Chapter One

"Hey, bartender, give me a quick blow."

The bar mirror reflects me and liquor. Between my bright-blue hair and the bottles, it's like a warning sign of forbidden pleasure. I'd just come from a jog, but even in my running shorts and sweaty graphic tee, I'm the damn finest man in East Quay, Galway City's finest gay bar and male revue. Even when it isn't empty as a church.

Paul stares in astonishment. Like a knocked-over scarecrow. "W…what? Chard, no."

"I was kidding." Shit, did he think I meant it? "Unless you wanna do it."

Paul will always do in a pinch.

"Did you forget I have a boyfriend again?"

Used to do in a pinch. Before the boyfriend. I'd met the guy once and rate him a low six. Paul could do better, because Paul could do me. Let's not get too carried away, gym bunny. He doesn't like you.

I ignore the nasty voice in my head and tease. "Give your boy toy a call. Maybe he's down for a threesome."

"Knock it off, Jeremy."

Once the "Mr. Paul Thayer voice" comes out, I swivel away and survey my empty playground. Older gay couple happily eating an early dinner in the booth. A coven of lesbians crowding a high-top. In a few hours, this will be wall-to-wall bodies, and it's not bragging to say I'll have my pick.

"You're antsy today. You taking your meds?"

"I am." The jittering energy in my muscles means I'm due for an episode. Maybe I can outrun it. "Guess I better hit the gym."

"Were you skipping leg day again?"

"Dude!" I spin on the stool, earnest and offended. "Some lines you just don't cross."

He's about to defend himself, when our boss emerges from the back with a crate of clean tumblers. Judith Churm lost any fucks she'd given about gender to the first round of grunge and when she enters the room, you sit up and pay attention.

"Hey, Chard. You on for the teaser tonight?"

"Sure am."

"Great. Paul, grab the tequilas?"

Once he left, Jude picks up the rag he'd left in the disinfectant and redid all his work. Her gaze sweeps her empty empire.

"How's the cross-fit class going? Anyone drop yet?"

"My students don't quit," I scoff. I love bitching about the overcrowded cross-fit class and Jude—because she's a good friend, great boss, and exceptional bartender—listens attentively as I tell the tale.

Until the door chimes as a customer enters.

The entry wall blocks him from my view, but Jude cackles, "Oh, here's someone for you, Chard. This cheap bastard comes in every Tuesday to see the teaser, but never to the show."

A little guy came into the bar, returning her wave. Not "little" like Paul's boyfriend. Not soft. His jaw and nose could cut wire. Scrappy. Except he's nestled in a cozy green flannel and a coat several sizes too big. Trying to be mistaken for a butch dyke, but wearing a thick beard. He's out of place, not just in a gay bar, but with himself.

"How's your week been, Larry?" Jude asks.

"Pretty damn dead. With this congress, there's not—" The man notices me leaning on the bar and he forgets it's impolite to stare.

Jude calls him back with a warm, "The usual? Sour and a cheesesteak?"

"Yup." He stands at the bar, as far from me as possible.

I study him in the mirror. The dude's face is wrecked. Scarred by dozens of little gashes and divots, including one big white spot breaking up his left eyebrow. His upper lip is permanently split, like a piercing gone wrong. Must have been in a car crash.

In the mirror, his eyes meet mine. Pale blue, cold, and angry.

I don't look away at once, maintaining eye contact with his reflection. I'm not used to people frowning at me. It makes me uneasy.

Paul emerges, arms full of tequila bottles.

Feeling uneasy makes me mischievous. "I guess you can blow me since you're providing the liquor."

Those angry baby blues swivel away from the mirror as the guy turns toward me in shock. "What?"

"But that's a lot of tequila, even for me, Paul." I act like I'd only just saw the little man sitting there. "Sorry, I was teasing my buddy."

"Who still has a boyfriend." Paul wanders back into the storeroom for another armful.

"You ever meet Chard in person, Larry?" Jude set his drink on the bar.

"No." He doesn't touch it until she skewers a cherry on a tiny straw and drops that into the glass. "Seen him dance."

I smile over, turn to accept his praise, and extend my hand. "Chard Stagger."

He takes my hand. "Laurence Trockel."

That name is unfortunate.

Something's wrong with his fingers. The tips of the gloves are empty. What the hell is this guy?

I smile brighter to drive away any revulsion I betrayed. "Trockel? Interesting name."

"It's awkward, but it's mine."

The only name more awkward I can think of is Jeremy Sowenburger, but I don't trot my real name out for strangers. "What brings you to East Quay every Tuesday?"

"What do you think?"

Oh, hostile … sexy!

He clears his throat and backs off. "I meet some friends here. We see the teaser."

"You can sit if you like." I gesture to the stool beside me.

"No." He doesn't even deliberate.

Even straight men never shut me down so hard.

He stirs his sour, sucks the cherry off the straw, almost seductive. He'd do for a quickie. A three or a four.

"So, Chard," he bites my name, accusing it of being fake. "How long have you been stripping?"

"About twenty-nine years. I never liked clothes."

His full smile is unexpectedly charming. Raises him to at least a five.

I lean nearer. "How long have you been watching strippers?"

"Ever since Jude hired a cook. I come for the cheesesteaks."

Christ, was he actually straight? "The half-naked beefcakes don't interest you?"

"Never said that."

He is not.

With another five minutes to amuse him, he'd be putty in my hands. But Jude brings him dinner, and he takes the plate and his drink to the high-top in the corner.

I watch as he sets up a computer and doesn't cast me a second glance. If this is a tactic to pique my interest, it fucking worked.

****

After my run, my shower, and my afternoon meds, I return to the bar too early for my call. I hang out with Paul, ignoring the wistful hints from the Latino rocking a fedora, indifferently declining the drink from the bear in a red tank, and wait to more kindly reject the very young twink being pressured by his girlfriends to approach me.

Trockel lurks in his corner, his cut-up face illuminated by the blue glow of his tablet. He rubs his beard with gloved hands but never lifts his eyes to the room. I can't shake the taste of our encounter, and I hate that.

"You know, I realize that as the studliest stud who ever studded, you might never have faced this particular dilemma, so here's a tip." Paul put two empty shot glasses in front of me. "You buy these shots, carry them over, give him one, then you don't make fun of him."

"I'm in a gay bar and I'm a goddamn male stripper. I do not buy drinks."

"In two hours you can pull it out of your thong." Paul fiddles with a bottle. "You'll want a snakebite. It's the only other thing I've ever seen him drink."

"What happened to his hand?" I wiggle my fingers at Paul.

"Christ, you're an asshole."

"Wait, wait…" I reach for his arm. "I'll give you a twenty later."

"Thanks for the generous tip." He turns away to perform his alcohol alchemy.

"You can take it with your teeth, and you're welcome."

Paul set down two neon-green shots. "Do us a favor, and don't break the little guy, all right? That hard-on you're trying to get rid of counts as a concealed weapon in at least three states."

****

I fall into my Queen Bee strut to mask my nerves. I haven't been rejected by any kind of man since I grew into my height and built up my muscles. I wasn't ready to take a "no" from this guy.

"So, Trockel, do I call the shots since I bought them?" The green potions rap loudly on the high-top.

The little guy jolts, and only just stops himself from punching me. Stressed much?

His face remains hard and unapologetic and he glares at the shot. "What does that even mean?"

"I'm still work-shopping that line." I sit across from him. "Want me to try another?"

He raises his unbroken eyebrow, unimpressed with me.

I lean nearer. "What do we talk about for the next ten minutes before you come upstairs to my apartment and give me that blowjob we were talking about earlier?"

He doesn't have the courtesy to look flustered. "Terrible line. And I'm meeting with someone any minute now."

What does this guy want? The confusion makes me twice as determined to get my hands on his ass. Even though he was barely a six.

"So, are you unavailable?"

He sips his whiskey. "Would that stop you?"

No. Not always.

"Of course. But if you're just intimidated because I'm hot—"

He gives me a very not intimidated smile and picks up the shot. "Tell you what, since you bought the shot, why don't you tell me what you want to do for me? Drink first."

Snakebites are lime, high-proof, and truly vile. I slam the empty on the table, making him flinch again, then loom over the little man.

"So, first, I want to remind you why you come to see my teaser every week and give you a private show. Then I'd like to find out what's under all this flannel." I stroke the fabric where it lay over his chest. Under the cozy fabric, there was nothing soft. All bone and tense tight muscle. The desolate hardness of his body turned me on more than I expected. "Maybe, if you like all that, engage in a harmless bout of wildly passionate, totally protected sex."

He regards me with steely eyes, as if beautiful men drip on him every damn day. Then shrugs. "All right. No need for any of that other crap. I'll suck your cock."

I'd never received anything but a resounding, "Yes, please," and the occasional puppy-eyed, "OMG, really!" I feel cheated.

"But later," he says indicating his tablet. "I'm busy now."

"Hey!" Jamie, the revue's cute gender-indeterminate DJ, leaned on the high-top with the disgusting grace of a former ballerina.

I cringe, embarrassed to be seen chatting up Laurence Trockel, certain Jamie would assume I was taking advantage. But damn it, the man had not been easy.

Then they say, "Sorry for being late, Laur. Public transit."

Trockel all smiles and warmth now, stands and embraces Jamie. "Hey, no worries. I had a real-live East Quay Cutie to entertain me."

The change, instant as putting on a mask, astonished me. I hate the remarkable ease. I want some of that for myself.

"Chard, you getting interested in advocacy?" Jamie unpacked their backpack, glancing at me uncertainly.

I could stay. Force myself into the conversation, and possibly into whatever advocacy was. Not good behavior. Yeah, that's the mania making demands. So, I clear the table of the shot glasses.

"Thanks for the drink." I wink. "Gotta get dressed so I can take my clothes off."

His brow arches again, but he doesn't correct me.

Jamie relaxes, my presence at his table explained at last. Once their world turns in the correct orbit again, they launch into a conversation about a homeless shelter and some kind of logistics with a shuttle bus.

So, I wander upstairs, alone. Not what I expected.

I knew who I'd be dancing for. Show Laurence Trockel what he was rejecting.

No, not Trockel. Jamie with their knack for renaming people had it right. He was Laur—unique, secret, and mysterious. A sane man could get inordinately attached to someone named Laur.

And I was not exactly sane.