Exton

Well, that was impressive.

The young redhead comes back to the bar without looking like he exerted himself overmuch, even though I just saw him lift a man off his feet. I wonder if he's in the market for a job?

I unfold myself from my seat and stroll over to where he's standing. "You handled yourself very well there," I say casually. "Are you perhaps available for security work?"

"What? Police stuff, rent-a-cop?" I can tell the idea doesn't sit well with him.

"No, essentially what you just did. Mostly it involves people who get a bit rowdy, or who decide to leave without paying what they owe. Once in a while you might have to exert yourself a bit more, kick someone's ass for them, but I won't lie to you - on very rare occasions, you may have to resort to deadly force."

"Yeah? Exactly what kind of work are we talking about?"

"Ah, my apologies. My name is Marcus." I hand him a business card.

"The NiteOwl Club? Where have I heard that before…?"

I smile wryly. "Let's say we're a place where young men such as yourself go to burn off some testosterone - for a price."

It hits him then. "It's a whorehouse?"

"Well, yes; though we prefer to refer to it as a 'house of assignation'." I indicate the card again. "My number's on the back. Think about it and give me a call, either way."

He gives the card another look, slips it in his pocket and moves to the far end of the bar where the other redhead waits.