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His thumb traced the length of my jaw. “So, tonight.”

I counted silently to ten. “Tonight.”

The smile lit up his beautiful, sharp-angled face. “Good.”

“Lemme go,” I sighed. “I need to see Benji.”

He suddenly leaned in and hugged me tight. “I love it when you give in, the noise you make… like you’re just so disgusted with me.”

I groaned as he laughed at me, certain that the only person in the world I would ever willingly give in to was standing right in front of me. And apparently he liked the noises I made when I did it.

Chapter 2

I GRABBED a cab to St. Vincent’s Hospital and called Conrad on the way.

“You shouldn’t be out by yourself, Trevan, especially if Kady’s got somebody backing his play with Adrian alluva sudden.”

“I’ll be fine. I just don’t wanna go see Francesco and drop the money by myself. I hate him and his bullshit.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ll pick you up at the hospital and we can go over together.”

“Thanks, man, I’ll give you your usual cut.”

“For what, picking you up, driving you over there? Fuck you, Trev, you know you’re my boy; don’t be trippin’.”

“I heard a little Philly in there,” I teased him.

“I don’t know how, since I’m from Santa Cruz.”

I laughed at him.

“What hospital, asshole?”

I told him to meet me at St. Vincent’s, and he said he would be there right behind me. It was nice to have someone I could count on.

I MET Conrad Harris at a private party I had been invited to where the host had mistaken me for a rent boy hired for the night. There was a poker game in a lavish suite, and when I slipped into the smoky room to collect bets from Gianni Shapiro, the guy who was hosting the party, Tyler Hawkins crooked a finger at me. Walking to his side, figuring he had a bet to place, I was surprised when his hand was suddenly on my ass, squeezing hard.

I was working and didn’t want to make a scene, so there was no yelling or hitting. I just moved away fast, crossing the room to Mr. Shapiro to take his bet. As I was headed back down the hall to leave, I was grabbed roughly and thrown up against the wall.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Mr. Hawkins said, twisting my arm up behind my back. “Piece of shit hustler, you think you can treat me like that? You think you can fuckin’ ignore me, you little fuck?”

I might have been young, but I wasn’t little. I reacted without thinking—not because he was hurting me, not because I was scared, but because he started groping me, and no one did that. I invited people to touch me; no one took liberties. I hated it. He had his hand on my belt buckle, and he was shoving his obvious erection against my ass. My mind shut down and a jolt of adrenaline tore through me.

I flung my head back and heard the crunch as it connected with bone. The instant release of pressure let me know he had moved, and I brought my left foot down hard on the top of his foot before twisting free of his loosened grip. I turned and kicked him in the right knee, and when he went down, I punched him hard in the side of the face. As he crumpled over, unconscious, someone yelled. Two men were standing there looking at me, both the size of linebackers.

I pointed at the prone figure at my feet, bloody and passed out. “He thought I was a hustler, but I’m not. I’m a runner for Adrian Eramo.”

Both men looked at me for long minutes. It should have been funny that I was standing there trying to convince them that my ass was not for sale. I had met a lot of rent boys in my life, and the one thing they all had in common was that they were pretty. I was not, and never had been, pretty. “Handsome” could be applied to me, maybe, loosely, but maybe not. I had, my mother said, a good face, a strong face, a face that you remembered, with dark hair that was shaved close to my scalp and dark skin. My father was African American, my mother Cuban. I was not the boy next door; I was the other guy. Between my height of six two and my athletic, muscular build, how I was giving off the hustler vibe was beyond me. Maybe Mr. Hawkins liked Jungle Fever in his bedroom, but to cast me in that role was absurd. Never had I been mistaken for a prostitute. A gangbanger, unfortunately yes, but never a hustler.

“I’m here to collect cash,” I told the two men, “not peddle my ass.”

They moved toward me, and realizing that there was no way I could reach either the elevator or the stairs, I got ready to fight. But a door opened and a man stepped into the hall. He was more quarterback size—built leaner but still, even in the suit he was wearing, massive. I didn’t want to mess with any of them.

“Who’re you?” the bigger of the bodyguards asked the newcomer.

“Harris,” he said softly.

Both the men were bigger than the third, and both of them took a step back at the same time, which I found very interesting and really intimidating. Just the new guy’s name gave the other two pause? Jesus.