Chapter One
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I should go to bed. If I were one of my clients, I’d tell myself to go to bed. Which would explain why I’m standing in front of a bar I’ve never been to, where I likely won’t know anyone. Straight from the airport, not bothering to stop at home because all I’ve got is my messenger bag.
The bar isn’t as polished as the places I usually frequent, but it’ll do. I don’t want to see anyone I have a relationship with right now. It’s not often I get worn out, but a weekend at a funeral… That’ll do it. Even if it’s in paradise. Maybe especially if it’s in paradise, because death shouldn’t happen in a place like that. But I suppose people die everywhere, all the time.
This is why I can’t go home yet. Have to get some of this leftover melancholy out of my system before I ruffle Matthew’s mother-hen feathers. He’d mean well, but I don’t feel like being clucked over. So I tug open the door, the curved metal of the handle smooth and slick under my touch, and walk through the door.
The bar’s dark, but even so, scanning the room, I don’t see anyone familiar. For the most part, I enjoy running into clients in the wild. I take their cues, either making conversation or not. Mostly not. I’m a shameful secret for many of them. I get it. I provide a service. An essential one, if they’re to be believed, but a secret one nonetheless.
I’m very good with secrets.
There’s an empty booth at the back. I head toward it because having your back to the wall is always a good idea. But a movement behind the bar attracts my attention and I hesitate. Handsome man. Black, tall, built. His black T-shirt is stretched taut over his broad chest, and he looks harried, even though he’s got a bright, white smile plastered on his clean-shaven face. But there aren’t many people crowding the wooden counter—oak probably? Reclaimed? Because that’s the kind of place this is.
A familiar voice sounds at the back of my head: What is he worried about? What does he need? Helping people is the best and most important thing you can ever do.
I slacken my tie and tip my head as I undo the first button of my shirt, loosening my collar. Leave it, Walter. I came here because I need not to care about someone else for a couple of hours. No shame in that.
But that stupid voice—it won’t shut up. It never does. Besides, nothing makes me feel better than being in control, and helping someone is a good way to gain control.
So I change course, sling my messenger bag under an empty stool at the far end of the bar, take a seat, and watch. The guy’s a mix of graceful economy of movement—I’m guessing military, but maybe a serious athlete—and uncertainty. As if he has no idea what he’s doing. New? It’s a Sunday night, not a bad time to start a new guy.
He wipes his hands on the short grey apron tied around his hips and spins, looking for something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t find it because his eyes land on me. In that blink, I can tell: gay. Or some stripe of queer. Whatever he is, he likes the look of me.
Sure he does. There’s a slight constriction in my chest, a silent laugh. I’m worn out. I should be at home, having Matthew undress me and catching up on the non-urgent communiques I let slide while I was in Kona. Instead, I’m in some random-ass bar, trolling this bartender who seems out of place somehow. Vanilla, for all I know. I raise an eyebrow and tip my head toward the couple he was serving. Back to work, barkeep.
He blinks at me again, shakes his head, the hint of a smile curling up one side of his full mouth. The possibility of the words “yes, sir” coming out of that mouth enters my mind and…yes. A possibility. He finds the bottle opener he’d been looking for, cracks a couple of craft beers, and hands them over to the couple before heading over to me.
“What can I get for you?”
You, on your knees in the bathroom in five minutes?
If there were another person working the bar, I might say it. It works more often than you’d think.
“Manhattan.”
What I’d really like is a Laureate. I could be at home, having Matthew make up a batch, but instead I’m perched on an uncomfortable, vinyl-covered barstool and wondering what the bartender’s shaved head would feel like under my fingertips while he eagerly undid my belt. Would he enjoy it if I slipped it out from the beltloops and put it around his neck? Not tight. I don’t do breathplay with newbies—or hardly anyone, really—but I could tighten it enough to make him feel vulnerable, controlled, mine. Maybe he’d like that.
I study him as he makes the drink, and I get the impression he’s not new. No, it’s worse than that. There’s enough confidence, competence, in the way he carries himself he could pull it off if that were the only issue. I suspect not only is this guy new at this bar, but he’s not, in fact, a bartender at all. The moment he reaches for the gin, I’m sure. I let him do it because sometimes you’ve got to give people enough rope to hang themselves before you show them how to tie a knot.
He brings it over, and I pay cash, telling him to keep it, which is a better-than-necessary tip he thanks me for. I’d like to invite him to linger, but he drops a nod and turns to the register to ring in the sale. Before he can turn back or I can ask a leading question I bet would have him elbows on the bar and looking at me with intent, there’s a commotion at the door and a crowd of people surge inside. This is clearly not their first stop.
Since I can’t flirt with my bartender, I take a sip of my drink and…fuck. That is disgusting. I didn’t think it’d be good, but it’s blatantly atrocious. If I were a better person, I’d let it go. Slip off the stool and head home where I belong, where Matthew is undoubtedly waiting for me. I’d texted him to let him know I wasn’t coming home right away, but I shouldn’t keep him up too late.
There’s something about this man that calls to me, though. Maybe the vulnerability or maybe the tats snaking up his arms and under those sleeves. I want to know what they say. I want to know his story. Such a weakness, this need to seep into people’s hearts and minds and souls until I can crack them wide open like water that freezes in a rock.
I get his attention with a raised finger, and he heads over, glancing over his shoulder at the rowdy crowd making their way over.
“Something else?”
“No. This…” I tap the bar next to the martini glass of death, shaking my head. “This is not a Manhattan. This is more like a Camden.”
Geography humor. I wish India were sitting next to me; she’d appreciate it. Or not. She doesn’t have much of a sense of humor these days.
I pitched my tone harsh, and the way his face crumples—as if he’d be blushing if his skin weren’t quite so dark—I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it. Very much.
“I—I’m sorry, sir, I—”
Oh, for fuck’s sake, did he have to say sir? If I hadn’t wanted to pin him over the bar and fuck him senseless already, that would do it. God have mercy on my damned soul. Though, who am I kidding? I’ll have so much more fun in hell, being the fucking cruise director of the River Acheron. “I don’t want an apology.”
I lean across the bar and school my features. It wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world to get this guy on his knees in the alley behind the bar after he finishes his shift, would it? “I want a name.”
“Name’s Hart. I’ll make you another one.”
I want to laugh, but his earnestness curbs my less charitable instincts. I do, however, let my eyebrow kick up. “I’d rather you didn’t, actually. Besides, you’re going to have your hands full in approximately ten seconds.”
He glances over his shoulder at the swarm that’s about to hit the other end of the bar before looking back at me, hopeless.
“Go on.”
How quickly this happens. Sometimes. Not all the time. Maybe too much of the time. I came here not to be responsible for anyone, not to have another person’s wants and needs heavy in my hands, and already I find myself giving permission. While a break wouldn’t be a bad thing, I can’t bemoan my lot in life. Who am I kidding? I fucking love it. It’s really goddamn good to be me.
Hart. I should’ve asked for a first name. Time enough.
I watch as he struggles to juggle the dozen orders getting slurred at him, and I want to beat the horde back, force them into a neat, orderly queue that will have some fucking manners. Ask him nicely, savages. Instead, I wait. But when a glass shatters to the floor because he’s too overwhelmed to pay attention to where he’s left things, I can’t help myself.
I shuck my suit coat, strip off my tie, roll up my sleeves, and vault over the bar. Coming up behind Hart, I grip his arm. He’s got a couple of inches on me and probably about thirty pounds of pure muscle. It’s a joy to feel his biceps flex under my touch. I’d like to harness that power, have it be mine. His secrets too. Whatever weakness is lurking under all that power. Tender nerves I’d like to expose and then soothe.
“What’s the order?”
Confusion muddles his face, and he looks at me like I’m a nut job. Just you wait, Hart. You have no idea what else I’m going to ask you for.
“Tell me the order and I can help you.”
“Three Hoegaardens, two cosmos, and an appletini. More coming.”
I can’t help but roll my eyes, but this should be no problem. “I’ll get the cocktails, you get the beers.”
When I haven’t been staring at Hart, I’ve taken inventory of the bar, so it’s not hard to find what I need and shake up the trite cocktails. I bet they order the same damn thing at every bar they go to, and they’re not even good. If you can trust the bar, order one of the house cocktails. Always. If you can’t, go with a classic. Which is what I thought I’d been doing, but I should’ve gone with a gin and tonic. Even Hart shouldn’t be able to mess that up; name’s on the tin.
Hart’s handed over the bottles, and I pass him the cash and cards to deal with while I take orders from the rest of the swarm. Two lemon drops, three Stellas, a G&T, and a long, slow screw up against a wall for a woman who is trying far too hard to attract the attention of some moron with her risqué drink order.
I mix the orders, pass them over, get lost in the easy rhythm of it. I’m not Matthew, who’s a genius behind the bar, but I manage well enough. While Hart’s finishing up at the register, I dump the hideous concoction he’d made and make myself an actual Manhattan and sip at it.
When he turns and sees me leaning up against the bar, he laughs. “Thank you. You’re drinking on the house for the rest of the night.”
I nod, knowing this is the only one I’ll have. Have to get home to my Matthew, and I don’t want to be sloshed when I do. Also, there’s the possibility I’ll get a phone call from India and have to go straight back to Kona, and flying blitzed is no fun.
“So tell me what you’re doing here, Hart. You’re not a bartender.”
His mouth turns up in a wry half-smile. “That obvious, huh?”
“You can’t make a classic cocktail, your ice is running way low, and you couldn’t manage a handful of orders at one time. No way. So tell me, what are you doing here?”
“A favor.”
His voice changed when he answered, gotten somber, serious. Who is he protecting?
“For who?”
“My sister.”
“Younger?”
“Yeah.” The way he can’t meet my eyes when he says it and how his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat with a hard swallow makes me wonder.
“She in trouble?”
“You could say so.”
“You don’t need to keep secrets from me, Hart. I’m good with secrets.”
He looks up, eyes slightly hooded, and it pulls at the same damn heartstring. He’s worried and stressed and trying to do the best he can. Help him. I say his name again, because it’s a human thing above all: I recognize you, I see you, my thoughts are on you. Yet it’s also a dominance thing: every time I say your name, you belong to me a little more. I make you feel more comfortable, safer. I create conditions under which you can give yourself over to me.
Even with my coaxing, he doesn’t answer, so I take a step back. “Start with an easier one then. What’s your first name?”
He smirks, and in the next breath, he looks bigger. Stands up straight, squares powerful shoulders, and lifts his chin. He’s magnificent. “Easier?”
I’ve hit a nerve. Good.
He turns to a trio who’ve wandered up to the bar, pulls a few pints for them, and makes change before turning his attention back to me.
“How about if you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine?”
Bargaining. I’ll let him get away with it for now, but before long, he’ll learn. I don’t barter. And he’ll be begging to give me what I want soon enough.
I hold out a hand. “Reyes Llewelyn Walter, barkeep for hire.”
He snorts and takes my hand. I exert a precise amount of pressure, and he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull a face. Instead, a small gap forms at the center of his lips and it’s as good a cue as any to rev my engines. Yes, Hart may be just my sort.
“My friends call me Allie.” His tone makes it clear I’m not one of his friends, and I don’t feel I’ve earned that privilege either.
“You owe me more than that.”
His eyes narrow, the nearly black irises becoming slices of suspicion. How much can I trust this guy?
I want to tell him he can trust me with anything, everything. Lots of people do. I can’t, though, because that’s one of the reasons they trust me. Because I understand discretion and keeping my goddamn mouth shut.
“Aloysius Emmett Hart III.”
A tiny chamber in my heart fills up with the knowledge. Another secret to be tucked away, kept safe. I’ll never tell, though I’ll go visit the gift he’s given occasionally. Treasure it. “Hart it is.”
Never too early to teach him I won’t hurt him, I’ll respect his boundaries. We’re not friends yet. Likely never will be. But I’ll call him Allie someday, somewhere outside of my head.
The suspicion has faded but isn’t gone entirely. “You don’t look like a bartender.”
“I’m not. Why would you say that?”
“I know what kind of money a bartender makes. Your clothes are way too nice.”
Is his sister in financial trouble?
“I do okay for myself. So tell me about this favor.”
He hesitates, and I wait. People want to confess. They do. Most of them, you just need to give them time. Or a nudge and then they’ll spill. Sometimes spew. My friend Allie here looks as though he’s been sitting on too much and might blow any minute. I can wait all night. I’ve done it before, will no doubt do it again. Patience, an essential virtue in my line of work.
He checks me, double-checks me with his eyes. “My sister—she has lupus. She does her best to take care of herself and avoid flare-ups, but she’s a war widow with two kids so life can be rough. And when she gets too stressed… Fevers, fatigue, her joints and muscles hurt. Makes it hard to come to work, you know? Her boss is a real asshole. Told her if she misses another shift, she’s done. So when I get a call from Kendra saying she can barely get out of bed to make the kids lunch, what am I supposed to do? She needs the money.”
Another group spills into the bar, bigger and louder than the first. Who are these people and what the fuck are they doing getting wasted on a Sunday night? They don’t head to the bar but claim some seats in the back corner, near the booth I should’ve sat in instead of letting my dick lead me over to Hart.
A waitress claims them, probably thrilled to be getting so many customers on a Sunday night. From the way the men in the group—mostly single, if the lack of rings is any indication—stare at her…well, she’ll be bringing home good money. If Allie can keep his shit together. The urge to stay, help him, is strong, but it’s late. Matthew. My first responsibility is to Matthew.
So I nod. I won’t be getting off in the back alley, backroom, or bathroom tonight. “Good man.”
A shrill voice at the other end of the bar distracts him, and I take the opportunity to dig out whatever cash I have in my wallet. Three hundred eighty-seven dollars. When I travel, I like to keep a decent amount of cash on hand. With a quick check of my phone, I verify there’s a car with the service I use not so far away, so I don’t need to take money for a cab. I leave the lot under my half-full glass behind the bar and sneak away, hoping Hart doesn’t see me abandon him.