Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

I stand at the door, watching the club kids standing in line, their colorful outfits a stark contrast to my uniform of black jeans and tight black T-shirt. Besides the difference in our clothing choices, I'm so much bigger than any of them. At six feet nine, I tower over all of them, my muscles bulging intimidatingly beneath my tight clothing. Makes me good at my job as a bouncer.

It also apparently makes me eye candy; more than one of the clubgoers gives me a come-hither look. Guys, gals, a lot of them would love to climb me like a jungle gym, but staff's not allowed to play with the club's patrons, which is fine with me. They're not my type. I'm more into guys who look like me. I like a little fight with my sex. Okay, I lie, I like a lot of fight, and it takes another big guy to give me what I crave. There's not very many men who can push me around and slam me up against a wall.

I let another half dozen patrons in and put the rope back on the pole. There's a trio of guys at the front of the line now, guys not at all like the rest of the clientele. These guys are more like me, tall, muscled, sexy fuckers. I look them up and down, slowly, so they see me checking them out. When my gaze comes back up to their faces, they're all smiling, grinning at me like they know exactly what I'm thinking. I'm pretty sure they do.

I wonder if they're together. It's a fucking hot visual, the three of them fucking, sucking, banging each other hard. Damn. My prick is trying to stand at attention, and I'm glad my jeans are tight enough to keep it mostly at bay. I give them a smile, letting them know I don't mind being caught checking them out. At all. And yeah, we're still not allowed to fuck around with club patrons, but I'm always willing to make an exception, or two—or three in this case—for guys who fit my type so fucking perfectly.

A group of about eight people wander out of the club, and I'm disappointed. Eight out means eight in, and that'll send my eye candy out of my view. I take the rope off the pole, and make a go-ahead motion, trying not to let my disappointment show.

One of the guys gives me a knowing grin, then puts something into my hand. I slip it into my front right pocket to look at later, hoping it's a phone number. I'd love to finish the night in a clothing-optional wrestling match with one or all of them.

The rest of my night is pretty boring. There are no more big guys in line for the club, and I don't notice when the three I had my eye on leave. Friday nights are busy, but it's Saturday nights that usually have fights to break up, or underagers to keep out. They always beg once I call them on their fake IDs, but much as they think their puppy-dog eyes and pleas will sway me, they will not. I've seen it all and I'm not moved by any of it.

Two a.m. hits and I send the last few stragglers left in the line home. The place is closed and no one else is going in. I head in myself and glance around, making sure there aren't any patrons left to kick out.

"We're copacetic, Cal," Pete tells me. "I'll walk Dunc to the cash drop."

"Good deal." I head to the staff room in the back and clock out before grabbing my leather jacket and ducking out the back door as I slip it on. There's a bit of a nip in the air this time of night, and I'm glad to cover up. I walk home—I'm not that far from the club and it's not like I'm worried about getting jumped or anything. I'm the guy people don't want to meet in a dark alley, which makes it pretty safe for me to wander the streets no matter the time.

As I walk, I lament the fact that I'm headed home on my own, again. It would be easier if I wasn't picky about my partners, but I've found that taking home anyone who isn't strong enough to at least pretend to manhandle me just doesn't work. I might end up getting off, but it's not satisfying, so there doesn't seem to be much of a point.

Thinking of guys I'd like to get it on with reminds me of the trio in line at the club tonight, and that reminds me of the card they passed to me. I dig into my front pocket and pull it out, turning it in my hand.

It's a simple white card, the writing blood red, and it reads, An invitation to the Giving Place . Below that is an address. And that's it. No date, no time, no indication what this Giving Place might be.

I could head over there now. I'm not that tired and it's entirely possible the trio will be there tonight. Maybe it was their destination after the night club. But maybe not and if I'm going to make the effort to go somewhere after work, I want it to be worth it. Maybe it's just some club they shill for and they'll never be there. I have no idea. This card is giving me nothing but the name and address.

I shove it back into my pocket and keep heading home. I have beer in the fridge, oreos in the cupboard, and tomorrow is leg day. That's good enough for me.