Walking into Whiskey Bay was a bit like stepping into a time portal.

Nothing inside had changed in over a decade, not the red-and-black décor, with accents of gold; not the bouncers at the front door, who greeted me with a fist-bump and a “hell, man, it’s good to see you again.”

Perhaps the only differences lay in the dancers themselves, who clung to metal poles, spun in elevated cages ten feet above the hardwood floor, and were a good deal younger than I remembered. Or maybe it was just that I was older, and probably not a good deal wiser.

Kevan, a bartender from the olden days, slid a jack and coke across the bar to me. His once-curly dark hair had been shaved completely, his bald crown shining whenever the strobe lights hit at the right angle.

He nodded to the drink. “Just like old times, right? You look the same.”

I ignored the way he stared a little too hard at the right side of my face. “You’re as bald as a cock.” Bringing the cocktail up to my mouth, I sipped from the rim, disregarding the tiny straw he’d popped inside. “New look?”

Kevan’s eyes turned flinty before he tipped his head back and laughed heartily. “Still a goddamn asshole,” he muttered, running a hand over his smooth skull. “Guess the NOPD didn’t wash out your mouth with some much-needed soap, am I right?”

As usual when I let myself think about the NOPD and my suspension, bitterness swept over me. I downed a fourth of the jack and coke. “They tried, trust me.”

“And failed?”

“I’m still an asshole, aren’t I?”

I hadn’t meant it to be funny, but Kevan roared with laughter, so much so that we caught more attention than I would have liked. Which reminded me of the other major difference here at Whiskey Bay . . .

I leaned in, elbow on the bar. “I’ve never seen so many Hawaiian shirts and Birkenstocks in my life.” I nodded toward the other end of the bar where a dude stood, decked out in a pineapple-print shirt, tight pants, the requisite Birkenstock sandals, and an Apple watch on his wrist. “What the fuck happened to this place?”

Kevan eyed the customer, snapped his gaze to the other bartender, and then rubbed the back of his head again. “Hipsters happened, man. The Bywater’s flooded with them.”

“And they all can’t wait to go to the strip club on a Thursday night?” I knew why I was here, and it had nothing to do with the dancers putting on a performance for the crowd. No, like some sort of lovestruck idiot, I’d only thought of Avery since our night together. Even though I’d been a dick at the end. Pushing her from my thoughts before I risked getting distracted, I said, “Don’t tell me the Basement is overrun, too.”

The Basement wasn’t at all underground here at Whiskey Bay. Dig a little too deep under the surface in New Orleans, and you’d hit nothing but water. No, the “basement” was an insider’s joke to those who knew Whiskey Bay best—on the second floor of the industrial building, it was home to everything that the first floor wasn’t.

Gambling. Sex. Drugs.

Morals were checked at the door and the only thing praised within were human vices.

Putting his weight into it, Kevan dragged a white rag across the bar. “Same old shit up there.”

I took another pull of my jack and coke. “Same old people up there, too?”

There was a minute pause, and then, “Always has been.”

Perfect.

Setting my cocktail down by my elbow, I slid a folded twenty beneath the plastic cup. Pushed away from the bar with a nod of acknowledgement. “Good seeing you again, man.”

Kevan’s voice stopped me, and I glanced back, brow raised.

Behind the bar, he shuffled from one foot to the other, one hand lifting and then falling again on its way up to rub his shaved head. Clearing his throat, he sent me a quick glance and then looked away. “You haven’t been here in a while, and I can only imagine what’s brought you back. But I just . . . I’m actually GM around here now.”

Did he want applause? I forced a grim smile. “Congrats, Kev. It’s long overdue.”

“Yeah, thanks.” Mouth twisting, his cheeks hollowed with a rush of air as he exhaled. “What I’m trying to say is, we still operate by the same rules. No whiskey spilled in here. Not even the shitty, cheap stuff.”

The thinly veiled warning felt like a slap on the wrist.

I hadn’t been gone so long that I didn’t catch his drift, though. At Whiskey Bay, “no whiskey spilled” was synonymous with “no bloodshed.” Lucky for him, the club was just my meeting spot for the night.

Zak Benson, Number Four, had a reputation that surpassed him for frequently visiting the rooms upstairs and the gaming tables.

Playing craps, of all things.

Holding two fingers to my temple, I offered Kevan a salute that teetered on the line of sarcastic. “You got it, Kev. No whiskey spilled.”

Whistling as though I didn’t have a damn care in the world, I headed for the back of the club, sidestepping groups of people as they stared up in awe at the dancers twirling around effortlessly like Cirque de Soleil performers. If only the Birkenstock crowd knew that the Basement catered to live-sex acts, they’d probably shit themselves.

Just as it always had, the back of the club tapered off into a narrow hallway where the public restrooms sat. Passing the men’s room and then the ladies’ room, I paused outside the third door on the right, the one marked with a black sign that read GENERAL STORAGE. I lifted my hand and knocked twice.

No one answered.

Frowning, I rapped my knuckles on the door, a little harder this time.

Still nothing.

“For fuck’s sake,” I ground out, frustration biting out with every word, “Nat, just let me the hell in.”

The door cracked ajar, and a female voice drifted out. “What, does the big, bad Lincoln want entry to a place that he raided?”

Guess she wasn’t over that yet. Leveling my shoulder against the door, I gave a little push to test whether or not Whiskey Bay’s owner was still holding down the fort on the other side. When there was no resistance, I slipped inside and gently shut the door with the heel of my foot.

Nat, Whiskey Bay’s Queen and Ambideaux’s ex-wife, glared back at me, blocking entry to the stairs that led up to the Basement. To my utter lack of surprise, she was tapping her foot impatiently, her spitfire attitude all but palpable as she waited for me to apologize.

She hadn’t changed a bit, though her hair was now more silver than brunette.

I cleared my throat. “If we’re being technical here, I wasn’t the one to make the call for the raid a few years back. The Bywater’s not even in my district.”

Wrong answer.

Her nostrils flared, and her tapping foot picked up in tempo. “All you cops are exactly the same. Pigs,” she sneered with a hair toss.

The verbal insult rebounded off my shell without even making a dent. Nat was understandably pissed—Whiskey Bay was her key to survival, especially after Ambideaux cut her off without a single penny in their divorce settlement, which was even more screwed up since he was the one responsible for their relationship going up in flames in the first place. I’d been sixteen when they’d officially divorced, but there’d been no hiding from Nat’s rage whenever her ex-husband’s name was brought up in conversation.

Those who took Jason’s side were dead to her.

Including me, the parentless kid she’d put up with after Ambideaux had taken me under his wing. The dirt on the soles of her shoes had been more tolerable to her than I ever was, and as I faced off against her now, I wondered if she even knew that my presence after all these years could be traced back to the man she despised most in this world—her ex-husband.

“I’ll pay double for entry.”

It was the opposite of what I wanted, but it was all I had to work with if I wanted Zak Benson in my back pocket. On the second Thursday of every month, the Basement matched the winnings for every other round of craps and roulette as a way of enticing their clientele to keep on coming back. After all, the gambling wasn’t what funded the business—the cost of exclusive membership to the Basement did. And if the rumors had any truth to them, Benson had never been able to resist dice . . . or dipping his cock into some pussy right after his winnings from one of the Basement’s girls.

As to why Ambideaux wanted to off him so badly—not my business.

At Nat’s close-lipped silence, I shoved down my frustration. “Triple, but I get a round at craps thrown in for free.”

“Done.”

Her lips pulled wide, palm thrust out, and I bit back every curse word under the sun as I whipped out my wallet and counted six hundred-dollar bills. Ambideaux’s gonna have to start paying interest on this shit. “Triple,” I said, just short of slapping the money into her waiting hand, “now let me up.”

“Well, of course, Sergeant Asher,” she cooed in a tone that oozed like poison. She stepped to the side, her nose turning up as I passed her by. “You have fun in there now. You always did.”

Years ago, I had.

When I’d still been on speaking terms with Ambideaux.

Tonight, I had absolutely no plans to take my cock out of my pants. Get in, get Benson, get the hell out, get shit done.

Talk about time portals.

When my foot hit the second-floor landing, Nat’s voice rang out, high-pitched and all too smug: “Oh, Sergeant! It must have slipped my mind, but our schedules have switched since you were here last.” I turned back just to hear her add, “The house matching the table winners ended an hour ago. I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay anyway.”

Nat twiddled her fingers in my direction and sashayed out of my line of sight.

Motherfucker.