6

Destroy. Defeat. Deceive.

Michael scanned his partner’s black-clad form for weaknesses he could exploit. Right now, during the heat of the match, was the only time he gave free rein to the base, selfish instincts he battled daily. And it felt so fucking good.

No matter how hard he fought against it, at his core, he was just like his dad. The badness had been passed down in his blood.

He shoved and went for a head shot. When his partner’s sword rose to block the strike, Michael pushed for that extra burst of speed and arched his weapon down. The tip of his sword cracked against his partner’s side.

Clean point. Match over.

Everyone bowed and set their swords on the blue matted floor before kneeling. Michael hated this part of class, not because it meant practice was ending, but because it was time to remove his armor and return to his normal self.

This was the beauty of apparel. A suit transformed you into a certain kind of person. A T-shirt, a different kind of person. Black nightmare armor that hid your face behind an ominous metal cage, yet a different kind of person. The gear weighed thirty pounds, but he always felt lighter when he wore it.

As he shed layers, cold air touched his skin, and reality crept back into his head. Heavy thoughts stacked one upon the other like bricks, returning him to his regular burdened state. Responsibilities and obligations. Bills. Family. His day job. His night job.

After class officially ended, he put his gear in its place on the shelf along the back wall. Space was tight as fuck with five guys in the cramped changing room, and he didn’t feel like waiting around, so he slipped his uniform off in the hallway. Nothing half the women in California hadn’t already seen.

Two high school girls giggled and hurried into the women’s room, and he rolled his eyes as he yanked a pair of jeans over his boxer briefs. Michael Larsen: now serving half the women in California plus two.

“We’re probably going to have a bunch of new girl members next week now,” said a voice Michael recognized as belonging to Quan, Michael’s cousin and sparring partner.

“I’ll let you teach them their strikes,” Michael said as he retrieved a wrinkled T-shirt from his duffel bag and straightened.

“They might be disappointed.”

“Whatever.” He yanked his shirt on, trying and failing to ignore their contrasting reflections in the full-length mirror hanging on the wall.

Lots of girls went for Quan. With his buzzed head and the dense tattoos covering his arms and neck, he rocked that badass Asian drug lord image. You wouldn’t guess he was paying his way through business school while helping his parents at their restaurant. Michael, on the other hand, was a pretty boy.

It wasn’t a bad problem to have—it was paying the bills, after all—but people’s responses got boring. Well, except for a certain economist someone’s response. Stella’s attraction to him had been obvious, but she hadn’t looked at him like he was an expensive cut of meat. She’d looked at him like she saw no one else. He couldn’t forget the way she’d kissed him once he’d earned her trust, the way she’d melted and—

When Michael caught the direction of his thoughts, he mentally punched himself in the dick. She was his client, and she had issues. It was fucked up to think of their sessions like this.

“If we have new students, I’ll teach them. I don’t mind,” Khai, Quan’s younger brother, offered. He still wore his uniform and practiced running strikes in front of the mirror, his pace fast but steady, like a machine.

Quan rolled his eyes. “He never minds. Even when they throw themselves at him. You should have seen the last one. She asked him out to dinner, and he said, ‘No, thanks, I already ate.’ ‘Dessert then?’ ‘No, I don’t eat dessert after class.’ ‘Coffee?’ ‘That will keep me up, and I have work tomorrow.’”

Michael couldn’t help smiling at that. Khai reminded him a little of Stella.

As Quan shoved both of their weapons into a nearby storage box, he said, “Nice match. Bad day?”

Michael shrugged. “Just the same.” He should be grateful. He was grateful. Everything would be fine if he could stop wanting all the things he’d given up. He didn’t regret exchanging his old life for this one—he’d do it again—but at the same time, this wanting wouldn’t stop. If anything, it was getting worse. Because he was a selfish bastard. Like his dad.

“How’s your mom doing?”

He raked a hand through his hair. “Good, I guess. She says she likes her new meds.”

“That’s good, man.” Quan squeezed his shoulder. “You should celebrate. Come out with me on Friday. There’s this new club in SF called 212 Fahrenheit.”

That actually sounded nice, and a rush of excitement burned over him. He hadn’t been out without a client in forever.

The reminder of clients had him exhaling a heavy breath. “Can’t. I have something.”

“What?” Quan’s eyes turned assessing. “Or do you mean who? You’re always busy Fridays. Do you have a secret girlfriend you’re scared of introducing to everyone?”

He snorted inwardly at the idea of taking a client to meet his family. Never going to happen. “Nah, no girlfriend. You?”

Quan laughed. “You know my mom. Do you think I’d subject a girl to that?”

Grinning, Michael picked up his bag and headed for the studio’s front door, passing Khai, who hadn’t stopped with his practice or slowed down this entire time. “Look on the bright side. If a girl meets your mom and doesn’t run, you’ll know you found a keeper.”

As Quan followed him, he said, “No, then I’ll have two scary-ass women in my life instead of one.”

They both waved at Khai from the doorway, but, as usual, he was too focused to wave back.

Out in the parking lot, Quan climbed onto his black Ducati, shrugged into his motorcycle jacket, and propped his helmet on his knee before giving Michael a direct look. “You know I don’t give a shit if you’re into guys, right? Like, I’d be okay with that. Just so you know. You don’t have to hide stuff like that from me.”

Michael coughed and adjusted the position of his duffel bag’s strap on his shoulder as an uncomfortable wave of heat boiled up his neck and singed his ears. “Thanks.”

This was what happened when you kept secrets. People drew their own conclusions. He wondered briefly if he should just roll with it. There was no doubt in his mind his family would take that better than the truth. They didn’t know about his escorting or the bills that necessitated the escorting. He planned to keep it that way.

He took a breath of air that smelled like exhaust fumes and blacktop, feeling touched by Quan’s acceptance but also old and tired in his bones. “It means a lot to hear you say that, but I’m not, okay? I’ve just been . . . seeing . . . lots of people. No one I’d bring home, though.” God no. “No one special.”

As soon as that last comment came out, however, he wanted to retract it. He didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel right to lump his latest client in that category.

“Do me a favor and tell your mom and sisters, then. They’ve been gossiping about it with my mom and sister, and they keep asking me for the inside scoop. I’m going to be honest and say it was a little embarrassing telling them I have no idea what you do when you disappear.” Quan kicked at a pebble on the ground, his face pensive, and Michael knew he was thinking back to times when they’d known everything about each other. Well, as much as guys ever told one another. Their moms were close sisters who had purchased homes two blocks apart and given birth to boys in the same year. As a result, Michael and Quan were closer than brothers. They used to be, anyway.

Michael rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been a crappy friend. I’m sorry.”

“You went through all that shit.” Quan gave him an understanding smile. “First with your asshole dad and the lawsuits and then with your mom’s health. I get it. But things are better now, right? We should do stuff. Friday nights are best for me because I don’t have work or class Saturday mornings. Your ‘no one special’ can hang with mine. Let me know.” With that, Quan started his bike and pulled his helmet over his head.

After his cousin disappeared around the corner, Michael opened his car door and tossed his bag into the passenger seat. Things were a lot better now, but he wouldn’t be double-dating with Quan anytime soon, not when he was fucking a different woman every Friday night. Well, not the next three Friday nights. Those were for Stella and sex lessons. He’d never expected to have the opposite role in his Hot for Teacher fantasy, but he admitted it excited him more than he would have thought.

He knew it was messed up, but Friday night couldn’t come fast enough.