The very first time I came to Whiskey Bay, I’d had no idea that sex could be anything besides missionary or reverse cowboy. I’d watched porn like every other hot-blooded teenage boy, jerking off in the bathroom stall to the memorized visual of bouncing tits and shaved pussies and my one sexual experience in that fancy mansion.

On my fifteenth birthday, Ambideaux steered me up the flight of steps from the first floor to the Basement. He and Nat were on the verge of divorce by that point, but he had too much of a hand in the business—and keeping unwanted eyes off the business—that his estranged wife could never give him the full boot.

That night had been eye-awakening.

The next year, too.

Nat refused to let me touch any of her girls—I was way too young, she’d argued, and they were way too old.

Torture at its finest, especially to a fifteen-year-old who’d already been tasked with doing big-boy drug runs for Ambideaux. By the time I’d finally hooked up with one of Nat’s girls, I’d orgasmed in under thirty seconds—the slow burn of anticipation, I guessed, since I wasn’t a virgin by that point.

I’d never been particular good with looking and not touching, which was why I’d grown to favor the rooms along the right side of the Basement. All that was required of me was to pick a room and wait for the doorknob to twist, the door to click open, and a hot female to walk on in.

The chosen room dictated which toys were available, and no room had the same toys two nights in a row.

Russian Roulette, sex-style.

Those rooms had been my favorite, way back when, and according to my source, Zak Benson shared the preference, as well.

Unfortunately, missing the gaming tables tonight was turning out to be a major pain in the ass. With no way to know which room he’d chosen or even if he was still here at all, and with lights turned down, I was well and truly fucked.

“Harder!” a feminine voice shrilled. “Ohmigod, harder!”

Cock twitching in my pants, I crushed my empty water bottle and tossed it in the closest trash bin. All right, so I wasn’t that fucked, but still.

Tonight was a wash, that was for sure. And instead of lingering around and hoping for a lot of something when it was more likely I’d get a whole lot of nothing, it was probably for the best if I just went home.

Or you could go and see Avery.

My eyes squeezed shut. Seven days since we’d been together—seven days of telling myself that I’d been too rough on her, that I’d pushed way too hard way too fast. Christ, she’d been a virgin and I’d sank into her heat like a fucking animal, with no regard as to how she’d feel after I left and she was alone again.

A good man would have spent the night with her tucked into his body, his hands smoothing over her arms, brushing back her hair.

I wasn’t, and had never been, a good man.

My equivalent of getting romantic was making demands when she hardly knew me, and what she did know, probably wasn’t much to her liking.

If I wanted to see her again—and, God help us both, but I did—I’d need some sort of grand gesture. Fuck if I knew what that entailed. Flowers were probably a given, though Avery didn’t really seem to be a roses kinda girl. Chocolate, maybe. Although that brought in the question of white, milk, or dark.

Or maybe you should just wait to see her until this shit with Ambideaux blows over. I needed to at least try and be a decent sonofabitch who didn’t go storming over to Avery’s to take her all over again.

Dragging my palms down my face, I grimaced as my calloused right hand hit my equally calloused right cheek.

Yesterday I’d walked into a convenient store to pick up milk and a little girl had gone running for her mother, tears in her eyes as she cried, “Scared!” over and over again while pointing at me.

Nothing said “good times” more than sending a child into a tear-ridden fit, and all before noon.

“I’ve got to go home,” I muttered.

Benson wasn’t here, and the thought of watching people hook up all over this place while I went home alone was single-handedly the reason why the world had invented the Food Network.

You couldn’t feel total rage when you were watching people make cupcakes and fight over whose frosting was better. It just wasn’t possible.

Placing a fiver on the bar as a tip, I stretched my neck, giving it a quick pop-pop, and then made my way back to the stairwell. Ambideaux would be pissed about tonight, but sometimes shit didn’t pan out the way you wanted.

During the old days, I’d been desperate to please the man who’d been like a father to me. Nothing would have stopped me from following through on his orders, not even a case of a guy like Benson not showing up when he’d been all but scheduled to do so.

Guess that was the difference a decade could make.

Plus, making Ambideaux sweat a little was just fine by me. The bastard needed to have his world shaken up some, and I wasn’t above being the guy to do the shaking. Put that shit in a blender and flip the switch—

“Lincoln.”

Nat.

I was not in the mood for another round with her tonight.

With my back to her, I drawled, “Something I can help you with? Or are you just looking for another Benjamin to warm your wallet?”

“So vulgar,” she sniffed, as though she wouldn’t nab my wallet if she had the chance . . . and we both knew she would. “And here I thought I’d be delivering some good news to you.”

Shoulders tensing, I slowly turned to face her. “The only good news I’d like to hear is that your husband is dead.”

“Ex-husband,” she spat out, all pleasantry wiped from her face. “And, trust me, I’m waiting on the same thing. But that is not the news I have for you.”

Apparently, it wasn’t my lucky day after all.

“I was on my way out, so if you’re wanting me to stick around for this, I’m going to need something more than just clues.”

Eyes blazing, her hands reached down to fist her dress. “Then I suppose I shall just tell you this: a little birdie has arrived here for you.”

Spinning on her heel, she turned to go.

My hand locked around her elbow, stalling her retreat. “What ‘little birdie’ are we talking about here?” I hissed, careful to keep my voice low.

Her eyes dropped to where my hand gripped her, and her mouth curled in a sneer. “You have always been so disrespectful.”

Was she really that surprised?

I’d been dropped off at foster care by the age of three and had entered her and Jason’s lives four years later. Most of my memorable years had been spent as her ex-husband’s right-hand man . . . the one not brought to events or mentioned in public. No, Ambideaux had made use of my many talents in other ways that were better suited to running with drug lords, dining with murderers, and sleeping with prostitutes.

And the day I’d grown the balls to walk away, he’d shot me twice and had me hand-delivered to the swamplands.

I was as fucked up as they came, and she was lucky I didn’t have a damn collar around my neck with a tag reading FERAL on it.

I tightened my grip on her elbow. “What little birdie, Nat?”

She smiled at me, then, her pearly white teeth on display. “Laurel is here.”

My teeth scraped together as I clamped my jaw shut. Ambideaux had always said his ex was insane, and as I stared down at her now, I figured that might be the one thing he’d ever told the truth about. “I’m going home.”

“Are you so sure you want to do that?”

“I don’t know a Laurel,” I bit out, releasing her. “Good night, Nat.”

“Dark hair. The prettiest hazel eyes you’ll ever see. One birthmark, just alongside her hairline. A certain lightness in her expression whenever she mentions your name.”

Back stiffening at her pointed tone, my brain went into hyperdrive.

Did she mean Avery was here?

Christ, if Avery had been nervous about sex, this place had to have her absolutely terrified. It wasn’t meant for people like her—good, innocent people who were better off believing sex was done in a bed, missionary-style, and that was that.

Guess you fucked up that already for her.

“Where is she?” I demanded, kicking my conscience to the curb.

Nat’s smile twisted into the beginnings of a smirk. “Stage one. Your old favorite.”

My lids fluttered shut.

I gave myself three seconds to breathe through the volatile hatred before I launched into motion.

I didn’t even make it to two.

I needed to find Avery—hopefully before she saw what happened on that stage.