Damn. I managed to make my shoulders sore yesterday.

The cold air from the fridge ghosts up the sleeve of tattoos on my arm as I maneuver the carton of eggs out from underneath a box of two-day-old Chinese leftovers, rolling my other shoulder. The door doesn’t shut all the way as usual, but the kick I give it with my foot as I walk away finishes the job.

I usually stay away from the culinary establishments that abound in Vegas. I didn’t get the muscles that strain against even my loose shirts by working out alone—nutrition is also somewhat of a hobby of mine.

The Chinese had been a special occasion. An old friend had recently approached my cousin with a business venture and renovations had already begun on the location, but their electrical contractor had quit on them.

That’s where I—and the Chinese leftovers—come in. As Rick and his business partner had explained two days ago over dinner, the first electrical contractor had made promises and boasted an impressive list of completed contracts, then sent electricians who had no clue what to do with the specialized electronics required for the place.

I’m not particularly worried about the electronics—I might only have a handful of contracts under my work belt, but I’m confident I know what I’m doing. I learned my training in the Navy after not quite completing SEAL training. Oh, I made it through Hell Week, but I guess I’m not cut out for being under water. Maybe that’s why the hot, dry climate of Las Vegas suits me.

It took awhile for my ego to grasp the concept of doing something less with my life, but I’ve always been good with electronics and now I’m the best I can be at it.

That’s not to say I’m not a bit apprehensive about this high-tech club, my cousin Rick has hired me to renovate. Until I see the screens and other electronics Rick described to me in person, I can’t know exactly how badly the first electrician botched installation and wiring. The club’s grand opening isn’t far away, and I already feel the pressure to finish a job I haven’t assessed yet.

Lost in thought, I crack an egg a bit too vigorously and sigh as my carelessness forces me to pick out a bit of shell that slipped into the white.

As I fling the shard into the sink, I spot another bit of white standing out vividly against the black skin of my arm, clinging to one of the sails of my ship tattoo. It’s impossible to paint anything without finding splotches somewhere it doesn’t need to be.

Still, with the sound of sizzling eggs and feeling of physical well-being that permeates my body, I can’t stay frustrated for long. It’s fantastic, the way working out evaporates stress. Well, that’s not true. Physical exertion doesn’t get rid of the pressure, but it does make it possible to sleep in spite of it and reduces it during the day.

My shoulders groan as I scramble the eggs. I can’t remember the last time I walked out of the gym and felt sore the next day. Work out enough, and you don’t get sore anymore unless you push yourself harder than you should.

Since I’ll probably have to push myself to meet the deadline for this job, I figure it won’t hurt to start a little early.

The eggs sizzle in the pan and the normalcy of the sound makes me give my head a shake. A dash of salt and pepper, a few more practiced flips with the spatula, and I slide the breakfast I enjoy every morning onto my plate.

I have the feeling I’ll be reminding myself to be positive a lot today.

Shoveling the eggs back, I place the plate and fork into a growing pile of unwashed dishes in the sink.

Time to get ready. I can’t be late to my first day on a new job, especially not one this big. One that I probably don’t deserve compared to other candidates Rick and the other co-owners of the club must have considered. I head to my bedroom, carefully avoiding the lurking malice of wet white paint.

Only one piece of apparel doesn’t change amongst electricians. Professionalism. Maybe it’s the importance of this job or maybe it’s because I’m working for family, but I decide to go with my self-imposed dress code today. The heat of flashy Las Vegas, has me pulling out a vest and a pair of comfortable blue jeans and studded black leather belt – no t-shirt, just the bare essentials.

In the very back of the closet, two pairs of combat fatigues sway, mocking the hopes I had for a very different life.

Getting a little pissed that these memories are still so vivid. I slide the fatigues farther into the dark corner of the closet along with unwanted memories, I walk into the bathroom to stand in front of the full-length mirror, turning sideways to admire my big ham…..hamstrings. Since leaving the military, I’ve made it a point to work out daily.

Fifteen minutes later, I swipe my keys, phone, and wallet off the kitchen table, jaw soft to the touch and shirt tucked into well-fitted work pants. The scratch on my watch conceals a couple of numbers on the right-hand side of the face, but it takes me only a glance to know the time is a quarter past eight. With forty minutes to arrive by nine, I’m cutting it a little close.

Two precious minutes speed by in the time it takes me to take the six floors down to the parking garage, fold my muscular frame into my silver Dodge truck, and check the back seat for my work belt and tools.

I’m satisfied I didn’t forget anything and traffic seems to be on my side today, so I arrive at five ‘till nine. Pressing my foot on the brake to accommodate for the speed bump just after the turn into the parking garage, I crane my neck to check around the slight turn that the gate at the ticket machine is open.

It is, and only a few cars—some extravagant supercars—occupy the spaces nearest the open doors that lead into the building, leaving the rest of the two-level, half-underground lot empty.

As I pass through the simple double doors, I glance around. This hallway does nothing to scream expensive, high-tech nightclub; I guess that it just isn’t the entrance guests will be using.

Inside, the place better meets my expectations. It was initially built as a hotel. It intended in its design to draw people into all sorts of business ventures and situations to meet, sip whatever drinks the elite prefer and talk their game. The stage in the center of what had once been a conference hall, long, soon-to-be-stocked bar, and VIP section testify to how quickly an establishment of any kind can change hands in Vegas.

I won’t lose sleep over it. Every business failed means more work for contractors like me.

Most other men probably would take a moment to pause and picture the slim bodies and tantalizing movements of the dancers whose hands and legs would soon wrap around those poles on stage. I make my way around the obstruction in the path between me and Rick, whom I can see contemplating the bar.

“Rick!” I call out over the racket of some hammering emanating from the open door behind the bar.

“Brandon! Glad you could make it.” We shake hands and pat each other’s backs in a short hug. “Welcome to House of Stars.”

We were always a pair when we were younger. Our mothers were sisters, and we were born within a week of each other. Most people thought we were twins. We’re the same height, have the same creamy dark skin, and have the same gray eyes. The eyes are what get people.

“The place is coming along nicely,” I say conversationally.

“We should be on track to open in about seven weeks as planned,” Rick agrees, gazing at the stage behind me. “Depending on electronics, of course.”

I resist the urge to fidget with the yellow grips on the handles of a pair of pliers in my belt. “It’ll take me a few hours to assess what’s been done, what hasn’t been done, and what may need to be redone. Cullen said that since the job had already been started, he’d made most of the purchases recommended by the original contractor. I’m hoping I’ll be able to work with those supplies without requesting more, but again, I need to see what I’m working with.”

“Of course. You can give me, Cullen, or Dixon the rundown,” Rick tells me. “I could show you around, but the floor plans—” Rick retrieves a tan folder from the bar—“are in this folder, along with everything else I promised. You would know where to start better than I, at any rate.”

I thank Rick and start to walk away. He calls after me, “Hold up.”

I turn around with a question in my eyes, eager to get to work.

“How are things going? We haven’t had a chance to talk much since I got back to Vegas,” Rick says.

“Still just me for now, but I’m hoping to make a hire or two to boost my business within a year,” I tell him, wondering why he needs to bring this up now.

“If I hear of any more jobs, I’ll recommend you. I’m glad you’ve found something you’re passionate about.” Rick’s voice is encouraging but filled with a not-so-veiled question.

“Well, it’s not the Navy, but I’m managing.” I have to force a smile. Rick is one of the few people from my past still on speaking terms with me, but I have a job to worry about and let my mind get mired in the past won’t help.

“Good.” Rick claps me on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he adds as he looks behind me. I take my folder to the other end of the bar as a woman in a pencil skirt and heels taps over with a clipboard and a question. I open the tan folder firmly, determined to concentrate.

The floor plans and electrical plans drawn up by the original contractor are detailed, and it takes mere minutes to discern where I need to start. As the day progresses and I evaluate the job, I conclude. Luckily, I’m almost certain I won’t have to rip up any of the newly-laid floors, and I probably won’t need any more access to what’s behind the walls than the access panels that already exist can provide me with. This means I won’t have to go to Rick with news of costly expenses.

However, not ripping up the floors means that I’ll need more wire for splicing. The previous electrical contractors didn’t run the wiring efficiently in some sections of the club, so to do the job properly, I’ll need to extend it.

This job won’t be easy, but I think I can do it in time for the club’s opening. I glance over the notepad on which I’ve been writing my notes and requests. This needs to get to an accountant or someone.

I’ve been in back rooms checking breakers and upstairs figuring out the wiring for hours, so I’m surprised to walk back into the dancing hall to find it bustling. Dancers practice on the stage under the watchful eye of a middle-aged woman standing with crossed arms, and a group of matching, royal blue T-shirts are making trips back and forth between the hall and the parking garage with sleek round tables and chairs in hand.

Sticking close to the wall to stay out of the way, I sweep the activity in search of Cullen or Rick.

My eyes flick past the stage, freeze, and snap back to the dancers.

Or rather, snap back to one particular dancer.

Hair whips past her shoulder as she swiftly shifts her hips that are positively luscious, and for just the briefest moment, a sheet of wavy blonde obscures one of her piercing blue eyes. The bottom edge of her spaghetti-strap crop top rises and falls with the undulation of her irresistible body, revealing tantalizing flashes of perfect skin.

My hands twitch with the desire to rip off the bit of clothing and see what lies beneath. I have to know if the rest of her is as perfect as her hips and ass, how soft her lips feel, what it does to my body to feel her hands against me….

Shit, I may as well be back in high school. I’m getting a hard-on just watching a girl dance.

My mind wills my body to move, but my eyes refuse to leave this woman. Now that the initial impression of perfection has faded, I can see that there’s something off. She can’t quite seem to pick up the moves as quickly as the others; her blue eyes are always darting to glance at them. Even so, when she starts a step after the others, she finishes first. The other dancers move gracefully and nearly in unison, but it’s like my girl can’t slow the tempo of her dancing. She moves quickly and with purpose, and the effort of it sends the swells of her breasts moving with rapid breaths.

My girl. I find myself wanting this girl so badly, and I’m grateful for the heavy tool belt hanging from my hips that hide exactly how badly that is.

One of the thin straps on her top slips. She replaces it with a practiced flip before the garment can slip and I all but groan. The quiet noise I make finally jolts me back to reason. Remembering that eyes can and need to blink. I tear my eyes from the enticing beauty.

Rick. I’m looking for Rick. Or Cullen. Both of whom are fortyish-year-old men, not deliciously sexy dancers that are literally hired to distract men.

I can’t spot either of them and figure they may be in the rooms behind the bar. I’m glad I stayed back by the wall. No one has noticed me staring, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t need some princess showgirl to throw me off track. If the girl sees me and her blue eyes meet mine, I won’t be able to keep myself from talking to her, and I haven’t left the past behind me far enough for that.

Better to find Rick and put the intoxicating dancer out of my mind. If he isn’t behind the bar, he might be in the parking garage—either place will be far from temptation I see on the stage.