Michael hadn’t been kidding when he’d said the bedsit was a bit of a shithole. It was a converted attic in a huge Edwardian building which stood on the crest of a hill. The whole house looked as if it needed some serious TLC, the attic room even more so. The plaster was cracked and peeling, the white paint discoloured. There were exposed beams, but they had lots of tiny holes in them, suggesting wood worms, hopefully in the past rather than the present. The furniture was tired and threadbare, what little there was of it. It had its own toilet and sink, plus a tiny kitchen area that probably hadn’t been renovated since the eighties, with two hotplates, a microwave, and a desktop fridge. Two armchairs, which looked as if they’d been through a couple of apocalypses, took up the middle of the room. There was a shared shower on the floor below. Jag had lived in far worse over the last few years. It was actually about ten steps up from the last place he’d called ‘home’. It wouldn’t take much to make it look nicer; even a coat of paint would help.
He breathed out, reminding himself it wasn’t his to do anything with, and even if Michael did give him permission to paint, there would be no point. This wasn’t his home. It was transitory accommodation. A warm place to sleep and somewhere safe to leave his stuff whilst he worked.
At least it had a fantastic view. There were a couple of Velux windows, which let light in, but the best window was a floor-height, semi-circular one, which looked out over the city. It must have been an original fixture of the house because it wasn’t double-glazed, and the frame was rickety enough to let a breeze through it. Sitting next to it, with his stuff dumped on the lumpy bed, Jag gazed out at the city. The sun was setting, leaving the sky streaked with dramatic hues of red and orange.
He leant his head against a beam. Starting out in a new city had ceased to be daunting. Having no one he could count on had long since stopped feeling lonely. All he needed was himself and maybe someone to fool around with every now and then. He’d get superficial conversation and banter in the nightclub changing room. He’d learned to fit in as quickly as possible so that he didn’t stick out as the new guy for too long. Okay, yes, there was a small amount of paranoia fuelling the way he behaved—a lot of paranoia, actually—but he’d been burned before.
Rule number four: don’t get attached to anyone. He’d learned that the hard way, when a ‘friend’ had betrayed him in exchange for money. Sadly, his family had plenty ofthatto throw around in their quest to get him back under their control.
He clenched his fists and ground them against his knees. He was twenty years old, and they still wouldn’t leave him alone. At that very moment, there was likely to be at least one private detective looking for him. Why couldn’t they just accept the fact that he never wanted to see any of them again?
Rule number one: keep moving. A couple of months here, maybe three or four there… any longer and he risked being tracked down. He realised that putting himself on stage in clubs probably wasn’t the best way to stay hidden, but it was a good way of making money, and it always provided cash in hand, which meant he wasn’t leaving any kind of electronic trace for his family’s hired investigator to track. He didn’t fancy the alternative way of making decent cash-in-hand money. Putting his body on display was one thing, but every club he’d worked in had a strict no touching policy. The only way he’d make better money on a cash-in-hand basis would be by selling himself on the streets. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—do that.
He thought about how Michael wanted him to dance alone. He wasn’t sure he could do that. The idea of it was appealing, but it was risky. Everyone’s focus would be on him rather than on a group of dancers. His brow furrowed. Unless…
He got up and wandered over to his meagre pile of stuff—his whole life fitted into a rucksack, which was probably the most depressing part of his existence. He retrieved the pot of silver body paint and sponge, which Michael had given him and went into the tiny bathroom, where the only mirror in the bedsit was.
He stared at his own reflection as he began to apply the body paint, watching as he transformed before his eyes. He could still recognise himself but barely. The body paint accentuated his high, sharp cheekbones and the narrow sweep of his nose. He left the plumpest part of his lower lip uncovered, which made his top lip appear much thinner and, weirdly, sterner. Maybe… He shook his head. No. He couldn’t get up on that stage alone; it would be asking for trouble. He’d stick to being one of many, with the body paint providing a mask to hide behind; it was the only sensible decision to make.
3Michael
The club opened about an hour before any of the dancers appeared on stage. Michael wanted to raise the anticipation, and he didn’t want his guys dancing without an audience. Even on the quietest nights, that hour meant there were a reasonable number of men in the club, each with at least one drink in them.
He slapped the palm of his hand on the open dressing room door, getting the attention of the dancers. Some of them were using the practise poles; others were in the process of getting into their skimpy leather outfits.
“Everyone ready? First wave is up in five.”
His gaze landed on Jag, who had been chatting with two of the more experienced dancers. They were both tall, bulky men. Standing between them, Jag looked delicate and fragile. The silver body paint accentuated his fine features, giving him an exotic appearance. He’d worked the body paint through his hair and swept it back from his face, making his undercut more pronounced. Michael hadn’t had a chance to get the leather ensemble the other dancers wore in his size. Staring at Jag, he wasn’t sure he wanted him in clothing that overtly sexy. The way he was now, topless and wearing a pair of low-slung, tight-fitting jeans, gave him an almost innocent quality that Michael was sure the customers would go crazy for. It was definitely making him aroused.
“It should be a good night,” he said, focusing on the whole room instead of that one, beautiful person in it. “There’s a deal on drinks.”
“Because we all know drunk guys splash more cash,” Mac said. He was Michael’s best friend and had worked at Heaven and Hell for years, starting long before Michael had taken over as owner and manager.
“Exactly right and they get horny more easily.” Michael grinned. “So no excuses for not sealing the deal on those stripteases. Let’s make this a great hump day.”
The guys responded with whoops and claps. Normally, he would have left at that point and returned to the front of house, but his eyes had homed in on Jag again. The young man had gone back to his conversation, his actions animated, dark eyes bright. His mouth was curled up in a gleeful smile. He’d left a kissable line of unpainted lip, which Michael couldn’t look away from.
“Try not to make it so obvious, boss.” Mac emphasised the last word as he whispered in Michael’s ear. Whilst it was true Michael was his boss, they were friends first, and Mac’s use of the word was in jest, more than reverence. A nickname that made it look as if he was being subservient.
Michael ran his hand through his hair.
“I reckon the punters will be begging for him too; he’s hot. Speaking of which, I’ll go get them warmed up.” Mac rubbed his hands together and then sauntered off towards the front of house.
Michael was about to turn away to follow him, but Jag looked at him at that exact moment. He cleared his throat and beckoned the young man over.
“Did you think about dancing solo?” he asked, trying to cover up his lustful desire. He could feel his skin prickling just from being close to Jag.
Jag’s eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows tugged down into a regretful expression. “I think I’d rather dance with the other guys. At least for now.”
“Of course. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” There was no reason to stay or to keep him any longer other than for his own benefit. “Have fun out there, tonight.”
Jag’s lips pursed into a seductive grin. “I’m sure I will.” He gave Michael a parting look, flicking his eyes down, and then up before waltzing back to the dancers he’d been talking to.
Michael turned away to get his racing pulse under control and headed through to the front of house, where he belonged. Lusting after one of his dancers was unprofessional, but as long as he followed the rules of the club—look, but don’t touch—everything would be fine.
The club felt like a completely different place at night. The music was loud, the bass thrumming through his body as he walked to the bar. The lighting was low and red, though spotlights shone down on the three poles that dominated the shiny black stage. Mac and two other guys were dancing, their taut, rippling muscles and gyrating hips providing a visual feast for the punters. They wore red leather hot pants, cropped waistcoats, and collars that were studded with black diamantes that shimmered in the light.
The bucket armchairs around the stage were all occupied. The tables and chairs that comprised the rest of the seating were slowly starting to fill up, giving Michael hope that it was going to be a good night, despite it being a Wednesday, which was typically one of the quietest nights of the week. The curtains to each of the private booths were open, but he doubted it would be long before dancers led customers inside and closed them.
