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NICK
Why the hell are the handcuffs so tight? They were originally too loose, sliding up my arms until they nearly reached my elbows whenever Adam put me on all fours on the edge of the bed.
But now they’re pinching my wrists as he rolls me onto my back.
“Hold still, boy,” he growls. “Let me get you comfortable again.”
How did he know?
“The only discomfort that I want you to feel is from my hand against your ass,” he adds, watching as I sink into the mattress. When I look over his shoulder, I see thin curtains fluttering in the breeze and a streetlight burning on the corner below. I squint to make out the sign: Barrow Street. I smile to myself, remembering the tattoo artist passing along the clue about how I could find Adam.
“Do you want to feel my hand again?” comes the husky voice from behind me.
As instructed, I haven’t said a word. I’ve been moaning and grunting, but not one intelligible utterance has slipped from my lips. With each thrust of Adam’s hips, steady and powerful and relentless, I’ve kept my teeth clenched and resisted the temptation to call out his name. Instead, I’ve held back all of my thoughts and emotions.
Even so, I know that when he does give me the signal, when he tells me it’s okay to talk again, I’ll start by thanking him.
“Thank you for understanding what I need,” I’ll say. “For giving me the opportunity to share this with you and please you and feel every inch of your cock as it—”
Before I finish the thought, a voice calls out.
“Nick!”
Who is that?
I roll my head to the side, glancing over my shoulder again when a thunderous pounding comes from the hallway.
What the fuck is going on?
I glance back a second time, looking up at Adam, but he’s wearing a mask made from glossy black keycards. I can’t see his eyes. I can’t tell if it’s even him because the sleeve tattoos are gone and the room is spinning and I feel someone clawing at my shoulder and—
I lurch awake and Oliver is standing over the bed in the apartment on Fifth Avenue.
“You sleep like the fucking dead, babe,” he says in a snarky tone. “I heard you moaning all the way in the kitchen.”
I push against the mattress until I’m propped up on the mound of pillows.
“What time is it?”
He scoffs. “It’s wake up and stop dry humping the bed time.”
Oliver points at my crotch. My cock is so hard it’s holding up the fleece blanket and heavy cotton sheet.
“That thing needs some desperate attention,” he says with a wink. “I should give you a bit of privacy so you can rub one out.”
“Seriously,” I say. “What time is it?”
He looks at his watch. “Two o’clock.”
I’m instantly confused by his response.
“In the morning?” I reach for my phone on the bedside table. “What are you—”
“No, princess,” he answers. “Two in the afternoon. And there’s someone at the door for you.”
The additional information adds to my bewilderment. Who knows that I’m staying at Don and Bradley’s place? Why would they come to the door without calling? I stare at Oliver for a few seconds before he answers the second question as if he’s reading my mind.
“She sent you about a million texts,” he says. “At least, that’s what she claims.”
“Who is it?” I ask. “Did you get a name?”
“Lady Remington,” he jokes. “You better get some clothes on and get your ass out to the living room.”
“I don’t know anybody with that name,” I say, still groggy from sleep.
Oliver hoists his eyebrows, plants both hands on his hips and sashays out of the room like a drag queen leaving the stage at the end of her number.
“Sounds like she knows you,” he calls before disappearing into the hallway.
Before I try to guess who came to see me, I jump out of bed, slip into Bradley’s white terrycloth robe and hurry out of the room.
When I come around the corner into the foyer a few seconds later, I see my friend Richard. He’s leaning against the wall near the front door, grinning like The Chesire Cat and drumming his fingers against one thigh.
“Hey, Richie.” My voice sounds muzzy and faraway. “What are you doing here?”
His hand goes into the messenger bag hanging from his left shoulder. “I learned something after I saw you the other night.” He pulls an envelope from the bag, thrusting it toward me with a fleeting smile. “I think it’ll make you happy.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Open it and find out,” he says.
I press the envelope between my fingers. “Why didn’t you call or text?”
He scowls melodramatically. “I did, you little fucker. But you must’ve changed your number or something.”
“Oh, shit! I did. I’m so sorry.”
“Open it.” He points at the envelope. “I want to see your face when you read what’s inside.”
Oliver drifts in from the kitchen. “Did he open it yet?”
Richard laughs. “No, he’s taking his sweet time.”
“Hurry the fuck up!” Oliver demands.
“Do you know what it is?” I ask.
“Maybe yes,” he says, “and maybe you bet your ass.”
I ignore his flippant reply and open the envelope. There’s a folded sheet of pale blue paper inside. I quickly pull it out, drop the envelope on the console table and then unfold the piece of paper.
“Isn’t that just the best?” Oliver says before I get a peek at the message. “It’s like Richard is some kind of magical matchmaker or something.”
I don’t understand the comment until I look down at the sheet of paper. I lift it slightly and squint at what’s printed in the center of the page in crisp, black lettering:
Adam Coleman
88 Barrow Street
212-555-1009
Oliver starts clapping his hands and doing his infamous happy dance around the entryway.
“Well?” he says. “Isn’t it just the best?”
I look over at Richard. “Is this really his address and phone number?”
Richard beams proudly. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says with a slight curtsey. “At your service and at your call.”
“But how did you—”
“That’s not important,” he interrupts. “But what is important is for you to either call that hunky daddy right this second or get your ass out the door and over to Barrow and Hudson as soon as possible.”
I look at Adam’s name, address and phone number again.
“I don’t get it,” I say. “How did you pull this off?”
Richard rolls his shoulders. “It was a piece of cake,” he says. “I went home, told Tate and Alec about running into you and asked if they knew anyone who fit the description.”
“Which was?” Oliver asks. “How did Nick describe his new daddy?”
My face flares crimson. “He’s not my new anything,” I say firmly.
“Whatever,” Oliver replies, giving me a smirk before turning back to Richard. “How’d you get the scoop?”
“It really was that simple,” he says. “I went home, told Tate and Alec about Nick’s night at Dirty Secrets and they instantly recognized the description of Adam.”
“You’re being serious?” I feel butterflies pinwheel in my stomach. “They knew Adam based on the sleeve tattoos alone?”
Richard laughs. “Unfortunately, no,” he says. “Do you know how many hot men in this city have ink on their arms?”
“Sometimes I think it’s every other one,” Oliver says. “Especially downtown after ten o’clock when the weather’s nice.”
“Anyway,” Richard says. “Tate and Alec know Adam from when they shared a summer house on Fire Island. They all moved to the city about the same time, back when they were in their twenties. So they’ve been friends now for, like, twenty years or whatever.”
“But there are literally millions of men in town,” I say. “It seems so incredible that your husbands would know Adam from twenty years ago.”
“Oh, they’re all still friends,” Richard says. “They also know the guy that owns Dirty Secrets, and he told them that Adam helped with interior design and a few architectural renovations for the club. In fact, Adam went to Greece with the other couple last summer.”
“Just Adam?” I ask.
Richard gives me a look. “Don’t go there, big guy. You both have a past. Last year, if you may recall, you and Taylor went to Costa Rica with Lowell and his boyfriend.”
“Excellent point!” Oliver says cheerfully. “The past is the past. And who gives a fuck about what you can’t change, right?”
“Amen to that!” Richard cheers.
“The important thing is the present and future,” continues Oliver. “The choices we make today will influence who we are tomorrow.”
I can’t help but groan. “Thank you, Dr. Phil. That’s so sweet of you to share your wisdom.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Oliver says playfully. “You know that I’m right.”
Richard comes over and wraps me in a tight bear hug.
“We all know that you’re right,” he says after lowering his arms and stepping back. “No other path. No other way.”
“Are you quoting Rent?” I smile. “That’s one of my favorite shows of all time.”
“Me, too,” Richard tells me. “But I was actually quoting my Nana Prescott. She was always tottering around the kitchen saying that when she cooked. ‘No other path. No other way.’ The first time I saw the show, I nearly fell out of my chair.”
“Well, I’m gonna fall out of something,” Oliver says, “if somebody doesn’t get in the shower and go see if Adam Coleman is home and waiting with open arms.”
I look at the sheet of paper again. “Maybe I should text him first,” I suggest. “That might be better.”
Oliver shakes his head, smiling wryly. “It’s not. But if that’s the best you can do, go for it! The important thing is—”
“Remember Nana Prescott,” Richard says. “‘No day but today.’”