It’d been fifteen years and it still hurt like it’d happened yesterday whenever he allowed himself to remember.
“I’d like you to increase profits by 2% before our next meeting.”
For someone who already had so much, Roland Lockwood was the greediest man Rafe had ever met. As the majority investor, he was entitled to a ridiculously large percentage of Switch’s profits and he was always angling for more. When they’d signed the contract, Rafe had insisted on maintaining full control of the club, but Roland still forced his will whenever and however he could—including his huge slice of the pie. The obscene amount was part of the reason Rafe had struggled to earn enough to pay off the debt he’d incurred since accepting the money for college.
“I’ll do my best.” If things went as planned, their ties would be severed within a couple of weeks and Rafe would never need to sit through one of these debasing lectures ever again.
Chapter Eleven
Rafe was watching.
Hop could feel the heat of his dark eyes throughout their entire routine on Thursday night and it pushed him harder. He hit the last pose—leg stretched out to the side and one hand reaching to his ankle, hair flicked over his shoulder and eyes on the audience.
At least they were supposed to be on the audience. Hop’s gaze kept straying.
The shadows called to him.
A dark figure high in the rafters, above the lights, above the crowd. Above everything.
If that wasn’t a metaphor for Rafe, he didn’t know what was. That intense focus was directed at Hop—he sensed it with every cell—and he’d be stupid to deny the thrill it sent whipping through his system. The strength of Rafe’s grip still warmed Hop’s palm. The scent of his cologne still tickled Hop’s nostrils. The sight of his hooded eyes still made his belly quiver.
Shame the guy was his worst enemy, wasn’t it?
Yeah, that was getting more and more difficult to believe. Something about the way Rafe had opened up, all vulnerable and desperate, hell, it had gotten under Hop’s skin. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as Hop had always thought, or at the very least, maybe he’d been that way for a good reason. And it wasn’t like Rafe had ever treated him poorly. Not like Roland.
Until that last time, he’d always come to Hop’s rescue.
That he’d needed rescuing in the first place was Hop’s own fault. Not Rafe’s. Perhaps it was time to let all that shit go.
Pulse thundering, Hop broke the pose and followed the Boyz off. To their credit, his friends hadn’t given him much shit when he’d arrived with the new contract. They’d tried to dig some information from him, but Hop had kept his secrets.
He’d had plenty of practice.
It hadn’t taken much persuasion for them to sign, which showed exactly how much they’d wanted to dance at Switch no matter how much they’d claimed otherwise. That they’d been prepared to walk away from their dream venue still got to him, so he didn’t think about it.
It was better for all of them if they let this entire dramatic situation fade and got on with the business of being fabulous.
“Fuck, that felt good,” Z said as he tugged off his long black gloves.
“I was totally feeding off that energy.” Ansel sat on one of the metal chairs and slipped off his platform heels. “I feel drunk and I’m stone-cold sober.”
“Hopefully the next one will be just as good.” Tam crossed to the mirror and leaned over the counter to check his makeup. The neutral shades he usually preferred were smoky and sensual tonight. His honey-blond hair was full and a little wild from all the whipping. No doubt Hop’s was in a similar state.
“Or better,” Jae said. His voice was so soft it barely reached Hop’s ears.
“Perfectionist.” He elbowed his friend.
Jae’s lips twisted into a sardonic smile Hop was becoming familiar with. “Guilty.”
Hop hadn’t been part of the group for long during their time at their former club, The Vibe, but he’d heard stories. The Sassy Boyz had relied more on tips from private dances after the show than they’d made from their single set each night.
So, yeah, he knew how much this new contract meant to them. Rafe had given them authority to create their own schedules and had basically given them headlining privileges, which was a lot for a club that advertised variety instead of featured artists.
Hop couldn’t do anything else that put their place at Switch in jeopardy.
* * *
Rafe didn’t know what drove him to watch the show that first night. Whether it was the nagging thought that Hop was holding something back or his original interest stemming from the first time he’d seen Hop dance—before he’d known it was Hop. It could have simply been the fact that he’d been bored.
Whatever it was, it’d been his downfall.
Now that he knew his cotton-candy princess was, in fact, Hop, now that he knew Hop wasn’t the same irresponsible kid, now that he knew there was a very real possibility Hop would enjoy bending to his will...
Everything was different.
With the first glimpse of pink hair and heels, Rafe had become addicted. It came close to being an obsession, really.
Every night for the next week, Rafe stood in the dark and watched Hop dance and then he’d go home and have crazy lust-fueled dreams. It took all his self-control not to jerk off with visions of pastel and heels. In order to avoid exactly that, he’d kept his cock locked the fuck down. He hadn’t even rubbed himself through his boxers. And he definitely hadn’t scheduled a session with Dalia. Of course, he told himself it was because he’d been too busy.
The truth was he was afraid he’d close his eyes and picture Hop’s vulnerable blue eyes while Dalia was on her knees obediently sucking his cock.
By Friday, Rafe was nearing his breaking point. Something had to give.
Though he’d been sleeping more than he had in years, it wasn’t restful. All through the night, he tossed and turned so much that he woke up with his sheets and covers tossed to the floor and his skin covered in sweat. He barely ate despite a gnawing hunger. His appetite craved something he didn’t have any right wanting.
But, fuck, he was hungry.
These little glances he allowed himself each night had become the scraps that he fed on to pacify his tendencies. They only served to tease him.
Still, he waited in his customary spot for the second time that night with bated breath while Hop took his place. In all his years, Rafe had never found true pleasure in S&M, but his masochistic side had discovered its hook. And damn, it wasn’t letting go anytime soon.
Resigned, Rafe gripped the railing while his eyes were glued to Hop. Stunning was too weak a word to describe the elegant way he moved across the floor. And when the choreography turned dirty, as it always did, Rafe held on for the erotic ride. Shit, he’d probably wake up covered in jizz tomorrow morning.
He sucked in a shaky breath and tore his gaze away from the Sassy Boyz’ retreating backs. It was over. He’d survived another night.
Miracle.
He jumped at the clearing of a throat and whipped his head to the side only to find Mark staring at him with an odd look.
“What?” Rafe’s voice was rougher than the corrugated steel they stood on.
Mark raised his brow but kept whatever he was thinking to himself. Thank God. Rafe wasn’t in the mood for his friend’s insight.
“There’s a kid making a scene trying to get into the VIP section, says he knows you.”
“Blond? Named Malcolm?”
“Nope. Brown hair and a strip of pathetic chin dirt.” Mark rubbed his thumb under his bottom lip. “Looks like he tried to grow a soul patch but lacks the testosterone to pull it off.”
Rafe’s first thought was one of his brothers had shown up, but they would have sent him a text and they wouldn’t have made a scene. They knew better. Ra
fe wasn’t opposed to kicking ass, if necessary. He’d had to do it a number of times since their dad died.
They headed toward the stairwell together. “Underage?”
“I checked with the bouncers, they were positive his ID looked legit. Punk wouldn’t hand it over to me, though, major superiority complex, that guy. Said he didn’t have to explain himself to the help.” Mark used air quotes to highlight the last word. “Not even fucking joking, man.”
“Surprised you didn’t deck him.”
“Wanted to, believe me.”
Mark followed him down but veered off when Rafe approached the roped entrance to the VIP section with a quick “Good luck.” And an evil laugh.
Rafe eyed the guy currently arguing with Sam, the muscle employed to keep idiots out. Recognition bloomed slowly and when it finally came to him, Rafe groaned. Last thing he fucking needed was one of Malcolm’s asshole friends hanging around the club.
“There you are,” the guy said when he finally noticed Rafe. “Will you tell this moron who I am?”
“Who are you?” Rafe asked just to watch him sputter. His cheeks turned a splotchy red and he flashed an incredulous look and half laugh to the rest of his crew as if to say, can you believe this guy? “Come on, man.” His tone was friendly but his beady eyes conveyed the threat Rafe knew all too well. Guys like this lived to flex their power, and all it would take was one word to Malcolm. “Stop joking around.”
Uh-huh. Same two-faced entitled posturing Rafe had come to expect from everyone who ran in the Lockwood circles. Rafe rolled his eyes internally but forced a laugh. “Sorry, Craig.” Though it physically hurt, Rafe added, “Sam, he’s fine.”
Sam lifted the rope and didn’t even try to trip Craig as he passed by with an arrogant sniff. Rafe would have to give Sam a raise, like, yesterday.
“Welcome to Switch.” Rafe shook Craig’s hand and gave himself a mental pat on the back for not shuddering at the contact. Jesus, the guy’s hands were slimy—like his personality. “Can I get you anything from the bar?”
“Three bottles of your most expensive vodka to start.” It was said with such smugness Rafe’s fists tightened and he had to consciously loosen them.
Luckily, Craig had never been too bright. Otherwise he might have picked up on the not-so-subtle daggers Rafe shot from his eyes.
“Right away,” he said.
Fuck, he really couldn’t wait until he had the freedom to tell all these douche nozzles to shove their pretension up their asses.
Soon. He could keep his nose clean for a little longer. He could toe the line and not let on what he was planning. He could keep Hop’s involvement quiet.
He could.
As he made his way to the bar, doing his best to avoid the worst of the crowd, he kept telling himself he could handle it. The mantra played on a loop in his head like Stuart Smalley’s Daily Affirmations. He was strong enough, smart enough, and goddamn it, people trusted him.
Chapter Twelve
Rafe would’ve gone home, but having Craig in the club put him on edge so he stayed later than usual. He didn’t know the kid well, but he’d seen him at a number of events over the years. Always hanging on Malcolm’s every word like a sycophant and snickering behind his hand. Craig wasn’t in the same class as the Lockwoods, but boy, did he put on a facade that fooled most people. Too bad his daddy was only a millionaire and new money at that. The fact that Malcolm actually hung out with him would, to some, be considered charity.
Even so, he was higher on the ladder than Rafe. It didn’t matter that he was almost a decade younger or that he’d never had a job. One wrong word and Rafe would be called in for a lecture. It wasn’t so much the reprimand Rafe wanted to avoid. It was the extra scrutiny that would undoubtedly accompany it. Any spotlights would make it more difficult to keep his plans to himself.
So, he’d told Mark and Sam to keep an eye on the group and to give them whatever they wanted. Then he retreated to his office, impatiently waiting for them to leave. The sooner they did, the sooner Rafe would relax. The sooner he could go home, the sooner he could sleep.
And dream pastel fantasies.
Fuck.
He tugged his hair. Enough, seriously.
The papers on his desk gave him something to focus on and for the next hour Rafe managed—mostly—to keep his eyes on the numbers and graphs instead of the clock. Radio silence from his employees should have helped, but it didn’t. The quiet concerned him. In most circumstances, Mark was brilliant, but dealing with spoiled rich brats wasn’t something he excelled at.
Just a peek. That’s all he needed. He’d just make sure everything was going smoothly.
Music rushed at his senses when he stepped onto the balcony. The lights below were a dizzying swirl of color that painted the dancers like a master artist. He didn’t bother scanning the crowd on the main floor when his mark would be found in the VIP section.
Craig was still there.
He drank directly from the bottle of Cîroc clutched in one hand as he stared at the dance floor. He seemed so intent, almost mesmerized. Rafe followed Craig’s gaze and—
Fuck.
An unmistakable figure with pink hair—Hop.
The brightest fucking person in the room, as if a thousand spotlights had focused on him. He fucking glowed.
Sucking air through his teeth, Rafe gripped the handrail. Seeing Hop on the dance floor with a stranger’s arms snaked around his waist ripped the ground from under him. It left him reeling with the weirdest combination of panic and desire.
Head buzzing, Rafe flicked his gaze back to Craig.
What was that look? Did he recognize Hop? Or shit, was it attraction?
Rafe’s pulse kicked up at that idea. Hell, no.
Rafe wouldn’t let Craig near Hop.
Even as he made that promise, Craig handed the bottle to a friend and headed to the stairs. Everything slowed to a crawl. The laser beams seemed to pause midway through their programmed course and the music was drowned out by Rafe’s own heartbeat.
No. The denial thundered through every cell.
Before he’d fully processed the situation, Rafe was halfway across the catwalk.
He had to intercept Craig.
Because if he hadn’t already recognized Hop then he was after something else, something that made Rafe’s blood boil. And, yes, Craig was an idiot, but he did have a good memory. He’d figure out who Hop was as soon as he got close enough. After that it wouldn’t take long for Craig to spread the news. And all of Rafe’s careful planning would die a silent death.
Rafe couldn’t take that risk.
* * *
Somehow, no matter how much he tried, Hop always ended up in the same place.
It was like the path of his life was a run-down carousel wobbling round and round and round. Tonight, all he’d wanted to do was dance. Like it had from the beginning, the Switch atmosphere called to him. Two performances hadn’t been enough. He’d wanted to lap it up like honey. He’d wanted to be right in the fucking middle of it.
He’d needed it to kill every other thought in his stubborn delusional head.
Yet here he was, dancing with another random piece of ass. Problem was, Hop had absolutely zero interest in the possibilities reflected in the guy’s hooded eyes. And even worse, the dude was oblivious, grinding and humping with moves seductive enough to have earned a blow job on any other night.
It’d been weeks since he’d hooked up with anyone other than his dildo. That thing had seen more action this past week than it had the entire previous year. All thanks to one brooding club owner.
Hop kind of hated himself for still being attracted to Rafe.
He was such a fucking pushover.
Maybe if he fucked someone random, his idiotic crush would fade. Swaying to the hard electronic beat of the house and rap fusion this D
J preferred, Hop closed his eyes and tried to feel even a spark of desire for his dance partner. Imagining himself pounded from behind, anonymous and forgotten, didn’t fill him with the usual fire.
Instead, it left him feeling cold.
The guy nuzzled Hop’s neck below his ear. “Want to go somewhere private?”
No, he really, really didn’t. “Sorry, babe, not feeling it tonight.” With a practiced move, he spun and ducked out of the cage of arms and straight into a chilling blast from the past.
“Hello, Hopkins.” Craig Miller’s voice overflowed with gratification. A crazy smile stretched across his flushed face, and his eyes were unnaturally bright in the low light.
Like he’d been splashed with a bucket of ice water right to his face, Hop gasped in shock and tried to retreat. Except Craig seized Hop’s shoulders and held him in place so hard Hop knew there’d be bruises to cover up tomorrow. Motherfucker.
He could get away if he tried, but it meant drawing attention. It meant violence. It meant pissing off Malcolm Lockwood’s best friend. It meant causing trouble and he was trying so fucking hard to be good.
Hop’s gaze rose to the deepest darkness beyond the multiple moving lights hanging from the metal joists above. Rafe needed him to keep this contained. And stupidly, the instinct to protect Rafe overruled his own self-preservation.
Every muscle relaxed and he leaned in enough to loosen Craig’s grip. “Long time no see, Miller.”
That weird grin stretched wide. “Shit, you’ve gone total sissy, I see.” His laugh was manic. “Wait until I tell Malcolm. Oh fuck, his face, I can’t wait to see it.”
Hop pasted on a negligent smirk and shrugged. “You could, but then we wouldn’t be able to have our special reunion.” Their past relationship was Craig’s dirty little secret.
Once upon a time, Hop had done everything he could to get closer to his secret family. Including getting jobs where Malcolm spent his money and seducing his friends.
Craig’s unkempt brows rose and his already red cheeks grew even darker. He licked his lips again but this time it was a conscious motion. “The package may have changed, but you’re still the same cock slut.”
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