“He’s a good guy,” Mac confirmed. “Our previous boss was a money-grabbing bastard who was far too free with his hands, if you get my meaning. This place was a total dive, then. Really seedy and quiet too many nights of the week. But when Michael took over, he turned it around. We’re busier now than we’ve ever been, and the exercise classes during the day have been successful, which means Michael can pay us all a fair wage, on top of our cut for doing the private dances.”
“He runs that part alone?” Jag asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“I help out a couple of days a week.” Mac leant back in his chair and folded his arms. “He paid for me to take coaching classes to make it all legit.” He regarded Jag, his lips pursing slightly. “He’s very firm on following the club’s rules.”
“Oh?”
“Look, but don’t touch.”
Jag felt heat rise to his cheeks. Why the fuck was he blushing? He wasusedto guys looking at him, so why did Mac alluding to Michael staring at him make him blush? He looked down, hoping to hide the heat in his cheeks as his damp hair flopped forwards, grazing his cheekbones. He’d taken a long, hot shower before handing his tokens in; getting rid of the body paint took ages.
“So if you want him to do more than look, you’ll need to make a move,” Mac said in a low, conspiratorial whisper. “And we never had this conversation, okay?”
Jag scratched his cheek. “Of course not. I’m not even sure why we’re having it at all.”
Mac snorted. “Pull the other one, kid. The two of you have been making eyes at each other like schoolboys with crushes all fucking week.” He waved a hand nonchalantly. “Do something or don’t, it’s no skin off my nose if you two don’t get laid.”
Jag cleared his throat. “I’d better get going.”
“You have a good night,” Mac said, grinning from ear to ear like the bloody Cheshire Cat.
Jag collected his things and headed out into the cold. The worst part about working in a club was having to go home at some God forsaken time in the morning. Whichever club he was working in, he tended to wait around until all the punters had definitely gone, before walking home. It cleared his head, gave him time to think, and was much cheaper than paying a taxi driver double time. Although time to think wasn’t always a good thing. It often meant his mind went wild with thoughts of being tracked down by his family and that left him looking over his shoulder and wondering if it was time to move on. He took a breath. It wasn’t time to leave. He’d been there a week. He wasn’tthatparanoid.
He switched his thoughts to the conversation he’d had with Mac, which had left him wondering if he’d been reading Michael all wrong. Maybe the club owner was into one-night stands. He licked his lips, realising he hoped that was the case. As long as there was no danger of Michael wanting more, he was definitely interested in sleeping with him.
Why?His thoughts chipped in as if Dr Miller was sitting on his shoulder like some demented demon. Dr Miller couldneverbe described as an angel. He scowled. Did there have to be a reason why he wanted to sleep with anyone? He scoffed at himself, knowing the tiny imaginary doctor wouldn’t be on his shoulder at all, not if he was thinking about a one-night stand with a woman.Thatwould be ‘fine’.
He clenched his fists. So was wanting to sleep with a man. There was nothing wrong with it at all despite what Dr Miller and his parents had tried to brainwash him into believing. And he didn’t have to have a reason beyond the fact that Michael was seriously hot and he hadn’t had sex in a few weeks. He wanted Michael. Michael obviously wanted him. Why the fuck shouldn’t he have a little fun?
He took a deep breath, mentally flicking the Dr Miller demon off his shoulder. Therewasno reason.
He frowned as a black car cruised past him slowly. It wasn’t a taxi, which were usually the only cars he saw in any city at around four a.m.. He pulled the hood of his coat up and kept his head down. It was nothing. Just someone heading home or maybe even out to an early shift somewhere. Knowing that didn’t stop the sweat breaking out on his skin, although he tried to tell himself it was because he’d been walking briskly since he left the club.
He forced his thoughts back to his conversation with Mac. It was good to know he’d have to make the first move if he wanted to let loose and have a bit of fun with Michael. He was pretty sure he did want to, but he could still feel uncertainty sinking its claws into him. Good things were happening for a change: a decent place to work, a reasonable boss, and a passable place to live. Sleeping with Michael could ruin it all. Then again, if it did, he would just skip town. In a month or two, that was the plan anyway. He couldn’t stay any longer than that, or his family would track him down.
He let his mind move on to sexier thoughts. How dominant did Michael like to be during sex? It was always a worry with men who were significantly bigger and stronger than he was. A lot of them had the alpha male thing going on, where they liked to be in control and their partners to be subservient. He hated that. He’d spent too long letting himself get pushed around—by his parents, by Dr Miller, by the other therapists, and guys he’d met when he’d first run away. He’d been a victim, but he was damned if he was going to be one anymore. Taking control during sex was one way of proving that to himself.
The car passed him again, this time stopping a few yards ahead, the yellow indicator flashing in time with his heightened heartbeat. Jag’s mouth had gone dry. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, surreptitiously glancing about to see if there was a side street he could take so he didn’t have to walk past the car. There wasn’t. He had a dual carriageway on his right and flats and office blocks on his left.
Calm down, he told himself He’d barely been in the city for a week. No one could have tracked him down yet. His thoughts were at odds with the way his body was reacting. His heart rate sped up even more, overtaking the rhythm of the car’s indicator. His chest had started to clench, and he could feel his skin becoming cold and clammy. He could turn around and walk back the other way, but if the car really did have something to do with him, he doubted the driver would care about pulling a U-turn and driving the wrong way down an otherwise empty dual carriageway. He glanced up. There were no speed or CCTV cameras in sight. He took a deep breath and kept walking forwards, head bowed.
As he got nearer to the car, heart pounding fiercely in his aching chest, the electric window slid down.
“Excuse me.” It was a man’s voice, which shouldn’t have set Jag on edge the way it did.
He clenched his teeth, intending on ignoring the man so he could keep walking.
“Can you help me with directions?”
It was a simple enough question, but at four in the morning? He risked a glance into the car and saw a young man—maybe even younger than he was—with an apologetic expression on his face. Too young to be a police officer or a PI or anything else his parents might have sent after him. That didn’t help him relax. His nerves were fraying, and he felt physically sick, on top of the chest-clenching pain he was feeling.
“No, sorry,” he mumbled. He fixed his gaze on the ground and kept walking.
The car followed him, the engine rumbling. Jag’s breathing became harsh.
“I just want directions, mate. What’s your fucking problem?”
“No problem.” Jag forced himself to look at the driver and smile. “I’m new here. I only know my way home.” His eyes widened at his stupidity.
