Being a bouncer sucked ass. This deep inside the entry hall, all Lars could see was a square of the hotel’s exterior —which was mostly parking lot and a few sad looking trees—and on the inside, a dark rectangle leading to the main entertainment hall.

Setting up had been fun; he’d spent time with the DJ who’d be playing here tonight, setting up his stand. But it had gone downhill since then.

Finn had insisted that they close the doors at quarter to seven — and it was twenty-three minutes to.

Fuck it — anyone who arrived late could trek back the way they’d come and go get some drive through. He was done.

Lars went to the hotel’s massive double doors and began pushing them closed. When the two halves met—as he’d seen when he and Ana had arrived earlier—they formed the snarling face of what could have been a demon.

He was having serious doubts about the sanity of the person who’d built this hotel. Either they fancied themselves vampires, or directed their prayers down, not up.

A white sedan pulled into the hotel’s drive. Lars watched it without expression, and then let out an expressive sigh as he opened the door again.

This was such bullshit. Why couldn’t he have kept his mouth shut? Then Cora wouldn’t have stuck him with door duty as punishment.

He’d been concocting some very interesting ways of punishing her in return. A cat-and-nine-tails featured top of the list, followed by some dripping candle wax.

Messy, but effective.

He could already see her, bound and yelling, as he dripped bright red wax over her—

“Evening,” a warm voice called out.

Lars blinked, clearing a very vivid image of naked Cora from his mind. “Evening,” he said, stepping aside so the man could come through the door.

The last of daylight was leeching from the sky, but there was enough light that Lars could see the man wore plain, if perfectly tailored clothes. A showy robe hung from a brooch around his neck, thrown back over one shoulder. An empty sword hilt hung from his belt.

Lars hurried ahead, going through the metal detector and snatching up the guest book Ana had provided him with earlier that day. About eighty percent of the names had been scratched off—impressive, considering how last minute this impromptu soiree had been—and he glanced up at the guest with a bright, “Your name?”

Just because he hated the job, didn’t mean he wasn’t fucking awesome at it.

A pretty accurate rendition of a wolf’s head cast in dark bronze hid the top half of the man’s face. Brown eyes the color of mud peered back at him.

“Ignatius Briar,” the man said in a pleasant Alabama drawl.

“What an unfortunate name,” Lars said, scanning what remained of the list.

The man let out a low laugh, sounding surprised but not offended by Lars’s commented.

Because he rocked this gig, that’s why.

“Ignatius. I have you down for a plus one,” he said, waving his pen in the general direction of the missing person.

“He’s running a few minutes late, it seems.” The man didn’t sound that pleasant anymore. In fact, Lars didn’t feel that at ease anymore. “Would you be so kind as to let him in when he arrives?”

So, that’s how the guy rolled. Because, face it, if he had a bodyguard, the guy would have been at his side like a burr. But a middle-aged gentlemen of what appeared fine standing—and flawlessly tailored clothes—who had a male partner as a plus one?

“Long as he’s here in the next…” Lars tipped his wrist to glance at his watch. “Four minutes.”

“I am sure he will be,” Ignatius drawled, in a tone that suggested that the man would never be heard of again if he didn’t make it in time.

Fucking drug dealers. Lars drew a line through Ignatius’s name and gestured toward the curtains. “Enjoy,” he said.

Ignatius gave a dip of his head. As he turned toward the hotel’s interior, light flashed off his belt buckle.

Jesus, these people had too much money. That he’d had a belt buckle made to match his mask…

Lars snorted in disgust and went back to the front door.

He dug in his shirt pocket and pulled out one of three small joints he’d rolled for tonight.

Wasn’t a party if he wasn’t getting fucked up. In three minutes, his shift was over.

Lars lit the joint and hit it hard, twisting his head to stare up at the menacing hotel rearing up behind him.

Maybe they’d built it planning for it to be abandoned so they could make a ton of money off people like Cora who got warm and fuzzies being in ruined places like this. He had to admit, the interior was just as creepy. Peeling paint, moth eaten fabrics. And yet, a hint of detergent and furniture polish here and there. And the carpets —although horrifically threadbare—were freshly vacuumed when he’d arrived. The tables and chairs new and shiny, if Victorian-style retro.

“God, you’re ugly,” he muttered. “I hope your architect offed himself when he was done. It would have been a public service.”

“You know, I was just thinking the same thing.”

Lars swung around, sweeping his eyes over the man walking up the stairs. How hadn’t he heard the car pull up? Or was he late getting to the door?

“Dean,” the man said, holding out a hand. “I hope I’m in time.” Hazel eyes glanced past Lars, to the partly opened front door. “My boss is going to skin me—I’m already late.”

“Ah, Ignatius the slave driver,” Lars said. “We’ve met.” He took a final drag of his joint, intent on crushing out the last half-inch under his heel.

“Mercy, don’t waste.” The man held out a hand, hazel eyes going wide. He had a fine head of hair and wore it devil-may-care messy.

Lars laughed. “Man after my own heart,” he said, giving the last bit of the joint over to the newcomer.

His mask was a sock-and-buskin mash up—one half comedy, the other tragedy—and covered his entire face, but Dean didn’t seem to have any trouble navigating the small roach between the mask’s melancholy mouth slot. He drew long and hard, finishing what was left of the joint in a single drag.

“Impressive,” Lars said, crossing his arms over his chest. “You an Olympic swimmer or something?”

“Diver,” the man said in a tight voice, dropping the joint and grinding it out under a heel. “But that was a long time ago.”

“Jesus, that’s some muscle memory you got.”

The man laughed hard, sending smoke shooting from his mouth and nose. “Fuck!” He slammed a fist into his chest as he coughed.

“Sorry, man,” Lars said through a laugh, clapping a hand on his back.

“You trying to kill me?” the man said, but he could see a smile through the mask.

“Hey, let’s get you checked in,” Lars said, guiding the man to the door. “These babies should have been shut already.” He slapped one of the doors on the way in.

The man in front of him shuddered theatrically. “This place should have burned to the ground. Now that would have been a public service.”

Lars laughed with him as they stepped through the metal detector, but his laugh cut off when the sensor triggered with a loud beep.

“Whoa, hold up,” Lars said, grabbing the man’s sleeve.

“What now?” His mask reflected one of the hallway lights, briefly blinding Lars.

Fuck, he shouldn’t have smoked. That alarm had triggered every fucking nerve in his body.

“You armed?” he asked, desperate to clear his clouding mind.

“What do you think?” the man asked, a laugh in his voice. “I’m surrounded by fucking cartel.”

Jesus fuck. Lars barely held his composure. He’d have been fine if he hadn’t smoked, but if this guy pulled a weapon on him, he doubted he’d react fast enough to disarm him.

“Gotta take it, I’m ‘fraid,” he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“I was joking, man.” Dean flashed him a lewd grin. “But I think I know what’s gone and beeped.” He rummaged through the pocket of his two-piece suit. He wore a cape over the whole ensemble, but as an afterthought.

He looked like a trend-setting billionaire, what with his shiny-as-fuck Oxfords and the luxurious shimmer of his midnight blue suit. Cuff links of pure ebony glittered in the light as he finally found what he was looking for and pulled it out.

Lars almost pounced him when that hand came out of his pocket. The urge was so strong, he swayed where he stood. But the man wasn’t holding a weapon — he was holding a small gift box that fit the palm of his hand.

“What the fuck’s that?” Lars asked. He knew, but his lizard-slow brain had run everything past middle-management first, and those pricks were high as fuck right now.

“A gift. This is a birthday party, right? That lady capo or something?” Dean took a step back. “Shit, did I get that wrong?”

“No, no.” Lars waved at him, and took the ribboned gift box. It looked way to complex for him to bind up again if he wanted to look inside.

He held it to his ear and gently shook it. “What is it?”

“Bracelet,” the man said, twisting his wrist and revealing a seventy-thousand dollar watch.

Well, it fucking looked like it had cost seventy kay.

“Christ, where’d you get that shit?” Dean asked, sticking his fingers under his mask as if he was touching his lips. “My mouth’s gone dry as fuck.”

Lars laughed. He couldn’t help it. His mouth was just as dry. The gift box weighed near nothing, and the dull clatter from inside was concurrent with a chain scratching against the inside as he shook it.

Paranoia. It happened to the best of men.

“Let me lock up, and I’ll take you straight to the bar.”

“Fuck, yes.” Dean grinned at him again. “Hey, I love your mask.”

“Thanks, man,” Lars said, his mouth sliding into a wide smile. “Say, your boss…who’s he in the cartel?”

“Ignatius?” Dean shrugged, looking away as he slid the gift box back in his pocket. “Middle management, I guess.”

Lars spun back to him, one hand on the back of the back of the hotel door. “Middle management,” he murmured, pushing the door closed and locking it.

He was forgetting something, wasn’t he?

Dean grinned at him. “Man, I could really use a drink.”

“Sure, sure,” Lars said, striding past the man to lead him deeper into the hotel.

He remembered about five seconds later that he’d forgotten to cross out Dean’s name, but his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Priorities — he could always come back later and scratch it out.