"I need another round for table eight, two long island ice teas and a fuzzy navel." Abby unloaded the empty glasses on top of the bar, then leaned against it to give her aching feet a much needed break.

"Girl, you look like you've been rode hard and put away wet," Scotty, the bartender, stated in his exaggerated southern drawl. He gave her the gay eye once over as he sashayed over to grab the empties and started mixing her order.

It didn't offend Abby. After working for six months at the drag club, she'd seen and heard it all. Mike hired all sorts, gay men, straight men, lesbians...you name it. His thinking was to keep things fresh and unexpected. He didn't want the Kit Cat to be classified as a stereotypical homosexual club. With the thousands of clubs all around New York, he wanted his to stand out and he succeeded in making the club one of the cities top hot spots. The shows at the Kit Cat were the best in the business.

Super stars of the drag world such as Ru Paul, Chi Chi LaRue and Sharon Needles had graced the stage over the years, sending the popularity of the club into orbit. On weekends it was standing room only. The crowds were always a fusion of straight and gay, male and female, married and single. It was actually a fun place to work when you weren't worried about gangrene setting in.

"You can blame Jo Jo for that," Abby complained with a soft whimper as she tried to ease some of the pain of her right ankle by leaning more heavily on her left. Wincing slightly, she realized it didn't help much. What she needed was the ability to levitate.

Scotty snickered, "You should know better than to take fashion advice from that over done bitch. Although, I have to say, that blond on you is fabulous!" Putting one hand on his hip, he gave her two snaps with the other.

"Scotty, you must get tired of putting make-up on two faces in the morning," Steph teased as she placed her tray on the bar.

"Oh please, girl. Your face looks like the Crayola factory exploded, so don't even start your trash talk with me." Scotty, taunted as he set the two long islands on Abby's tray. "Besides, this isn't make-up. It's called a tan baby. Something your pasty ass wouldn't know anything about." He winked at Abby, flounced back to his station and started working on the fuzzy navel.

"Nice tan! What's your race? Carrot?" Laughing, Steph and Abby dodged an orange slice as it sailed past their heads.

"Hardy, har har," Scotty stuck he tongue out at the both of them as he placed the finished drink next to the others. "You won't be laughing when Mike gives me a shot and Miracle Monroe becomes a star." Flicking imaginary hair over his shoulder, he strutted to the other end of the bar to tend to more customers.

"Pfft...he had better learn to tuck if he wants that to ever happen," Steph leaned over to Abby and whispered conspiratorially. "I watched rehearsals last week, and he was doing a dance number to Mrs. Robinson," she giggled. "It ended up being all about Mr. Johnson if you catch my drift."

"Eww," Abby cringed. "There's a visual I did not need, thank you."

"Yeah, well be thankful it's just a visual. I had to actually see it and let me tell you, there's not enough bleach to wash that away." Steph shuddered. "Anyway, I came over here to tell you that I set a couple of suits in your section." She vaguely waved over her shoulder in the direction of Abby's tables as she started unloading glasses off her tray.

"Awe, come on Steph! I've already been coerced into staying later than I planned. Can't you give them to Layla?"

"No, I can't. I'm already picking up three of her tables and if..." Before she could finish Layla came bounding in their direction. The heel of her pumps slipped on the forgotten orange slice and she came sliding towards them with arms and legs flaying in every direction trying to catch her balance. Glasses flew into the air glinting in the lights before cascading down and shattering into a gazillion pieces on top of the bar and floor. Abby grunted when Layla's body crashed into hers, crushing her against the bar.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Layla gushed trying valiantly to dislodge herself away from Abby, but only succeeding in shoving her further against the edge. "I'm still learning to walk in these shoes," she said while picking up her foot and showing off her stiletto tiger striped pump. Her strong Latino accent made it sound like chews rather than shoes.

"It's okay Layla," Abby mumbled rubbing her sore shoulder. Great, now I have bruises to add to my list of aliments, she thought while she smacked Layla's hands away from trying to straighten her top. "I'm fine."

"Here, let me fix chore ears."

"It's your, and I got it." Abby reached up and straighten her ears before Layla could do any damage while Steph stood there and giggled like an idiot.

"Si, your," she repeated still making it sound like chore. "I came over here to tell you that those men over there," she pointed to the two suits, "are getting beeshey."

"Busy?" Abby looked over Layla's shoulder thinking she would see two suits going at it. She wondered briefly where the twin bouncers, Jack and Trevor, where. They usually put a quick end on any serious hanky-panky going on the floor. But, one seemed to be on the phone and the other was playing with something on the table. "They don't seem to be getting busy now."

"No! Bee-chey!"

"You mean bitchy," Steph corrected.

Layla rolled her eyes. "That's what I said, beeshey."

"I'll head over there right after I deliver this round." Abby picked up her tray and limped away as fast as her sore feet would take her. Leaving the mess behind, along with the disastrous Layla, she made her way to her table and set the drinks down. After thanking them for the tip, she pocketed the money and set her shoulders to head over to the two suits. It's just what she wanted tonight, two beeshey businessmen to top off this rotten night, she thought to herself as she girded her loins.

"Well damn, the son of bitch is on his way!" The older bald headed man slammed his cell phone on the table so hard Abby jumped. "I can't fucking believe it. I thought for sure he would back out."

"I told you he wouldn't," said the second suit. A younger man, possibly in his late thirties Abby thought, lazily rolled a pen back and forth under his fingertips while he scoped out a table of young women celebrating a birthday across from him. Neither men giving any indication they'd noticed she was standing there.

"Doesn't matter, once he realizes what this place is he'll lose some of that ego he totes around like a goddamn badge of honor." The older man smiled, or sneered would be more how Abby would describe it. Whatever it was, it was far from pleasant. He wasn't a horrible looking guy. He kind of had a Bruce Willis thing going. If Bruce was 30 pounds overweight, but still, if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head a certain way, you could see the resemblance. The man lifted his hand up and patted his chest. The gold pinkie ring he wore flashed in the stage lights. She hated pinkie rings. Her stepfather had worn one. A slight shudder rippled through her body at the thought and she quickly squashed it. "And while he's flustered and trying to make sure nobody recognizes him, I'll hit him with these government contracts. I know the board is thinking of voting me out, but if I go, these contracts go with me and Steele Industries will lose millions."

"I still don't understand how you got Senator Walken to sign off on those."

"Walken and I have an understanding and that's all you need to know."

"What do you hope to gain out of this? The deal is going through. You know it and I know it. You aren't going to be able to stop him from taking over the company," the younger man stated flatly while he eyed Steph as she walked by. Not once did the man look up at her or over at his cohort.

"Don't be an idiot," the older man snorted. "I don't want to stop the deal. I've put in enough time with this bullshit. I have no desire to save my company. What I want is a better severance package and a bigger piece of the pie. Once Steele takes it over, I know he will turn it into the goose that laid the golden egg. That's what that fucker does." he grabbed the man's hand and stopped him from the absent minded rolling, forcing him to finally look his way. "I either get a piece of the action, or I make sure these contracts never see the light of day."

"So you're resorting to blackmail?'

Abby gasped at the word. She couldn't help it. She felt like she'd walked into an episode of Boardwalk Empire. The sound of her inhaled breath brought her to their attention. "It's about time you showed up," the older man narrowed his eyes at her chest, "Trixie," he said. The name coming off his tongue like he wanted to spit. "Did you get an earful sweetheart?"'

Embarrassed she got caught eavesdropping, she shook her head. "No sir, I...um...just got here and the music is kinda loud in this section," she lied through her teeth. Holy crap on a cracker! The glare the man was giving her made her want to step back, but she stood her ground and started to twirl a strand of her blond hair as if she didn't have a care in the world. Knowing her acting skills were subpar, Abby kept a white knuckled grip on her tray. Worst case scenario, she could always smack the guy in the head with it giving her a few precious seconds of time to escape.

Time tick tocked by at a snail's pace while she stood there keeping her features vacant and bored under his intense scrutiny, but inside all sorts of nerves were starting to fizzle and spark as the panic rose. This man was full of bad mojo. After working the past seven years as a server in all types of places and establishments, you learned which customers you needed to steer clear of, and this man was a prime example of stay the hell away. Show any weakness and you become prey, so she stood playing statue while her brain furiously worked different exit strategies.

A few more tense moments passed before he finally leaned back in his chair and gave her one of those sneering smiles. "So...Trixie. That's a rather trailer park kind of name for this type of joint." His eyes did a slow perusal of her body leaving her feeling the need for a shower. "I figured you'd have a name like Dee Licious or Cherry Bomb," his voice was low and gravely. The way he licked his lips reminded her of snake scenting his victim.

"I vote for Anya Knees," the other suit piped in.

Slowly exhaling her breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding, she relaxed a little. Obviously she'd passed whatever test he'd internally given her. Fucking beeshey businessmen, she fumed to herself as she contemplated smacking him upside the head with her tray just for the fun of it. "Only the stars on stage get the special names," she giggled giving her best Disney princess performance of all time. "The wait staff has names picked out for them. It's all part of the experience. Think of it like the Playboy Club, but instead of bunnies, it's cats," she pointed to the ears on top of her head. "We all have kitty cat names...Jinxy, Buttons, Tiger and so on." She pointed to her name plate feeling a bit like an airline stewardess directing passengers to the exit signs and plastered the biggest fake smile in her arsenal on her face. "I'm Trixie and I'll be your server tonight. What can I get you gentlemen?"

"How about your phone number?" the younger suit asked. For the first time that evening he was facing her and Abby was able to take a good look at him. She really couldn't compare him to anyone famous, because he looked like a weasel. He had a big forehead which was accentuated further by a receding hair line. What hair he did have left was a dirty blond color and trimmed extremely short. His face was thin with a sharp nose and under his near nonexistent lips, sat a bristly soul patch. Blue eyes winked at her and he smiled a toothy grin. Unlike his counterpart whose suit was upper quality and a midnight blue, this man wore a dark brown two piece with a very obnoxious orange tie paired with a peach colored shirt. Can we say tacky? Everything screamed cheap, even down to his nauseating cologne, and hung off his thin frame making him resemble a walking, talking coat rack.

"Sorry sir, there is a strict no fraternizing with the customers rule." She gave him a tight smile. "What can I get you from the bar?" she stated firmly. Please order something so I can get the hell away from the two of you, she inwardly pleaded. The mixture of the sickening smell of his cologne and the continued stare down of his partner in crime was making her stomach roll.

"I'll have a maker's mark, neat." The Bruce Willis impersonator responded crisply, the look on his face daring her to get it wrong.

"And I'll have a dirty martini, extra dirty," The weasel's bushy eyebrows waggled suggestively while he dragged the last word out. Bile rose in her throat. Nodding her head, Abby hobbled off as fast as her sore feet would carry her.

"Damn, that's a mighty fine ass," the older suit murmured loud enough she could hear. These two assholes were going to make the last, she glanced at her watch, hour thirty minutes creep by. Extra emphasis on the creep.

Thank you for taking the time to read my story. I hope to have updates every other week, so keep coming back for more.

Any comments you may have will be greatly appreciated. It helps me to see how you are responding to the story and encourages me to keep going. Also, any critiques are helpful!

Have a FANTABULOUS day and don't forget to vote!