Dad’s business meeting was being held at the prestigious Portsmouth Renaissance, a luxury hotel in the heart of downtown. I’d been here a couple of times before with him, and had learned pretty quickly how these things went.

Basically, I’d step up beside my father to greet whoever he’d be meeting with. The guys would smile and nod politely, make jokes about how much I looked like my dad, ask me what sports I was into and whether or not my dad was raising me to be a cutthroat business man like him.

I’d smile politely, tell them I was a fan of lacrosse and that no one was as cutthroat as my dad. It was a big charade so my dad could parade his wholesomeness around to the rest of the community, and then I’d make myself scarce while he and the guys talked.

So, I found myself at the bar, ordering a cranberry juice because I wasn’t old enough to drink yet.

“One cranberry juice coming up,” the bartender told me. He was cheerful, but I could tell it was all an act. He hated his job, almost as much as I hated being here. I was thankful for everything my dad had worked for to give me, but at the same time, I would have traded it all to just have been closer to him when we were growing up.

“Grab me a vodka tonic, would you, pal?” A voice boomed beside me. “Actually make it two.”

I looked to my right as a man took a seat at the stool beside me. He was a big son of a bitch, stuffed into a dark maroon suit, with a thick gold watch hanging from his swollen wrist. A gold chain hung from his neck and his top button was open to expose a thick mat of black chest hair. The word “gangster” came to mind when I looked at him. He carried himself like a guy who would have no problem punching out the bartender for bringing him the wrong drink.

“Hey there, whippersnapper,” he croaked. His voice was like an auto-tuned belch, and I could smell the alcohol on his breath. This guy was loaded. “Cranberry juice? What, do you got a UTI or something?”

I couldn’t help but smile as the bartender brought me my drink.

“Where the fuck are my vodka tonics?” he roared.

“Just one minute, sir,” the bartender replied timidly.

“Yah, yah, yah,” the guy beside me groaned. “Name’s Harvey.”

“Tyler,” I replied, sipping my cranberry juice.

“How the fuck you doin’ tonight, boyo?” he asked me, drumming his fat thumbs against the bar top.

“Hangin’ in there,” I told him as the bartender returned with his drinks.

“Two vodka tonics—”

“Yeah, thanks, Speedy,” he interrupted, snatching the drinks from the poor guy, spilling some on his thick hands. “Get lost, now, huh? I’ll holler if we need you.”

The bartender looked like he was ready to explode, but he didn’t want to lose his job, so he kept his mouth shut, turned around and vanished through the bar door.

“Cheers,” Harvey said, raising one of the drinks to his lips. My mouth hung open as he downed the entire vodka tonic in one gulp, then raised the other glass and did the same.

“Jesus…”

“That’s how a – how a man does it!” he cackled, slapping his palm on the bar top. Then, like we were old friends, he spun around in his stool to face me. He was like a thick ball of dough stuffed into his expensive silk suit. He was an alpha, but obviously out of control and had drunk and eaten himself into the out-of-shape mess that was sitting beside me.

“Say,” he grinned, looking around as though someone might be eavesdropping on our conversation. “You look like a healthy young buck who might appreciate a good time…if you know what I’m saying.”

His eyebrows, dark and thick like a pair of brown caterpillars, went up and down as gave me an enthusiastic smile. His teeth were yellow like a set of old Chiclets. I glanced around at the hotel bar and the rest of the people here. They were well-dressed, polite, on their best behavior, and here I was, sitting beside the one scumbag in the entire place who’d decided I looked like a fun guy to chat with.

So I figured I’d just go ahead and go along with this guy and see where it went.

“Oh, you know it,” I replied, puffing my chest out and giving him a mischievous look like I knew what he was talking about. “I love a good time.”

“Hah! I thought so,” he laughed, slapping my thigh with his meat hook. “You also don’t look like you’re hard up for scratch?”

“I do all right for myself,” I told him.

“You, uh – you ain’t a Fed, are ya? Cause you’d have to tell me if you were!”

A Fed? Was this guy serious? Whatever he was into had to be juicy. I figured he was about five seconds from trying to sell me some cocaine.

“I look like a Fed to you?” I asked him.

Harvey stopped moving and his eyes narrowed as he looked at me, like he was activating some kind of internal radar or scanning device that picked up law enforcement agents. After a moment, he cracked up.

“Hah! Naw, you ain’t no Fed!” he slapped the counter hard with his hand and shouted. “Another vodka tonic, buddy boy!”

I looked around, but the bartender was nowhere to be seen, and I didn’t expect him to come back any time soon. And I was curious now, and I knew my dad was going to be a while, so I decided to mess with the son of a bitch. I leaned closer to Harvey and whispered, “So – what’s this good time all about?”

“You like boys?” he asked me. I was shocked for a second. That wasn’t a reply I’d expected. I figured he’d pull his jacket open and show me an eight-ball or something and quote me a price. I felt my heart rate rise as I looked at him. He was hammered and I got a feeling that he wouldn’t be talking to me like this if he was sober, so I pushed it.

“Sure,” I smiled. “Don’t we all?”

“Fuck, yeah,” he replied, as though what I’d just said was the best possible response. He reached into his coat, and for a moment, I was disappointed. “Nice looking alpha like you – need yourself an omega. Am I right?”

Here come the drugs, I thought, trying not to roll my eyes. But when he pulled his hand back out, I realized I was wrong.

He reached out and handed me a card, pale white like a business card, but instead of a name and contact information on it, there was a simple black symbol done in black ink that looked like a silhouette of a young boy’s face.

“Thirty-four Blackborne Street,” he whispered. “Give ‘em that and bring your credit card. Tell ‘em Harvey sent you. They’ll make sure you get the pick of the litter.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but before I could answer, Harvey was on his feet.

“Nice to meet you, pal!” he roared, bringing his hand down hard on my shoulder. “Gotta get movin’. Have a good night!”

The floor shook as he planted his feet, and I watched as he swayed away from me, pulling his pants up in the back.

What the fuck was that? I thought as I watched him go. I looked down at the card in my hand. There was something sinister in its simplicity. It meant nothing to me, but to whoever was involved in whatever “good times” Harvey was into, this meant a lot.

Just go home, I thought as I flipped it around in my hand. Wait for dad and go home. Don’t be an idiot.