Big Dick’s. Big Dick’s. Big Dick’s. Big dicks. Big dicks. Big—why I am I thinking about big dicks?

Tristan Lavalle blinked out of the windshield at the scenery going by, somehow both familiar and new. He wasn’t driving, which was a good thing. He hadn’t driven a car in a long time. Since the accident. The accident was why he couldn’t remember why he’d been thinking about…something. Dicks?

Except it hadn’t been an accident. It was simply easier and less rage-inducing to think of it as an accident instead of what it had been. Or what he’d been told it had been, since he didn’t remember that, either.

Noel was driving. Noel was his best friend in the world, and they hung out on a regular basis even though they didn’t live together anymore. College was over. He and Noel weren’t roommates with Billy and Chris, but they visited sometimes too. At least he was pretty sure they did.

He studied Noel’s profile, hoping something hit him. A familiarity with the situation, or even with what he was wearing. His short-term memory was pretty much nonexistent but he knew he had moments of familiarity. Mostly with people, now with a few places. They happened a lot with Noel, and a lot in…that place he lived that wasn’t with Noel and Billy and Chris.

Benfield. Yes. He knew that. Mostly old people. Not many like him.

Noel’s clothes struck him as odd. Noel was a police officer, and he wasn’t wearing his uniform. When he came to visit, Tristan couldn’t remember but he was pretty sure he didn’t wear skin-tight black jeans and a dark green sleeveless tee. Party clothes.

Tristan glanced down at this own attire. Dark blue jeans. Not really tight, but then again none of his clothes really fit right. His black tee said “Kiss Me, I’m Cute”. Billy had given him that shirt for his nineteenth birthday.

Nighttime. Party clothes. They were going out.

His notebook was open in his lap. Tristan didn’t want to refer to it yet. He wanted to try and get this on his own without the copious notes he’d probably taken. His entire life since the accident was chronicled in a never-ending series of spiral notebooks. Notebooks and sticky notes all over his bedroom walls. Calendars and reminders on his laptop to do everything from take his meds to eat breakfast.

I’m completely broken, but everyone keeps trying to fix me.

Especially Noel. Noel had been there that night. Noel had been hurt too. Tristan’s family had written him off for being gay, but Noel had always been there.

“Can you turn the air up a little, babe? It’s hot back here.”

Tristan flinched at a voice both unfamiliar and totally déjà vu. He and Noel weren’t alone. A lot of the times recently they weren’t alone because Noel was seeing someone.

Think. Think. Think. I know this.

Noel fiddled with the air conditioning buttons on the car’s dash. “Better?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Noel turned off the highway and into the brightly lit city. Harrisburg. They’d gone to college here. He knew the city, and he loved coming to visit. He didn’t need memories of trips to know in his heart he loved this city. The museums and the river and City Island and everything about it.

He glanced at the person sitting behind Noel. Dark hair and eyes. Super cute. Boyfriend. Tristan had been studying certain portions of his notebooks, trying to absorb details of this guy. Name. Occupation. Family. So many little things his damaged brain couldn’t record. Specific details lost forever, unless inked onto paper.

He did know the man, though. He felt that familiarity in his heart, not with his mind. Tristan also knew something terrible had happened to him recently.

Don’t ask. Read the notebook.

Aug.8—Going to Big Dick’s with Noel and Shane. Late birthday celebration. Missed birthday last week because Shane’s brother died. Be sensitive tonight. Shane. Big Dick’s. Birthday.

Oh. Duh.

He’d never met Shane’s brother—even without checking his older notebooks, Tristan felt the truth of that in his heart. But Tristan’s own brother had died in high school, and he knew some of that pain. His wasn’t the same as Shane’s. No one’s loss was ever the same. Everyone grieved differently. He was glad that Shane had Noel.

“I said I’m sorry, right?” Tristan asked before common sense could censor the words.

Shane stared at him, eyebrows knitted together. “For what?”

“Your brother. I can’t remember his name, and I can’t remember if I’ve seen you since the funeral, and if I didn’t say it, then I’m really sorry for your loss.” The word vomit made him feel idiotic, and like maybe he had said that all before.

If he had, Shane didn’t mention it. He smiled, but his eyes stayed sad. “Thanks, Tristan.”

“I wish I’d met him.”

“Everyone liked him, so I’m sure you would have too.”

Something in Shane’s tone made Tristan drop the conversation. They were going out to Big Dick’s for Tristan’s birthday. Happy thoughts only. And Shane probably didn’t need the reminder. He lived with the pain every day. For a few hours tonight, he needed to forget.

Forget. Ha ha.

Tristan focused on the nighttime city streets, catching the occasional glimpse of something he knew from before. An exit sign. A restaurant. A busy intersection. His focus slipped, and he glanced at the notebook entry for a reminder.

He’d been twenty when the accident happened, so he’d never been to Big Dick’s before. Rumor was the bouncer was an expert at catching fake IDs, so he and Noel had never bothered trying. And he didn’t feel like flipping back through hundreds of pages of handwritten text to find his answer. “Have I been to Big Dick’s before?” he asked Noel.

“Once,” Noel replied. He squirmed, uncomfortable with the question.

That made Tristan nervous. “What happened?”

“About two months ago, you decided you wanted to go to Big Dick’s on your own, to prove to yourself that you could.”

Tristan dropped his forehead into his palm. He was impulsive on the best of days. His memory problems only exacerbated the stress those impulses put his friends through. “I freaked out, didn’t I?”

“A little bit. You lost your notebook, and you didn’t know anyone. The owner called me, and I drove out to pick you up. Nothing happened to you, Tris.”

I bet I wanted to get laid.

Tristan didn’t need to check his notes to know he hadn’t had sex since before the accident. Three years was a long damned dry spell. Not that he could remember the dry spell, exactly. He sensed the passage of time, of course. He could look at Noel and the ways he’d changed and know it was way past college, only it would take a while to remember exactly how long past.

Somehow he innately knew three years. Déjà vu sense at work?

So yeah, dry spell. Then again, who’d want to have sex with a guy who’d probably forget what they were doing halfway through and freak the hell out on him? No one.

Loser.

At least I can dance for a while without forgetting. And Noel will be there. I’ll be safe.

Noel was his touchstone. No notebook needed to know that. Or to know his parents weren’t around. Noel had been his one constant through everything. Tristan wouldn’t be able to function without him.

“I must have felt terrible for dragging you all the way to Harrisburg in the middle of the night,” Tristan said. “You don’t live there anymore.”

Noel nodded, his cheeks pinking up like they did when he was remembering something he didn’t like. “You did feel terrible. But I didn’t mind.”

“Yeah, right. You shouldn’t have to babysit me. And I shouldn’t have gone out alone.” Tristan considered flipping back through his notebook to see if that night was in this one. To figure out his mindset. Except he knew what it was, because he felt like that most of the time.

Lonely. Horny. Scared.

Sick and tired of his broken brain. Desperate to be whole again.

All of the above. All the time.

“If I make a scene tonight, I am so sorry ahead of time.”

Noel squeezed his knee. “I called the owners last night. They remembered you and they know we’re coming. Their employees know.”

Humiliation flamed his face. “Shit, Noel, really?”

“I didn’t do it to embarrass you. I did it to keep you safe. It’s actually a good thing, other people knowing about your disability.”

Dark eyes flashed in his mind. They didn’t belong to anyone in particular. He saw them occasionally and for no good reason. Kind, dark eyes. A warm smile.

“Have I made any new friends lately?” Tristan asked.

“Friends? No.” Noel took an exit into another part of the city. “I mean, you’ve been meeting new people when we go out places. You’ve met some people in Stratton.”

“Okay.”

Noel parked in a pay-by-the-hour garage instead of on the street. Tristan took another look at his notebook for additional clarification, then used a marker to write Noel, Shane, dancing on the backs of both hands. He’d look kind of silly but it would help.

The late hour didn’t diminish the sweltering August heat, and Tristan worked up a good sweat walking. Shane and Noel both looked crazy sexy in their club clothes, and even sexier walking side by side. He was happy for Noel. Happy his best friend was in love and enjoying himself.

He was also stupidly, insanely jealous.

He stuck close with his stupid, insane jealousy because the streets were teeming with people of all ages, heading into and out of the different restaurants and clubs. They turned down a quieter side street that was more like an alley. Halfway down the block a few guys hung out against a stone wall, most of them smoking cigarettes. An industrial door with no sign or markings was being guarded by a big, burly bear of a man in a black leather vest.

“Hey, Officer Carlson,” the bouncer said. He had a deep voice to match his broad body. “Nice to see you again.”

“Hi, Mr. Henson,” Noel said.

“Bear, son. Everyone calls me Bear.”

“Right. This is my friend Tristan Lavalle.”

“A right pleasure.”

Tristan shook Bear’s hand, surprised by the gentle grip. “Hi.” He glanced at Shane, who didn’t seem at all annoyed at being left out. “Um, that’s Shane. Noel’s boyfriend.”

Bear grinned. “Yeah, I know that one all right.”

“You do?” He reached for a notebook he didn’t have, then looked at Noel for answers.

“Shane dances here once a week,” Noel said. “He got the job through Bear’s son Gabe.”

“Oh.” He didn’t bother asking if he’d already been told that. Probably. Every single piece of information that was mildly important to his life had been repeated to him at least, oh, eighteen times. Minimum.

“Enjoy yourselves, boys,” Bear said. “First drinks are on the house.”

“Thank you,” Tristan replied.

Noel pulled the door, and what had been a distant bass became an impressive thumpa-thumpa in Tristan’s chest. The interior of the club was wide and deep, with a high ceiling decorated in strands of red and blue lights. Strobes and other lighting flashed around the dance floor, which seemed to make up most of the floor space. A small U-shaped bar stood to the right. In the rear were what looked like raised platforms. Two hot guys in red short-shorts were gyrating together on one of them.

This is the kind of dancing Shane does? Shit.

He was probably twenty kinds of hot up there.

Someone jostled past them, reminding Tristan to keep moving forward. Noel was hustling them straight for the bar. Tristan couldn’t drink alcohol because of his antidepressants and anxiety medications, and Noel was driving so the only person able to drink much was Shane.

Lucky bastard.

Not that Tristan was going to mourn his dry night. Men. Everywhere around him, a sea of hot men. All kinds of eye candy. Every age, height, weight, shape and body hair amount. He observed and mentally drooled over the flesh on display. The air smelled of liquor and sweat and sex, and good Lord he was starting to get lightheaded from it all.

Noel nudged them closer to the bar. A middle-aged man with gray hair and a pink sequined vest gave them all a big, toothy smile. “Noel and friends,” he said. “Richard Brightman, pleased to officially meet you, Tristan.”

“Hello,” Tristan said. Officially meet you implied they’d interacted before, but the man’s name meant nothing to him.

“I’m Bear’s husband. We own the place.”

“Oh. It’s a great place. I’m pretty sure this is my first time. I like it.”

Noel flinched.

Okay that was wrong. When was I here before?

“So what are we drinking tonight?” Richard asked. “First round on the house. Samuel Adams for you, Shane?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Shane replied.

Richard knows because Shane works here.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic,” Noel said. “Tris?”

“Virgin margarita,” Tristan said. He loved margaritas, and while a virgin wasn’t as good as one with Patrón, he couldn’t mix with his meds.

“Coming up,” Richard said.

The music changed to a faster, sharper beat. Tristan’s hips rolled in tiny motions, instinct bringing out his love of club dancing. Of getting into it with another dude, all writhing bodies and gyrating hips. Arms and legs. Sweat and heavy breathing.

Wonderful arousal stirred in his gut, heating his blood already. He might not be getting laid tonight, but damn it, he was going to have some fun.

“Hey, you guys made it,” said a sexy, sultry voice.

Tristan glanced over his shoulder to see who the voice had spoken to, only to find himself staring into a pair of kind, dark eyes. Kind, dark eyes belonging to a stunningly handsome face. Black hair. Tan skin. Tall and well-built. A walking wet dream who was smiling like they were old friends.

Holy fucking hell, he’s gorgeous.

“Hey, Gabe,” Shane said.

Gabe.

Those kind, dark eyes never broke from his, and Tristan couldn’t look away. Gabe was a stranger, and yet somehow familiar.

His eyes. The eyes I see. We’ve met.

“We’ve met,” Tristan said before he could think twice.

Gabe’s eyebrows twitched. “Yes, we have. Do you remember that?”

“I remember your eyes.”

“You remember my eyes?” He didn’t sound surprised or weirded out by that. More like pleased that a detail had actually stuck.

It pleased Tristan all over the place. “That’s weird, right? I remember your eyes, but I couldn’t tell you what I had for dinner tonight.”

“I guess I made an impression.”

“It’s easy to see how you might.” Hell yes, Tristan was flirting. Hot guy. Dry spell. He was out to have a good time. “I’m guessing we met here?”

“Yeah, we did.” Gabe glanced at Noel, who apparently knew this story, because he nodded at Gabe. “About two months ago, you came to the club alone.”

Dread crept over him. “How badly did I embarrass myself?”

“Not badly. Once my dad called Noel and he explained everything, it was okay. I’m glad I was here to help.”

He was leaving out a lot of details that Tristan wouldn’t remember in half an hour, and he wasn’t entirely sure he needed to hear them. Possibly for the second, third or tenth time. Instead of pressing the issue, he took a long sip of his margarita, savoring the pop of lime and salt on his tongue. Then he looked Gabe in the eye and asked, “You wanna dance?”

Gabe’s grin was immediate and blinding. “Definitely.”

Tristan chugged the rest of his drink, then plunked the glass down on the bar. He grabbed Gabe’s hand and led the way into the sea of moving bodies. Arms and hips bumped and brushed. Music poured through him, setting the beat as he turned to face Gabe, who was already moving. A white tee clung to what was probably a perfect six-pack. Black jeans hugged his ass and outlined a nice package.

So fucking hot.

And his for now, so Tristan let go of Gabe’s hand, closed his eyes and danced.

Noel Carlson leaned one elbow on the bar top while his free arm snaked around his boyfriend’s waist. He and Shane stood there watching Tristan come to life on the dance floor.

Fun, flirty and impulsive, Tristan had been impossible not to love from their first encounter in college six years ago. Occasionally lovers, always the best of friends, they’d spent the first three years in each other’s pockets. Helping each other study, picking on each other’s choice of dating material, being a shoulder to lean on in the hard times. Noel treasured every memory of that Tristan.

The summer before their senior year, he and Tristan had been walking home from a late movie and were jumped by four drunk assholes. Noel ended up with his chest carved to pieces from a broken whiskey bottle. Tristan had been left with a traumatic brain injury that compromised his short-term memory. Thirty minutes was usually the maximum amount of time before information or a moment between them was lost to him forever.

In the three years since, Tristan had improved in some ways. Shane coined the term déjà vu sense. He innately knew certain things, such as the time period since the bashing, the fact that Noel was a police officer and lived in a different town than him, and that he was in a relationship.

Hearing him say he remembered Gabe’s eyes had been a shock for Noel. The night Noel received a call from Richard, telling him that Tristan had gone to Big Dick’s alone and was freaking out, was burned into his memory forever. The fear over what had happened and the state Tristan would be in. The anger at himself for not thinking to take Tristan out. Horror at hearing Tristan say he wished that he’d been killed by that whiskey bottle.

Noel had heard that tearful remark more than once, and it hurt every single time. He knew Tristan was unhappy living at an assisted living center surrounded by the elderly. He didn’t know how to help him, except for small steps like tonight’s outing.

“He looks so happy,” Shane said.

“I know.”

Tristan was writhing to the beat of the song, occasionally snaking an arm around Gabe’s shoulders or waist. Gabe had a few inches in height and a solid thirty pounds of both weight and muscle. Tristan was five ten, but he was skinny as hell because he accidentally skipped meals frequently enough to piss Noel off. He’d spoken to the staff at Benfield about it more than once, and most recently he’d threatened legal action if they didn’t make sure Tristan was properly taken care of.

Noel had that kind of power, only he’d never told Tristan. Because of Tristan’s mental state, his parents had maintained power of attorney and paid for all of his medical expenses. Last week, a lawyer for Justin Lavalle had couriered over documents giving Noel the power of attorney for Tristan. His parents would continue to pay for his room and expenses at Benfield, but they no longer wanted to be informed about or responsible for his care.

After Noel had spent ten minutes ranting his rage to Shane, he’d signed the papers. At least someone who genuinely loved Tristan was in control of his health and future.

He just hadn’t figured out how to tell Tristan about it. Yet another reason for Tristan to consider himself a huge disappointment to his parents.

Tristan’s dancing faltered. He looked around, a little wide-eyed, then down at his hands. Gabe said something. Tristan smiled, and then everything went on like normal.

Memory slip.

“It’s kind of weird,” Noel said, practically shouting into Shane’s ear to be heard over the din.

“What’s weird?”

“Tristan out there dancing with a porn star.”

Shane choked on his beer hard enough that Noel had to snag a napkin off the bar so he could blow his nose. “Asshole.”

Noel laughed. “I wasn’t trying to kill you, I swear.”

“Yeah, right.” He leaned in, his breath tickling Noel’s ear. “In a few minutes, you’re going to be out there dancing with a porn star too, you know.”

“Former porn star.”

“Pedant.”

Shane had gone into Internet porn a few months ago as a means to pay off a huge debt he owed for medical expenses, and to take the burden off his ailing brother Jason. The porn had torn at Shane’s soul and nearly kept him and Noel apart. But in the end, the debt was paid and Shane was free of it. He’d even landed the dancing job at Big Dick’s thanks to his association with Gabe on set. The only thing it hadn’t done was save Jason’s life. He’d passed away from a massive heart attack while Noel and Shane were making a birthday cake for Tristan.

Some days were harder than others, but Shane was putting the pieces back together, and Noel would do anything to make it easier on him.

“The word former is very important to the label,” Noel said. “It says that no matter what happened before, now you’re all mine.”

Shane’s soft smile was worth more than a hundred verbal “I love you’s”. “Yeah, I am. Let’s dance, officer.”

Noel finished off his vodka tonic before joining Shane in the throng. He’d seen Shane dance. He wasn’t getting out of this club without a hard-on.