The club was booming with music and overflowing with people. Short dresses, tight shirts, glittered chests, drunken people grinding against each other, and spilling over their overpriced drinks. It was dull.

Arthur King was not there, with his dyed hair and expensive clothes. King was in the hospital, and I didn't know exactly why. And worst of all, that asshole owned me a Starbucks drink. I wasn't sure if it was appropriate for me to visit for a second time, seeing how I barely knew the guy. Unfortunately for me, I LIKED him. Not in a profound way that made my heart swell like a wet sponge inside my chest. I liked him as in I wouldn't mind having him as a Star Guest in my bedroom every now and then.

A guy snapped his fingers at me to get my attention. He was tall, dressed in a shirt a size too small, and had a pair of sunglasses on his head. "Hey, pay attention! Can I get any service around here?!" I hated him already.

"Sure." I was going to put in half of the amount of alcohol required. And I was going to pick the cheapest one too. May he have a glorious hangover in the day to come, fucking prick.

Maybe I needed a night off to focus on more important things. Perhaps I was going to push away my paranoia and visit King in the hospital, maybe have some fun with Grindr, or just watch a shitty horror movie about stupid teenagers trapped in a haunted house.

"Can you move faster?" The man snapped his fingers at me. I rolled my eyes and made his drink. A 200 dollars cocktail that was probably worth about 10: someone should teach him not to mess with the people who bring your food and make your drinks. He didn't tip, of course. 

I left work at seven in the morning. There were a couple of people waiting for their Ubers or Taxis or throwing up in the corner. I took the subway and sat next to people that were going to work and the occasional one-night stander that was dragging themselves back home.  

My place was not one of those apartments that had a view over the entire city, with a wall made entirely of glass. I didn't have a master bedroom the size of a swimming pool. My apartment was small, with two rooms, an ugly bathroom with ugly tiles on the walls, and a yellow kitchen that had a stain on the ceiling. It wasn't all that great, and I figure I would much rather prefer to be the Guest Star in King's bedroom than vice-versa. His apartment was probably everything mine wasn't. 

Maybe I should visit just for the opportunity to see first hand how an apartment like that looks like. 

I took a shower and went to sleep for a couple of hours. I made it my mission to go to the hospital that afternoon and give him a fruit basket or whatever. 

It was the second time seeing him in that white room. This time, he was by the window, smoking. He turned his head when I opened the door and smiled. "Hey, Tristan." 

"You're not supposed to smoke here," I told him and closed the door, in case a nurse decided to walk by. "Throw that away."

"I can't. I think I might have an addiction." He smiled and lifted his cigar back to his lips. "How are you?" 

I shrugged and sat on the bed. "Bored. I hate work. What happened to you?" I asked. He wasn't bruised, nor hurt. He just looked tired and pale. His hair was a mess. But I always liked messy hair on a guy, and it was refreshing to see him in a not so expensive outfit. 

"Oh, you know how it is," he said and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "If you hate your job so much, why don't you come work for me?" 

"What do you do?" I asked, glancing over at his legs for a moment. 

"A lot of things," he said, brushing over the subject. "But I own a nightclub too." 

"Is that so?" I asked, skeptical. Not because I couldn't believe he owned a club, but because he was shady. 

"I'm fairly sure you're going to be great." He threw his cigar out the window and sat down next to me.  

"If you pay me triple than what I get now, I'll come." I was sure King was going to laugh and say no. Instead, he smiled. 

"If you wear a tight shirt, I'll quadruple it."

"I don't know what to say." 

"If you don't own a tight shirt, I'll have you know we have uniforms." He winked. 

I chuckled. "I mean. I don't know. Is this a good idea?" King shrugged. 

"And if it's not?" He asked. "What is the worst thing that can happen? You can't bankrupt me as a bartender." 

"Alright," I said. 

"Alright?" 

"Yes. I'll work for you. Just tell me when and where." 

"Even better. I'll take you. Tonight." He nodded and gave me a light pat on the arm. 

"Are you sure it's a good idea? I mean...you're..." Hurt? Sick? Dying? 

"Great," he said and made that annoying hand gesture again. "You know how it is." I didn't. "And I'll take you to dinner. I changed my mind about Starbucks. It gives me diabetes just thinking about it." 

"Are you asking me on a date?" 

"Yes. Are you refusing?" 

"How could I? I always wanted to go on a date with my boss."