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Chris responded. “We’d asked Sara to help us out with intake for the new wing, kind of serve as a den mother for any new young people looking to bunk down for a while. I think we’ll need to find some temporary help while she recovers.”
“Probably a good idea. In the meantime, I’d like to help with the outreach today too. I could check out a few places I used to haunt. Spread the word.” Staying busy would help keep his mind off what had happened to his friend last night.
Paul slid a few cards his way. “You’re doing God’s work, son. I know He brought you to us for a reason.”
The words turned over in his head as he left the building. Awful as his early years in Atlanta had been, maybe something good could come out of them.
He hit the a few of the tent cities beneath the interstate on-ramps. In the middle of the day, there weren’t too many people around, but he’d learned early, if you had to sleep on the street, it was far safer when the sun was out.
In three stops, he only gave out one card. The slight man was probably younger than eighteen, but if he had any sense, he’d lie to anyone who asked. The guy had firmed his jaw and planted his feet at Robby’s advance, but he took the card. Only time would tell if the kid had enough trust or desperation to seek out the center at nightfall.
The guys he really needed to find probably weren’t on the streets. They’d be holed up with men like John or Harry. Or in the clubs.
Dammit.
He never wanted to set foot in a place like the Nitro party room again. Just thinking about it made him queasy. Then again, the easy path wasn’t always the right one.
Ten minutes later, he forced himself into the front door of the club’s public area. No one and nothing inside could distinguish it from the last time he’d visited or any of the times before.
He didn’t recognize the sentry posted outside the VIP room, which meant no way he’d get in. Instead, he approached the bartender—the good-looking one with the beard. What was his name? Larry? Lucas. Hopefully, the guy had a better memory than he did.
“What can I get you, gorgeous?” Lucas leaned forward, elbows on the bar.
“I’m looking for Parker.”If all else fails, go with name recognition.“Have you seen him around?”
“Can’t say I have.”
Robby pushed a twenty across the bar. “You mind if I go look for him in the back?”
Lucas lifted an eyebrow, then swiped the bill and stuffed it in his pocket. “Sure. Tell the Terminator over there I said to let you through.”
He passed over a second twenty, which prompted a grin and wink from Lucas. Who knew when it would pay off to be in the bartender’s good graces?
No one in the thin crowd stepped in his way as he approached the back door, but the big guy in the tight black jacket dropped his arm menacingly across the entryway when he made it back. “Private party.”
“Not according to Lucas.” He ran an exaggerated gaze over the bouncer’s bulging biceps. “I see why he calls you the Terminator.”
The bouncer scoffed. “Why the fuck can’t he pick something hotter than Schwarzenegger? How about Jason Momoa or something?”
The man looked nothing like Jason Momoa or Arnold Schwarzenegger, even in his younger days. He was more beefy than muscular, and his short, dark hair was visibly thinning on the top.
But the guy’s appearance didn’t matter. Robby wasn’t here to find a date; he only needed to get in the back room. “Sometimes people can’t see what’s right in front of them.”
The bouncer shook his head in a cross between irritation and disgust, but more importantly, he stepped aside to leave the doorway wide open.
No more wasting time.
Robby stepped into the back room, and the change in atmosphere hit him like a ton of bricks. How had he not noticed it instantly when he came in here before?
While the dance floor had a distinct sexual energy, out there, he’d felt exhilarated, liberated, and carefree. Out there, the men owned their sexuality, whether they showed it through sweetness, swagger, or a shy smile.
In here, the air felt heavier, stickier. Debauchery and desperation dripped from the dark velvety curtains and clung to everything like an oily sheen.
He shuddered against the pit in his stomach and scanned the crowd for anyone who might want to get out. Though most could hide it, Robby felt like he’d be able to sense any true desolation. Like calling to like.
Almost immediately, he zeroed in on a slight redhead, maybe nineteen or twenty years old, with deep purple bruises creeping above the collar of his tight emerald-green glittery shirt. The guy leaned against the bar, his gaze trained on the floor, but he snuck glances around him every few seconds. Submissive, but aware of his surroundings.
Robby approached him from the side and stopped with about three feet between them. He didn’t look at the guy directly, instead facing the bar when he spoke. “I don’t expect you to believe me. When I was you, I wouldn’t have, but I’m telling you the truth. There’s a way to get out of here. Out of this place, out of this life.”
