“Tosser,” the driver grumbled. Without putting the window up, he drove off at speed, his tyres screeching across the road.
Jag’s entire body trembled as he started to run. There was no reason to. The car had vanished over the crest of the hill within seconds, but his paranoia told him the driver would be back, and he didn’t want to be on that stretch of road when it happened. He ran, hands clenched, feet pounding over the pavement, chest aching, breath rasping, eyes blurred with tears. He was flicking between telling himself he was stupid for being so paranoid and sensible for keeping his guard up.
The car didn’t pass him again, but that didn’t stop him from taking a stupid route home. He got lost, naturally, which did nothing to calm his nerves. By the time he was back in the bedsit, the sun was rising and he was a sweaty, trembling mess.
He sat by his favourite window, hugging his knees to his chest, watching the sunrise to calm himself. It was beautiful, and he regretted sleeping through it every morning since he’d been staying there. Gradually, the soothing pink and purple light soothed his racing thoughts and his body stopped trembling, but the feelings of unease didn’t go away. They probably wouldn’t stop until he’d slept and had the emotional energy to convince himself that he’d worked himself up over nothing. He would go to bed in a few minutes, once the dramatic colours of dawn had given way to blue skies. He just needed a little more time of this calm before he could risk closing his eyes.
Tipping his head back against the beam, he heaved out a sigh. All he wanted, more than anything else, was to stop being afraid.
5Michael
Saturday was always the busiest night of the week. Michael had been run off his feet from an hour before the club opened until long past closing time. The bouncers and bar staff had gone and, as far as he knew, all the dancers, but Mac had showered and gone home for the night, too. Mac often stayed to keep him company whilst he cashed up the tills.
“Are you going to quit dancing yet?” Michael asked. “You’ve been talking about it for months. I’ve got a job with your name on it.”
Mac chuckled. “Maybe next month.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Don’t you miss being on stage?” Mac asked.
Michael paused midway through counting the five-pound notes and stared at the stage. “Yeah, sometimes. I don’t miss the stripteases though.”
“Only ‘cause you were shit at them.”
Michael scowled and started counting the notes again. “I beat your ass often enough.”
When they were both dancing, they’d had competitions to see who could get the most tokens by the end of the week.
“Sometimes,” Mac corrected. He slapped the bar with his hand. “Right, I’d better go. My husband’s waiting for me.”
“Won’t Russel be asleep?”
“Maybe, maybe not.” He waggled his eyebrows. “But if I don’t go home, I won’t find out, will I? You good here?”
“Yup.” It wasn’t as if Michael had far to go to fall into bed; he lived in a flat above the club.
“I’ll see you on Monday.”
Sunday was the only night of the week the club was closed. He’d opened it for a while, but it had always been dead, and he’d decided that having a day off would be good for him: mind, body, and soul. He waved Mac off and then made a note of the number of fivers he’d just counted on a pad of paper.
It only took another ten minutes to finish counting the cash and bagging it up. He locked the club door and then took the money through to his office. At least, that was his intention, but the sound of a shower running caught his attention before he was even halfway there. Frowning, he headed into the shower room. He was sure everyone had gone, so guessed someone had accidentally left one of the showers running. He stopped dead, his pulse speeding up by several beats a second.
Not everyone had left. Jag was standing beneath the running shower, his back turned to the doorway. He rested one hand against the wall whilst he ran the other through his hair, working out the silver body paint, which pooled around his feet. He was very naked, and fuck, he was stunning. Most of his body was still covered in silver, except it was starting to run off him, making his skin look like molten metal.
Michael knew he should walk out, but his feet wouldn’t move. His subconscious very much wanted him to stay and feast his eyes upon the young man’s beautiful body. He took in every curve and line, his eyes tracing the contour of every slender limb, the gentle curve of his spine, the soft spheres of his buttocks, which looked as if they’d fit perfectly beneath the palm of his hand. His fingers twitched at the thought, and he longed to stride over to Jag and join him. To help him clean off the last traces of body paint and then kiss every inch of clean, pink skin.
What the fuck was he doing? At any second, there was a very real chance that Jag would turn around and see him, and then he’d be up shit creek. He had to turn around and go. To his office. To the safe. To put the money in. Yeah, that’s what he should do.
Jag pressed his other palm against the tiled wall and ducked his head fully under the shower head, sending streams of water cascading over his narrow shoulders and willowy back. He pushed away from the wall, lifted his head, and rubbed his face with his hands, giving Michael a glorious view of his muscles moving and flexing under his silken skin.
Michael turned around and got the fuck out of there as quickly as he could, cursing under his breath the whole way back to his office. He’d been an idiot. He had no business watching any of his dancers in the shower, let alone one half his age. It was unprofessional, wildly inappropriate, and utterly fucking stupid. This wasn’t like him at all. He wasn’t normally a sleaze or a peeping Tom. He put the money into the safe, slammed the heavy metal door shut with a satisfying clunk, and set the lock code. Then he sank into the comfortable leather chair behind his desk and forced himself to breathe. He’d crossed a line, but he wouldn’t do it again. Ever.
He jerked his head up at the sound of a soft knock on his open door. Jag was leaning against the doorframe, hair damp and falling around his face. He was wearing a pair of skinny jeans, but his chest and feet were bare. Michael’s heart began thundering again; he was sure it was fighting to burst out of his chest.
Jag folded his arms casually. “Next time, you should join me.”
Michael’s eyes widened involuntarily. He cleared his throat, scratched his jaw, and tried to figure out what to say. He needed something that would give him plausible deniability. Before any words could leap out of his throat, Jag started to walk slowly towards him, circumventing the large desk that stood between them. He leant down, resting his hands on the arms of Michael’s chair so their faces were only millimetres apart.
