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I’m not sure I hide my flinch when he speaks. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah.” I’m in the middle of scratching the back of my neck when I catch myself. “Too much pain, you know?”

“So you came to my office?”

My laugh sounds so fucking fake. “Didn’t want to wake you, and while I was in the living room checking my phone, I realized the menu from dinner needed to be put away.” I gesture to where it sits on the desk to prove my story. “Then I got a text. My niece got hurt and needed to go to the hospital, and she’s asking for me, so I’m really sorry but I just… I need to go.”

“You should have had more wine.” For some reason he looks awfully disappointed about me not having had enough to drink.

“Not much of a drinker. You know me.” But do I know him? Yesterday I would’ve said yes. “Look, I’m sorry. I really need to go. We can reschedule. I’ll make sure Brennan knows this was my issue, not yours.”

Pushing past him before he can ask more questions or notice my nerves, I grab my bag and speed-walk to the front door of the condo.

“Michael. It’s the middle of the night. You really ought to stay.” Uh-oh. That’s not the warm voice of a man who’s disturbingly fond of me. That’s the voice of a man who maybe terminates his employees differently than I originally thought.

The voice of a man who’s suddenly moving fast for his age. Much faster than I’ve ever seen him. As if he’s simply been acting the part all along. And right now, he’s blocking the doorway.

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

“You really should have drunk your wine.” That’s when I see he’s got his phone out. The line is ringing. “This all would have been easier if you’d drunk the damn wine.”

My gut tells me that whoever’s on the other end of that phone, him telling them about me is going to be bad news. That’s when I do something I never thought I would, and I clock my client in his weak fucking jaw. When he goes down, I stomp the phone that’s landed on the tile floor before stuffing it into my pocket.

Then I’m out the door and into my car so fast that I don’t realize until I’m dialing Brennan that I’m still wearing pajamas.

Brennan answers with a terse “This better be good.”

An unhinged laugh slips out. Good? We’re so far from that right now. “Where are you? We need to talk.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Michael

Brennan tells me to meet him at Shadow, a high-end sex club outside of town. I’ve been in here a few times. Never as a member, though I’d love to be. Not so I can come in and fuck random people. I do enough of that for work. But the people watching? The low light and polished wood? The sheer elegance of glittering jewelry and clinking glasses with the smell of sex is heady as fuck.

When I walk into this place, it would be easy to convince myself I don’t belong. I’m reminded of something I heard the governor of Maryland say about how no room is complete until he walks in. It’s my mantra in spaces like these. I don’t simply belong, they need me here. And if I’m not feeling it, then I fake it until I do.

But like Dean, sometimes there are things I can’t quite justify spending money on. One day.

Again, I wonder how he and Ella are doing. Again, each thought is a knife sliding between my ribs.

When I find Brennan playing cards in a back room with a couple of other guys, I can tell he’s in a good mood. Let this be a sign that my luck’s turning around.

“Mikey!”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

Brennan, the man I both hate and owe the contents of my bank account to, sits at a square table of gleaming cherrywood with a cigar between his fingers.

There’s one other guy at the table I’ve met. Ravi’s boyfriend, Liam, who’s not actually holding any cards. Gotta be honest, I had my issues with Liam at first. Didn’t seem like he was good for Ravi. Since he’s been pretty decent lately, I guess he and I have reached an understanding.

The other man at the table, I recognize as Daniel Corvus. He owns this club. While I’ve seen him before, we’ve never spoken. Honestly, the guy’s got some intimidating vibes.

Brennan puts his cards face down on the table and leans back in his chair, giving me a narrow-eyed once-over. “You called me, son?”

“Don’t call me that either.”

“You decide you don’t need my help after all? You’re welcome to leave.”