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EZRA

T he place Maddox sent me isn’t just a bar.

The modest sign above the door with the name The Sanctum in gothic script tells me it’s gotta be some kind of upscale club.

Frosted windows are set into a brick facade and the curtains are drawn, blocking my view of the inside, but I have no doubt it’ll be all leather upholstery and chrome accents.

Do I really seem like a guy who’d fit in here?

I triple check the address — unfortunately it’s right — and ring the bell.

I haven’t set foot in this kind of club since I was arrested.

Jasper used to take me to all the gay cruising spots — High Life, Jungle, Liberty, the clubs with the loudest music and the longest bathroom lines.

Those nights were for fun, not business, so he’d sell a bit, then pick up a guy and bring him back to our place.

Sometimes I was high enough to watch. Sometimes I stayed in the living room and felt sick.

I don’t do that — any of that — these days, but as I step back from the door, a familiar wave of nausea sweeps through me.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

It’s too late to back out. A shadow appears behind the glass and the door opens. The guy on the other side has a skin-fade and an overgrown mohawk tied up in a bun. He’s wearing a t-shirt that says KISS ME, I’M THE BOGEYMAN. A wide silver chain with a pendant hangs over his collar.

“Can I help you?”

“Uh.” I shake off my hesitation. “Owyn Maddox sent me. I’m here about the job?”

He does a double take. “The bar job?”

“Yep.” I hold out my hand. “Ezra Pine.”

“Orion.” He shakes it. He’s still looking me over — not in a flirtatious way, but not in a judging way, either. Just… assessing. It makes me itchy. Finally he lets go of my hand. “Syril’s not here yet, so I’ll get you set up.”

“Set up?”

“For the trial run.” He holds the door open and I follow him inside.

It’s exactly what I expected — private booths, high standing tables, and an elegant free-standing bar in the middle of the room.

But with raw wood beams running across the ceiling and plush burgundy velvet instead of leather, the vibe is totally different from a place like Jungle.

No wall to wall dance floor, no glassed-in VIP loft lounge. The knot between my shoulders eases.

“What about the interview?” I ask.

“Syril figures it’s better for a new guy to jump right in. You get to decide if you like it, and we get to see if you can keep up.” He grins over his shoulder.

“I can’t work unpaid,” I tell him cautiously.

“No way!” he says loudly, startling me. “We don’t operate like that. It’s all above board. We put you on the payroll for three weeks, and after that you can sign a permanent contract.”

“Okay,” I reply quietly. A reflexive “Sorry” leaves my lips before I can stop it.

He shakes his head. “You’re alright.”

“Did Maddox let you know I was coming?” I suddenly remember I have my folded up resume in my pocket. Damn it, I should’ve printed a fresh copy. I pull it out, unfolding it, and realize the background check is still stapled to it.

“Nah. Probably forgot.” Orion shrugs. He leads me past the bar and down a short hallway. “He told us a while back he’d send someone.”

“I brought a resume.”

Orion waves me off. “Syril trusts Maddox, and Syril’s in charge around here. Besides, a piece of paper won’t tell me if you’re good behind the bar.” He smirks. “You’re good, right?”

“Yeah.” The corners of my mouth twitch upward in response.

He snorts. “Glad you’ve quit looking like I'm about to take you out back and roll your body in a carpet.”

“Sorry. I've just had a hard time of it,” I admit. “Not many places will hire a guy like me.”

“We do things differently around here. You’ll get used to it.”

Orion has me fill out a few forms while he disappears.

The back office is… strange. Every corner overflows with plant life, even though there are no windows.

Bookcases dominate the walls, housing not only books, but also bottles of colored liquid and jars full of things I don’t want to look too closely at.

Some of them have limbs. Some of them have fingers .

A giant, oval mirror hangs behind me, encircled by a tacky gold frame, and beneath the big oak desk is a rug that looks and feels exactly like moss under my boots. I have a weird feeling it is moss.

Whoever this Syril person is, they’re definitely eccentric.

Orion sticks his head in. “All done? I’ll walk you through the basics.”

“Yep.” I get to my feet, eager to get out of the spooky room.

“Cash room is that way.” Orion points the other way down the hall. “Kitchen is around the corner. Everything else is on the other side of the floor.”

He leads me across the floor. I hadn’t noticed before, but on the far side of the room there’s a stage with the curtains drawn. Behind the stage is another hall. Orion flicks a switch and floor lights come on.

“We have shows most nights, except Monday and Tuesday. Back here is the performer’s changing room, the staff bathroom, the lunch room, lockers for your stuff, and…" he opens the nearest door with a flourish. “Private rooms. These can be booked.” He smirks again. “Or not.”

The room is all red — red lights, a warm red and black velvet couch, ornate chairs off to the side that are upholstered in deep maroon. A chest of drawers topped with another massive mirror sits on the back wall. Adjacent, there’s a display of floggers with a leather-padded bench nestled below.

I swallow.

I’m starting to get the picture.

“Got it,” I croak.

I’ve been in the gay club scene since before I even turned twenty one, so I can’t say I’ve never seen someone use a flogger before.

Most of it wasn’t my vibe. Some of it left me curious.

Jasper was vanilla, thank god, so none of my knowledge is practical.

Orion is watching me closely, probably checking on my vibe, so I strive to keep my face neutral.

But that spark is back.

“The rooms are mostly for Thursdays and Sundays,” Orion says. “The keys are kept behind the bar. You’ve got to watch carefully. They’re not dry nights, but we don’t let anyone in if they’ve been served alcohol.”

I nod. “Makes sense.”

I guess my answer satisfies him, because he closes the door.

Back at the bar, Orion has me mix a few cocktails without using the cheat sheet. I slide a whiskey sour toward him and he examines it.

“You done much of this?”

“Officially? No. I’m only twenty four.” I pour another perfect dram of whiskey. “Unofficially? I’ve been mixing drinks since I was eighteen.”

It was my party trick. Jas liked to show me off — his punk-ass kid boyfriend who could mix you anything.

“I haven’t done much in the way of fancy cocktails, though. Mostly Long Island iced teas and cheap highballs.”

“Well, you’ve got skills.” Orion grins. “I think you’ll do fine in a pinch.”

“Gee, thanks.” I grin back, relief loosening me up.

It feels good.

Maybe I can do this.

Orion has me stay for the whole shift. I’m a little nervous, but I can roll with it.

The rest of the staff trickles in as we’re doing prep and he introduces me to them — there’s the cook, Larch, the dishwasher, Mara, and another bartender, Plato.

They all seem nice enough, but honestly, the introductions start to blend together. Orion gives me a sympathetic smile.

“It’s a lot, huh?”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Oh, years,” he says. “Syril’s good to me. I owe it to them to stick around.”

I’m curious to meet this Syril person, but by the time the club opens they haven’t shown.

Even though it’s a Wednesday the club is packed a couple hours after opening.

Orion has me do tables until the waitstaff get in.

They only serve appies, but it stretches my skills.

Still, it’s surprisingly fun. I get more than a few double takes, but everyone is friendly.

“Am I out of uniform?” I ask Orion finally. “Or is a new guy just that much of a novelty?”

“Oh yeah.” His brow crinkles. “We get a lot of regulars here. They’ll get used to seeing you.”

It’s a busy night, but it’s not unmanageable even though I eventually have to break out the cheat sheet. I’m finally getting into the rhythm. Then I see him.

It’s the guy from Maddox’s office — the pretty one.

He looks different. His hair is loose around his shoulders and it’s long , like down-to-his-ass long. I have the weirdest urge to know what it feels like. He’s wearing a tunic-like shirt with loose, velvety pants. He doesn’t look like he belongs at a club at all.

His eyes widen when he sees me. For a second we just stare at each other.

For some reason, I get a flicker of nerves. What’s he doing here ? It’s just a coincidence, right?

“Your High — uhhh. Lysander.” Orion comes up behind me. “I’ll have Larch make you dinner soon.”

“I’m here for a drink,” Pretty Boy interrupts. “Who’s this?”

“Our new bartender.”

I wipe my hand clean on the bar apron and hold it out. “Ezra Pine.”

“Oh, don’t —” Orion begins.

Pretty Boy gives my hand a horrified look. “Lysander,” he replies coolly, not taking it.

I drop my hand. O-okay.

“What can I get you?”

“I’ll show you how to make his drink.” Orion steers me away by the elbow to the other side of the bar.

“What’s with him?” I mutter.

“He’s just a bit… particular.” Orion gives me an apologetic smile. “He lives upstairs. Syril rents out some guest rooms up there, kind of like a long-term hotel.”

Particular doesn’t seem to sum it up — pretentious seems more likely. But I let it go. I don’t want to put a foot wrong with Orion, who’s been cool so far, even if I’ve already apparently offended one of the regulars.

Orion whips up a complicated, over-sweet mess topped with a sugar rim, whipped cream, and a maraschino cherry — and no booze. My stomach churns uncomfortably and I make a face. He laughs.

“Yeah. Don’t, uh, don’t tell him I said this, but in my opinion, it’s a bit much.” He reaches under the bar and takes out an unlabeled bottle. “Plus a splash of this.”

“Is that some kind of import?”

“Yep.” He doesn’t clarify. “It’s strong, so just a finger.”

He picks up a coaster, but I’m faster. “I got it.”

I don’t know why, but I want to be the one to hand it over.

Orion shrugs. “If you’re sure.”

I take the drink back down the bar to where Lysander is waiting. His brilliant blue eyes stay cool as I approach. The urge rises in me to shake up that expression.

“Here you go.” I slide the drink over, leaving my hand on the glass a split second longer than I need to. Maybe I want to prove that touching a pleb won’t sully him. Or maybe it’s just that he’s undeniably gorgeous, and I’m curious if his hands are as soft as his eyes are guarded.

His hand brushes mine, and yep. Soft as silk.

His mouth falls open. Something flashes in his eyes — uncertainty, or… fear? He snatches the drink up and flees in a rush of floral cologne, disappearing between the tables.

“What the hell?” I mutter.

When the waitress calls in a second order for the same sugary drink, I grab the maraschino cherries before Orion can. I’m not gonna let a guy like that rattle me. Kill ‘em with kindness, as my mom used to say.