5. Nick

FIVE

NICK

Nick is not sure if he's having fun yet…

The Ace of Clubs was interesting if a bit dated.

After adjusting Swanson's outfit so that he looked less like a hit man and more like a Mafia Daddy—there was a fine line, and it had to do with hair—they'd taken an Uber to the club, even though it didn't seem that far from the hotel. Nick still didn't know what they were doing since Swanson hadn't been terribly communicative during the long drive, made longer by a pileup on the highway outside of town.

It probably hadn't helped that Nick had slept for most of the drive after doing his best to irritate Swanson with factoids about aging. What could he say? He almost always fell asleep on road trips unless he was the driver. And clearly Nick was never going to be the driver while he and Agent Swanson worked together.

They'd finally made it past the bouncer guarding the portal. Someone even squeezed Nick's ass, which gave him a sense of satisfaction. Especially when Swanson—acting his part, Nick supposed—growled at the squeezer.

The Ace of Clubs was in some ways a typical gay club but, equally obviously, it was one that many folks enjoyed, and all were welcome—after waiting in the line. After all, in Vegas, money was the most common language, with appearance as the second.

He'd spotted "kids" who couldn't be more than twenty-one waiting in line and even a lone woman who just waltzed past everyone to head inside without so much as an excuse me . She had to be eighty-five and wore a bright blue tracksuit with bedazzled flowers all over it. If Nick were her age, he might have worn a sequined suit, too. As long as you could pay for your drinks and bets, no one cared about your age or orientation.

Mirrored balls hung from the ceiling and strobe lights flashed. For fuck's sake, Sade was even playing over the sound system when they finally made it past the door. A large dance floor sat at the back of the space. Tall tables separated the floor from a glittering bar stocked with every alcohol known to humankind. The tables were spaced around evenly for dancers and watchers to take breaks and drink the night away.

"Are there gaming tables here?" he asked. Nick assumed there were since the place was The Ace of Clubs, but he couldn't figure out where.

"In the back. A few rooms past the door in the left corner."

Surreptitiously, Nick glanced toward the corner. It looked like any other normal door, but then again, he wasn't sure what he'd expected. A big sign that said, "Danger to all who enter here"? The older woman he'd noted before and a couple of other club-goers were all heading for the entrance to the gaming room.

"Why are we here again?"

Agent Swanson hadn't actually told him. Maybe he expected Nick to read his mind.

"Missing SPAM agents."

"They came here for fun and games?"

"We know this is where they were all last seen."

"Okay." Nick looked around at the writhing bodies. The music had changed from Sade to something Nick didn't recognize. "And what am I supposed to do?"

Swanson stared at him pointedly, then out toward the dance floor. Nick followed his gaze, a feeling of foreboding washing over him.

"I'm supposed to what? Get myself kidnapped? This is my best clubbing outfit! I'm not made of money. These jeans would be impossible to replace!" Foreboding was replaced by outrage. "Absolutely not."

"Absolutely yes."

"Is this the in charge thing again?"

"This is, I am the senior agent."

"Senior Fucking Citizen. You get out there and dance." Nick huffed. "Look at all the twinks ogling you. You'd be picked to the bones in seconds."

"That's really not what we're aiming for here."

"Oh?" Nick felt his nostrils flare. "We're aiming for… what? Missing twink found dead? I don't think so."

"Just get out there and start dancing," Doug said in a low, supposed-to-be-scary voice. "I'll be right here keeping my eye on you. And one of us needs to look like we're having fun."

Nick was not fazed. "Not unless you dance with me. And I need alcohol. I can't just go out there and flash all my moves."

He had no moves, but Swanson didn't need to know that. Nick was more of a freestyle dancer. Flailing Man was his favorite.

"If I buy you a drink, will you get your ass out there?"

"If you buy me a drink, I will bust a move," Nick conceded.

Swanson waved over one of the scantily clad servers. Nick was pretty sure the guy who all but ran to their table had been eyeing Swanson since the moment they'd walked in, but he was oblivious to the attention. Even Nick had to admit that, for all the crap he'd been giving him, the agent looked incredible in the black Dior suit he'd finally put on. Very commanding, very Bond.

"Helloooo, welcome to The Ace of Clubs. My name is Sven," the server greeted Swanson, pointedly ignoring Nick. "We haven't seen you here before." The twinky server did a little eye-widening thing at the word seen, making Nick irrationally want to punch him in his too-perfect mouth.

Agent Swanson shifted uneasily. Nick wondered if he wasn't used to being fawned over.

"I want a vodka and Red Bull," Nick said. "My man here will have a McClellan's. Neat with a lemon twist."

"Ohhh." Twink Face drew out the word just like he had the word hello. Maybe his best sound was an O sound. "A manly drink for a manly man. We'll be right back."

Seriously, Nick was going to vomit, and he was going to make sure it covered Sven's face.

"My man?" Swanson mouthed at him.

Nick shrugged. A man had to do what a man had to do.

He watched Swanson watch Sven walk away from them, his stupid ass swinging back and forth. Nick squashed down the unreasonable jealousy. They were work partners and he already knew what Agent Swanson thought of him.

Loser.

Just like everyone else in Nick's life did.

Maybe he would get the chance to prove himself.

Sven —Nick scoffed because no way was that the guy's real name, Nick refused to believe it—returned relatively quickly with their drinks. When Swanson tapped a black Amex against the card reader, Sven practically shivered in anticipation. Nick rolled his eyes. Gag.

"Thanks," he said, not meaning it. "We'll wave you down when we want another."

"Oh, don't you worry, honey, I'll keep my eye on you."

There was that rising bile again. Nick washed it down with a big gulp of his drink and continued to watch the dance floor. It was a pretty typical scene, with groups of guys and a few women dancing and grinding on each other. A couple at the far side of the writhing bodies looked to be a tad more intimate.

Nick swallowed down the rest of his vodka.

"Ready, big man?"

Without waiting for Swanson to answer or even to note whether he'd finished his whisky, Nick grabbed the sleeve of his suit jacket and dragged him toward the dance floor. He resisted at first, but Nick tugged harder and Swanson gave in with a sigh that Nick was able to hear over Madonna's sultry voice.

The key to dancing, Nick had decided long ago, was that, unless you were on TV or in a ballroom, you should just let your body do whatever. Swanson would be his maypole. He laughed out loud at the thought, ignoring Swanson's quizzical expression. If he weren't so grouchy, he could be Nick's anytime pole.

His shaft.

This job just might end up being fun.

Madonna ended and Kylie came on. More club-goers flocked to the dance floor, forcing Nick to move closer to Swanson's body.

"At least pretend like you're having a good time," Nick whispered in his ear after a particularly good twirl. "Or I'll call Sven over here and let him have his way with you."

Scowling at him, Swanson began swaying back and forth in a reasonably close imitation of actual dancing.

Nick grinned. "I'm enjoying this assignment!"

Swanson shook his head, continuing to watch the other dancers and patrons with a gimlet eye. Nick was fairly sure he was also watching the door he'd indicated earlier, the one that had gaming on the other side.

Nick managed to keep him shuffling his feet for two more songs.

"I've worked up a fearsome thirst," Nick said.

"Thank fucking god," Swanson replied. "I wanna go sit at the bar now."

Nick thought that was a fine idea. Better to avoid their new friend, Sven.

Turning around, Swanson barreled through the crowd of dancers like a bull in a china shop, making a beeline for the bar. Lucky them, there were two open seats next to each other.

While Nick puffed his t-shirt away from his sticky, sweaty skin, one of the bartenders came over to take their order.

"Same?" Swanson asked Nick.

"Yes, thanks."

Swanson ordered a beer for himself. Which, thinking about it, made sense to Nick. The older SPAM agent was definitely more of an ale guy than a pricey whisky guy. Although Nick had no problem imagining him sipping whisky in front of a roaring fireplace with bookshelves on either side of it. Nick added a sheepskin rug on the oak floor to his fantasy. A guy could dream.

Seconds later, fresh drinks were set in front of them.

"What do we do now?" Nick asked. "Have you seen anyone go back there?"

"Nope. Not yet."

"I bet Sven would get you an invite," Nick snarked. "By the way, can I call you Doug? All this calling you Swanson in my head is messing with my vibe."

Ignoring him, Doug took a long sip of his beer. Nick found himself fascinated by the movement of Doug's Adam's apple as he swallowed. Nick was a sucker for a sexy throat. He stared down at his drink. Maybe he'd sip this one instead of gulping it down.

"We'll need to return tomorrow night," Swanson announced. "And yes, Nick, you are allowed to use my first name."

"Oh god, why do we have to come back?" Clubbing once? Fine. Again, the very next day? The magic would be gone.

"SPAM will work to get us an invitation to the back. I needed to see this place before then."

Fuck sipping. Nick gulped his drink.

"I've got to work off this Red Bull if I'm sleeping at all tonight." Draining the cup, Nick plopped it down and headed back to the dance floor to put on a show for Mr. Grumpy Pants. They may have been SPAM agents on a mission, but Nick was going to do his best to make sure that Sven never entered Doug's thoughts.

"Wake up."

"No."

Nick burrowed deeper into the pillows, chasing the beckoning amnesia of slumber. His head was achy and all he wanted to do was sleep. He felt himself drifting nearer to the edge of pleasant oblivion. Just a few more minutes.

"Agent Sedgewick."

Oblivion was obliterated.

"Fuck," he snarled, throwing one of his pillows to the floor. "What?"

Doug managed to look slightly taken aback. "Are you always this pleasant in the morning?"

"Maybe? What's it to you?"

"It's time to get going. We have to interview someone."

"Someone who?"

Reluctantly, Nick rolled over and flung the covers off. Doug coughed and turned around.

Nick looked down at himself. "Oh, well, sorry. I guess."

He was naked. Nick vaguely remembered feeling overly warm at some point in the night. He must have stripped down to his birthday suit.

"Where did you sleep?" He didn't remember Doug being in the bed. But after several strong drinks and a lot of dancing, Nick had been a tad tipsy.

Doug muttered something about the floor, but Nick was too busy trying to figure out where his clothes were. He crouched down to look under the bed.

"Jesus Christ!" He fell backward—still buck naked.

"What?"

"There's… eyes ."

"Pretty sure that's Tim the Tortoise," Doug said dryly, still facing away from him. "Would you please get dressed? Business today. Your suit is back already and hanging on the door."

Blearily, Nick looked around. Sure enough, his suit, properly pressed, hung on the bathroom door. With a groan, he heaved himself to his feet and started for the bathroom. But then he figured, who cared? He was already naked. Why should he get dressed in a tiny room when he could get dressed out here?

Tim emerged out from under the bed. Nick narrowed his eyes at the reptile.

"I think you're trouble. Do we need to leave you in the bathroom? Just in case you have an accident?"

"Quit"—Doug ground the single word out—"talking to the fucking turtle and get fucking dressed already."

"Well, since you asked so nicely. And, again, it's a tortoise."

What Nick had heard about Vegas from various people he'd met over the years was that it was loud, glitzy, and over-the-top. Whoever had designed this hotel and specifically this hotel room had not received the memo. The only glitz so far had been in the form of several slot machines near the lobby.

Yesterday, Nick hadn't had the luxury of time to really appreciate how horrid and bland their room was. The only decoration was the "In Case of Fire" hotel evacuation map located next to the door. The only mirror was above the sink in the bathroom. A placement Nick was thankful for at the moment.

The carpet was beige, the bedcover a darker beige. The walls were painted a shade of off-white. If the room was meant to be anonymous, the designer had knocked it out of the park with a grand slam.

"I don't hear you moving around, Sedgewick."

Nick didn't bother to respond, just grabbed underthings out of his suitcase and began to get dressed.

Ten minutes was all it took for Nick to be ready to go, regardless that he felt like he'd been run over by a truck, and he even brushed his teeth and swiped some gel stuff through his hair.

"We need to get some food for Tim today. I don't want him to starve."

"Fine. Just hurry fucking up."