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Chapter One
Sebastian
THE LIGHTS WHIRL. THE music throbs. Bodies grind and gyrate.
And me? I’m the main attraction, baby.
I stand on a platform in the center of the storm. Well, not the literal center. Two circular platforms rise on either side of the DJ station at the back of the club. The dance floor rolls out before me until it bumps into the bar at the other side of the room, but the kaleidoscopic nightclub lights turn everything beyond my little stage into a sea of silhouettes.
I give the faceless silhouettes my all anyway, dancing in nothing but sparkly booty shorts and suspenders that dive down my smooth chest in a V until they disappear into the shorts. My ass peeks out of the bottom, a feature of thisensemble that is not at all accidental. I know exactly the effect my body has on the patrons of this particular club; I know exactly what they’re thinking when I whip my long black ponytail around. I smeared glitter all over my skin, so that when I spin under the lights I’m the brightest object in the room.
And I am an object. Intentionally so. I’m an object of desire, here to flaunt my body and convince all these people to get drunker, dance more, take someone home tonight. I’m a feature of the atmosphere, and I give the patrons everything I have to ensure they have a good night.
A man wobbles up to the stage. He’s waving cash, which is the only reason I interrupt my dancing to notice him. I take the money and flash the guy a smile. His friend comes up and claps him on the shoulder, mouthing the word “sorry.” I shrug and wave the bill his buddy handed me. That’s the best apology in the world, as far as I’m concerned. The guy nods and leads his friend away but not without one last appreciative look in my direction.
I have to straighten up and return to the flow of the music, but I don’t struggle to find the beat after that little interruption. Dancing comes as naturally to me as walking. I’ve been doing it nearly as long, after all. So it’s easy for my mind to drift back to the cute guy who rescued me from his friend while I shake my ass for anyone who might be looking. I caress the bill his friend handed me, making a show of stuffing it into the waistband of my tiny, tinyshorts. They’re tight enough that the money will stay put, and perhaps even inspire some copycats to give me more.
I bend over and twerk for the crowd, hoping to bring home a little extra cash tonight. Dancing doesn’t exactly pay the bills, but it helps. And every once in a while it comes with some bonuses — monetary and otherwise.
An “otherwise” is watching me right now. Every time I face the crowd I can see him. He’s up near the front with his friend, observing me shamelessly while he keeps his much drunker friend from tripping over his own feet. He’s not bad. Tall, dark-haired, filling out his extremely tight T-shirt in a way that invites deeper exploration.
I meet his eyes as I run my tongue along my top lip, as shameless in my appraisal as he is. I glide my hands down my body, drop into a low crouch, pop back up to shake my ass at the crowd. It’s all a little sweeter knowing some hottie is eating up every second of the performance.
He isn’t the only one, apparently. I get a few more offers of cash. A couple of the men try to chat me up, but if I linger too long management won’t like it. Besides, none of them are who I have my eye on tonight.
An entire conversation passes between me and that man in the crowd. We speak in fleeting eye contact, in raised eyebrows, in hands straying strategically over our own bodies. But there’s no doubt about what we want.
By the time my shift on stage ends, I’m buzzing with anticipation. It’s not every night a guy is bold enough toapproach me while I’m working. The men who visit Leathers know what they’re here for. It’s one of Seattle’s most popular gay clubs. Even so, it takes a ballsy man to proposition the guys who are working when there are plenty of easier targets dancing and hanging out at the bar.
Some of the other dancers hate it, but I’m not proud enough to care. It’s not like I have a boyfriend waiting at home. I don’t even have a roommate. I live alone all the way up in Tripp Lake, and not even my parents really bother coming out for a visit. I’m temporary. I’m the entertainment. I know the score well before I shower and change and clean myself up. That guy out there in the club doesn’t see me as anything more than attractive and convenient, and I feel the same about him.
Is that cold of me? Is it bleak? I stopped feeling that way about it a few years ago. I can either cry and complain that no one ever seems to take me seriously, or I can lean into it and have as much fun as possible for as long as possible.
I throw on jeans and a normal T-shirt and put my dangly earring back in, my hair still held high on my head, my skin faintly shimmery with sparkles. It’ll take days to scrub all of them off. Hopefully Chloe at the cat café won’t mind too much if I show up for work glittery tomorrow.
That’s a problem for future-Sebastian, however. Tonight, my only problem is how quickly I can find the hot guy making bedroom eyes at me from across the club.
I brought nothing to work with me tonight but my clothes, keys, phone and wallet. I shove everything but the clothes in my pockets (the shorts and suspenders can stay on the floor of the dressing room) and head back out into the thumping nightclub. I go for the bar, thinking I might as well have a drink while I’m waiting on my mystery man, but the moment I sit down, someone slides onto the stool next to me.
It’s him.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in so close his shoulder presses against mine. “What are you drinking?”
“Whatever you’re buying,” I say.
The guy quirks an eyebrow, but I hold his gaze, unflinching. I know he’ll buy the drink. I know I’ll drink it. I know we’ll leave here together. But he can keep playing hard to get as long as he likes.
He gives up quickly, flagging down the bartender and ordering two of something strong but tasty. The bartender gives me a look, and I wink at him, letting him know it’s okay. This isn’t some creepy stalker situation.
We go through the motions of talking while drinking, but it’s hard to hear anything in this club, and frankly, I can’t wait to get to the bottom of my glass. The guy — Owen, I think he calls himself — takes subtle opportunities to touch my arm or leg, always leaning in closer. Once, he skims his hand along my jaw, ostensibly so he can speak directly into my ear, but I don’t hear a singleword. All I notice is the warmth of a human hand on my body, a warmth that is dangerously close to affection.
It’s not, of course. There’s no affection here. This is purely physical. It’s fun. It’s temporary. I’d be deluding myself if I ever thought someone would see me as deserving more.
I down my drink in a gulp and stand, offering my hand. Owen looks at it for a moment before taking down his drink as well. He grabs my hand and leads me outside. My ears ring in the relative hush of late night (or early morning, as the case may be). There’s still plenty of activity in this part of the city. Rideshares block traffic, waiting for riders. Buses weave around them to rumble down the street. Drunk club goers either stumble their way home or veer off into their next adventure.
Owen pulls me close, slipping his hand around my waist as we walk. I’m not drunk, and neither is he, but I don’t mind the contact. It’s nice. Steadying.
“Where to?” he says.
