Prologue
Patrick
Ten years earlier
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I muttered to myself. Nerves, excitement, and a bit of fear all played pinball in my brain as the car approached the club. My team was in the midst of a great winning season, setting records left and right, and I knew my dream of being drafted by the pros was waiting on the horizon if I continued to play at this level and didn’t get hurt.
Most of my teammates had used the money from their first endorsement deals to buy cars or jewelry. Some had bought themselves condos. A few had gone on spending sprees, and I could see that they’d end up broke if they didn’t rein it in or get a good lawyer and financial manager.
Me? I’d joined an exclusive sex club where anonymity was key. Being the starting quarterback for the college team everyone picked to win the National Championship meant I had girls lined up before, during, and after the games. And yeah, I’d been more than happy to accept what they offered. But it didn’t satisfy the itch, the craving I’d had for years, to know what it would be like with a man. So I’d paid the twenty-thousand-dollar fee and joined. Under an assumed name, of course.
Because Patrick “Trick” Sloane had an image to uphold: Football player. Starting quarterback. Macho. Heartthrob with the ladies.
Totally straight.
But what often appeared to be the tallest, strongest tree in the forest most likely had its roots spread in many different directions. And what hid below the surface created the vision above the ground.
I was bisexual. I wanted guys as much as I did girls, and sometimes more.
But getting it on with a guy didn’t fit in that nice box I’d put myself into, and there was no going back on the life I’d wanted since I’d thrown my first football. I was on my way to a National Championship and a career that would put every move I made in the spotlight.
So I did the one thing I could think of. Figured out how I could get what I needed on the down-low. And given the number of exclusive clubs I’d found in my search, I wasn’t the only one.
I adjusted my mask so it sat straight and tight to my face. I’d gone all out to hide my identity, even getting colored contacts to change my blue-green eyes to gray and temporarily streaking my brown hair with some crap I’d heard the cheerleaders talking about that would wash out in one shampoo. The car slid to a stop in the exclusive Laguna Niguel neighborhood, an imposing iron gate rising high before us. I leaned out of the window and gave the security guard a slip of paper with the number I’d received earlier to grant me entry. The gates swung open, and we accelerated up the curving drive. The house spread out, long and rambling, the windows ablaze with lights.
“You can stop here,” I said to the driver as we slid behind an idling Mercedes-Maybach in the large circular drive. I counted several Rolls Royces and a few Ferraris and Maseratis. “Thanks.”
The driver grunted and I exited, gazing around me, a little unsure what to do or where to go next. A very large, unsmiling man approached me with an iPad.
“Identification number?”
The pristine collar of his shirt gleamed bright white against the black of his well-fitted suit. He reminded me of the massive tackles I faced every Sunday but without the padding. It wasn’t necessary—he was intimidating enough on his own. I repeated the number I’d given to the security guard and waited as he checked.
He nodded. “This way.”
I followed him in, side-eyeing the others undergoing the same process. Men of all sizes, shapes, and colors. We were all here for one thing: discreet sex with a man because something in our lives outside these gates forbade us from being ourselves. I wasn’t sure about anyone else, but I was slightly freaking out. It would be my first time having sex with a man.
“The first floor is for mixing and mingling. Second and third floors have private rooms. If you wish to use one, let one of the house managers know, and they’ll arrange it. They’ll be wearing red roses on their lapels.” He fixed me with a frown. “No drugs, no smoking. If you get drunk, you’re out and your membership will be revoked. Like you, everyone here has been tested and medically screened. There is to be no picture-taking or filming of any kind. No asking names or exchanging any personal information. Again, if you are found to have violated the rules, you’ll be asked to leave and barred for life.”
I licked my lips, suddenly anxious to get inside. “I understand.”
The upward tick of the corner of his lips was gone in a moment. “Enjoy your evening.”
I blinked. “That’s it? I can go now?”
The man swept a hand in front of him. “Be my guest.”
I strode away, touching the mask covering my face from brows to cheeks, and entered the house. Classical music played. A large buffet was set up on one side of the airy room, while several bars occupied the other. I wandered toward the closest, the hum of conversation rising around me. I caught several interested glances from men who looked older than me, but I didn’t stop to talk.
“What can I get you, sir?” The bartender, also masked, stood waiting.
“Uh, just a club soda.” We couldn’t drink during the season, which, thinking about what I was planning to do here, almost made me laugh. I’d bet half my endorsement check that having gay sex for the first time probably wouldn’t be sanctioned by Coach either.
“Coming right up.”
With a drink in hand, I now felt capable of sizing up who was there. For all the times I’d thought about being with a man, I didn’t have a type—I figured it would hit me when I saw him. I sipped my drink, scanning the room, and decided to check out the rest of the house.
As I made my way through the sea of suits, I was stopped numerous times.
