Chapter 1
Luke
Sweeping my gaze over the dance floor of Opal and Obsidian, the nightclub where I worked security, I watched the energy of Seattle nightlife come to life in its usual, predictable way, until a burst of static hissed through my earpiece and a voice crackled in a second later.
“Hey, Luke, it’s Nate at the front. Do you copy?”
I tapped my mic. “Loud and clear. What’s going on?”
“A couple in line is setting off alarms in my head. Nothing overt, but there’s a vibe. I think this is your brand of situation. Can you spare ten to do a line check?”
The security firm I worked for was contracted to manage the internal detail of the club, monitoring the lounge, the dance floor, and VIP areas. A separate firm manned the exterior checkpoints for ID verification, line management, and initial screenings. We coordinated through shared comms, but rarely called in cross-firm backup.
Our firm handled every kind of protective detail, but the bulk of our work centered on domestic violence and abuse. Nate calling me in meant he spotted a dynamic pinging for abuse markers.
I scanned the main floor with a practiced sweep; the bartenders held steady behind the bar. No obvious distresssignals from the DJ booths. The room hadn’t reached full capacity, and the crowd hadn’t gotten too rambunctious.
“I can spare ten,” I said, pivoting. “En route.”
Navigating through the ebb and flow of bodies, I pushed through the last set of double doors.
Outside, the velvet rope lined the sidewalk. A pair reached the front, and even before Nate stepped aside to allow me to step in, lifting his chin in subtle indication, I knew they were the ones he meant.
The smaller guy caught my eye right away. He had this almost delicate, otherworldly look to him. Fine-boned, smooth skin, lean frame. I was ninety percent sure the gay community would classify him as a twink. I’d have to double-check with my friend Ezra later, though. As an actual gay man he would know the terminology better than me. But what grabbed me wasn’t his looks... it was the way he moved. He kept his gaze rooted to the sidewalk, shoulders hunched, steps cautious.
The man beside him stood in stark contrast. Though he didn’t match my height or build, his chest and shoulders were broad, and his posture broadcast that he liked to remind people of his size.
His arm clamped around the smaller man’s waist, squeezing so hard his knuckles turned white. I’d seen it often enough to know the grip was meant to keep someone in line more than it was meant to keep them close, a gesture not of affection but one of ownership.
The smaller man offered a kind smile as the other man handed me their IDs, but his eyes never lifted, didn’t seek mine or anyone else’s, as if he had learned the safest place to look was nowhere at all.
Glancing at the IDs, I read the name of the smaller man. Oliver Reed, age twenty-four. The guy beside him was Vincent Langley, age thirty-five. The age gap alone didn’t mean anything,plenty of couples had a decade between them, but coupled with the body language and the unreadable tension, it painted an uneasy picture.
“Enjoy your night,” I said, handing their cards back.
“If princess here can keep it together,” Vincent said, tightening his grip on Oliver. “Last time we went out, he pulled his usual stunt and complained over the drinks I ordered us. Said it was too strong. You know how these delicate types are. Pretty face, big feelings.”
His laugh came out brash and smug, with a quality that begged for male solidarity. He assumed that I, by virtue of my size, appearance, and profession, would also be afflicted with alpha male syndrome, that I’d find humor in cruelty and would join in and nod knowingly. Men like him always expected men who looked like me to be on their side.
Though I refused to join in, I knew showing my disapproval outright wouldn’t help Oliver. I tipped my head in the faintest nod, giving a low hum, agreeable only if someone wanted to pretend it was. The tone stayed even, detached, giving Vincent nothing to push against and nothing to build on. I’d mastered that balance in moments like this: deliberate neutrality.
“See, even the security guy gets it,” Vincent said to Oliver.
Bingo! The response I’d banked on.
Vincent proceeded to pull Oliver toward the entrance with a proprietary tug I didn’t like.
“What an ass,” Nate muttered once they’d entered the club.
“No shit. Your instinct was spot on. Abuse doesn’t always show itself in yelling or thrown punches, it often presents as what we just saw. Appreciate you calling me out here. I’ll watch for them inside.”
Searching for Oliver and Vincent, I moved through the crowd. I didn’t see them at first, with the bodies compressed on thedance floor like one giant organism. Then the pod of bodies parted, and I managed to spot them by the bar.
Vincent sat angled toward the bar with his back loose and casual, one elbow braced against the counter. The other hand never strayed from Oliver, touching his back, his wrist, his hip.
A guy walking by jostled them by accident, shoulder clipping Oliver’s back. The liquid in Oliver’s glass sloshed over the rim, splattering across his fingers. He flinched and his head shot up toward Vincent’s so fast it was almost painful to watch.
Vincent didn’t look impressed. His jaw flexed, muscle twitching. He straightened, tossed back his own drink in one swallow, then gripped Oliver’s arm and pulled him off the bar stool. My gut tightened when I saw they were headed to the bathrooms. I swore under my breath. I couldn’t go barging in after them, not without a clear incident to justify it. I risked the club and the firm getting sued, and the potential removal of my position if I did so.
