Constantly moving wasn’t his idea of fun, but he didn’t have any choice. He’d tried settling once and for about half a second had thought he’d got far enough away from his family to escape their suffocating reach. He couldn’t have been more wrong. They would always be there, no matter how far he ran.
“Jag?”
“Huh?” Jag shook himself. From the way Michael was staring at him, he’d obviously been lost in thought whilst the club manager had been trying to tell him something. Not a good start.
“Do you know where Baker Street is?” Michael was holding a leather key fob out.
“Uh, no. I haven’t been in town long enough to be familiar with anywhere.” Except the train station and the youth hostel. He groaned internally as he realised he’d be unlikely to get a refund for the night he’d already paid for. That would be precious money poured right down the drain, but at least he’d have somewhere to stay where no one would bother him or his stuff. Shithole or not, having his own place was always better than staying in a shared dormitory. You never knew who you were going to end up bunking with, and he never felt it was safe to leave his belongings behind whilst he wasn’t there.
Michael paused, and for a moment, Jag thought he might offer to take him to the bedsit. Instead, he checked his watch.
“I think I’ve got a street map somewhere,” he said. “I’ll photocopy the right page and give you the directions.”
He probably had to get himself and the club ready for opening. Michael offering him somewhere to stay had been unexpected, and he was glad he hadn’t tried to convince him to stay there for nothing. He had fallen intothattrap too many times before, but he wasn’t naive anymore. Between jerks demanding sexual favours in return for somewhere to stay and his family’s antics, Jag had sworn never to let himself be at anyone’s mercy again.
Rule number three: no freebies; he’d pay his way.
He took the keys from Michael. “You didn’t mention how much the rent would be.”
Michael’s back straightened. “Three hundred a month.”
It was on the cheap end, but Michael hadn’t exactly made the bedsit sound like a palace when he’d made the offer. Being paid minimum wage on top of the cut from the private dances would definitely help cover the cost of the bedsit and give him some money to put aside for when he moved on.
“Do you need a deposit?” He’d lost a ton of those. Even people who didn’t care about his name and took cash in hand generally wanted deposits.
“No, it’s fine. I don’t think you could do anything that would make it worse than it already is.”
Jag licked his lips nervously. Just how bad was this place?
Michael chuckled. “It’s habitable, don’t worry.”
Jag followed Michael to a small, cluttered office. It was the least ordered room he’d seen in the whole club. There was a bookshelf full of boxed files, labelled with letters of the alphabet. The desk housed a computer and several sheets of paper that weren’t even remotely organised. A photocopier sat in the corner of the room. He watched as Michael rummaged through the desk drawers, eventually holding up a battered street A-Z as though it were a trophy. He thumbed through the pages and then went to photocopy one of them. Using a pen and a highlighter, Michael traced the route from the club to the bedsit, scribbling some notes on the back of the paper. When he handed it over, Jag saw that Michael had written him more accurate directions, including landmarks.
“It’s about a half-hour walk from here,” Michael said. “Or a ten-minute drive if you want to pay for a taxi.”
“I’ll walk.” He didn’t want to fork out any more money than he already had, and taxis weren’t cheap.
Michael smiled at him cautiously. “I figured.”
“What time do you want me?” Jag asked, almost laughing as Michael’s eyes grew wide, surprise and lust spiralling hand in hand within the dark blue depths of his irises. “Tomorrow,” Jag amended. “For work? You said the dancers start at ten, but I guess you want me here earlier?” He raked his teeth over his lower lip slowly. “Especially if I’m going to cover myself in silver body paint.”
Michael shivered visibly. “Half past nine should be fine.” The club owner’s voice was strained. “I won’t put you on stage straight away. I’ll get the other guys to warm the crowd up first, and then you can go on stage alone later.” He hesitated. “If you’re up for that?”
“Alone?” Jag couldn’t tell if his stomach was somersaulting from excitement or nervousness. It was one thing to be one of many dancers or dancing solo in a private booth, but being alone on stage in front of a crowd? It wasn’t something he’d done before, and it would draw a lot more attention to him than he wanted.
“Think about it,” Michael said. “If you’re not happy, I’ll put you up there in a group, but you still won’t be on stage first.”
“Okay,” Jag said.Think about it.He could do that.
Michael dug around in his drawers again and pulled out a plastic container and a sponge. “In case you want to practise applying it,” he said, handing over the body paint and sponge.
Their fingers touched, making them both freeze. Their eyes locked. Jag felt a weird sensation at the base of his throat, forcing him to clear it before he could trust himself to speak.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” he mumbled.
“Yes,” Michael said softly. “Tomorrow.”
* * *
