Chapter 4

ADRIAN

"I need to talk to you, Adrian," Captain Morrison said.

"If it is about visiting that club and finding Damien Salvatore, then I'm sorry but you can't change my mind on that front." I said it more coldly than I intended.

"You either sit this one out, Adrian, or I take you off the case entirely."

That stopped me short.

"You can't do that," I said quietly.

"I am your boss. Yes, I can." He spat the words. I could tell he was pissed at me, but I just couldn't bring myself to care. I was pissed at myself too, anyway.

"Fine then," I mumbled. He didn't need to know that I would be going either way.

"Just take it easy, child. You're doing good." He walked back into his office.

---

It probably took me longer to find the club itself than to realize there was nothing gentlemanly about the entire place.

This wasn't my first time here. It was actually the third. The first and second visits were spent gathering as much intel as I could about Damien's mannerisms, the kind of outfit expected around here, and just everything really. Tonight, I was going in as an entirely different Adrian.

I stared at my reflection in the big glass doors like I had done with my mirror earlier. A mask covered half of my face, save my mouth, which was painted. The other half bore makeup that was a disguise on its own. Those two, plus my uncharacteristic outfit, made me positively unrecognizable.

No one knew I was here. For all Captain Morrison knew, I had caught a nasty cold and wouldn't be around for a few days. "You just get some rest, okay?" He'd said it gently. I almost felt guilty, but this was something that needed to be done, and it didn't seem like anyone but me was willing to do it.

I pushed the doors open and went in. The place looked exactly like it had the first time I'd come here. Velvet and chrome everywhere, and sin. Every inch screamed exquisite back at you, and expensive. Very expensive.

There were very few girls here, as usual, dancing. The majority were guys—either dancing or sitting with one of the men in the club, most of whom I'd noticed were regulars. It was that kind of bar.

Damien had gotten married and had kids, so I was surprised at first that he would be found somewhere like this. But I couldn't say I was that surprised. Of course the almighty Damien still saw people like me as something beneath him, to be used and tossed like he'd done with me.

I steeled myself. I wasn't here to rehash all the ways Damien had hurt me. This was work, and distractions were not allowed.

I spotted Damien immediately, sitting in a dimly lit corner of the club, nursing a drink. He didn't have anyone with him again this time. So why was he really coming here? Unless this was a secret place for him to do business.

I got a drink at the bar and downed it in one go. I needed the courage for what I was about to do. Dancing.

At first I worried about all the people watching me. I was the only guy dancing, and my steps were awkward. But the warmth of alcohol spread through my chest, and the tempo of good music resounded in my bones. It would be criminal not to do justice to the feeling that put in me. So I threw myself completely into the dance, banishing every thought—at least for this one moment.

I grabbed a pole on the stage, threw my head back, and lifted one leg at the same time. Most of my steps involved swaying and touching myself the way the girls did when they danced. I traced the outline of my hips, my exposed neck. I was in the middle of a spin when I noticed that Damien had sat up straighter and was watching. No, not just watching. He was watching me. That added a certain intensity to my movements. And when we made eye contact, I stuck my tongue out at him. Even from here, I could see his jaw lock. I wasn't just dancing for the sake of work anymore. I was dancing to torture Damien Salvatore.

His eyes bored right into me. I could feel their heat on every exposed part of me—and given the lightness of my attire, that was nearly everywhere. The entire club seemed to get darker except for the stage, which had lights showing off the dancers' best features.

Damien got up and walked toward me, eyes unblinking. I deigned to look him over. His face. His body. The definition of chest muscles under his fitting shirt. And lower—oh my god.

A massive erection was tenting his pants, and I was surprised he could walk this upright. I was glad for the darkness of the club, even though he didn't seem to care.

He motioned me over when he got close enough, but I shut my eyes and ignored him, grabbing onto the pole again and doing all the sexy, torturous steps I could think of. Then suddenly I stopped. Something stopped me. Someone.

Damien was holding onto my arm, forcing me to look at him. I stumbled at what I saw in those green eyes, shade-shifting as ever. Desire. Annoyance. Lust. And then desire all over again.

I gingerly stepped off the stage, and people whooped. Either my dancing was that good, or it was the first time Damien had ever picked anyone up. Or both.

His hand slipped down to hold mine, and I refused to pay any mind to the goosebumps that erupted as he led me away toward a different corner. One almost identical to the spot he'd been in, only more secluded and quieter.

"What is your name?" he asked, his head stooping close to mine. His voice and proximity were doing things I had not prepared for, and I fumbled for a name.

"A-Aaron," I stammered out, and cursed myself. Why couldn't I be as confident as he was? I hated the feeling of smallness, so I inched even closer toward him, tilted my head a little, and looked right at him through glazed eyes. "And what is yours?"

"Dean," he said immediately.

Liar. We both were.

"Why haven't I seen you before?" he asked, searching what he could of my face.

"I'm new."

I realized I was grinding into him when he cursed quietly and his eyes shifted shade yet again. I thought about stopping myself and decided against it. He just hummed at my answer and said nothing else.

I started to take a step back when his lips came down on mine. Damien Salvatore was kissing me. Again.

No. No. Dean was kissing Aaron. Very different. And why did that make me prickle with irritation? I kissed him back with fervor, telling myself this kiss was meant to punish. But which of us? I couldn't tell.