out his ledger and I waited for him to run the numbers as I took in my surroundings. Abraham’s office was plain, a stark contrast to the explosion of peacock feathers in the main room. I wondered which aesthetic he related to more. Something told me the artist was a master at understanding how to make money. “We’re going through Club whiskey like it’s water.”

“Lucrative,” I noted.

“For both you and me. The more I order, the cheaper the pints, right?” The Cheshire cat lifted his eyebrows, his smile fading when I laughed heartily in response.