He nodded solemnly and approached, hands clasped, like it was a test he wasn’t sure he’d pass.
Mall Santa did the routine. Asked what he wanted, patted his back, posed for a tasteful photo. Max answered every question perfectly. Felix stood at the edge, arms folded, watching, watching like he was waiting for me to trip over my own feet.
I gripped the velvet rope. Tried to keep my face blank. Didn’t work. My cheeks burned so hot I felt dizzy.
Why did it have to be him seeing me like this? Not that it mattered. For all I knew, he’d laugh about it later with someone better-looking, better dressed, better everything—
Peppermint Pete did the picture. Mall Santa handed over another candy cane. Felix’s nephew stood so straight for their photo you’d think Santa was signing a job offer. The whole time, Felix just… watched me.
“Alex, say thank you to the nice elf,” one of the moms in line chirped, not even looking at me.
But Max did as he came out. He looked up at me, eyes wide and blue and so full of hope it made my chest hurt.
“Thank you, Mr. Elf. I hope your feet don’t hurt as much as Santa’s.” Max beamed.
I nearly choked. “Have fun with your Christmas list, Max.”
He beamed at me and skipped back to Felix, and for a split second, Felix’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. More like… approval. The memory of seeing him at the club, cold and perfect and so out of reach, slammed into me. I looked away, heart pounding.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t do anything. But I felt it. Heavy and hot, like being pressed into a mattress and told not to move.
I liked that feeling.
Too much.
I tried to fade away while Felix collected his nephew, but even as he checked the picture on his phone, he didn’t lose track of me for a second. My hands shook. I wiped them on my tunic, but it didn’t help.
The mall was nearly empty when they left. I didn’t look up as they passed. Couldn’t. But Felix slowed, just for a second, right in front of me. Voice low, pitched for me and nobody else.
“Good job. You have a way with the kids.” His gaze dropped, took in the way my hands fisted in the stripes of my tights, the sweat on my neck. “Don’t let them get to you.”
My mouth was dry. “Yes, sir,” I mumbled. I sounded like I’d swallowed glass.
He tilted his head, considering. “Good boy.” Like it was a promise. Like it was a test.
I watched them go, heart drumming a tribal march. Me, in my ridiculous hat, cursed shoes, and a stain that could qualify as modern art.
I should’ve hated that he saw me at my lowest. But a small, pathetic part of me relished it. Because for one brief, horrifying minute, the man who seemed too perfect to notice men like me… actually noticed me.
Chapter two
Clayton
I hadn’t set foot in the club for eight months.
I took two showers anyway. Shaved too close, nicked my chin, and dabbed at the spot until it finally stopped bleeding. Pulled on the best shirt I still owned—the black one that made my hair look darker and my skin less tired—and even ironed it, hands trembling like I was prepping for an interview. Like it mattered.
It did.
The club was the kind of place where appearances counted. Where people remembered you. I’d had friends here once. That first night, I’d come with two coworkers and met Jason. I didn’t know what I was doing back then, and neither did he, but by the time I realized that, I was already hooked.
The alley looked the same. Same flickering red glow above the door, same “PRIVATE MEMBERS ONLY” sign pretending this wasn’t the worst-kept secret in Charlotte. I almost laughed. Almost turned around. Instead, I stood in the parking lot, keys biting into my palm, trying to remember how to breathe.
The last time I’d been here, Jason was at my side. Back when belonging to someone had felt safe instead of suffocating. Now the only thing left tying me to this place was a four-month membership I didn’t have the heart to cancel.
Inside, the desk girl smiled when she recognized me. I smiled back, barely, signed the waiver, and kept moving.
The air hit like memory—leather, sweat, cologne, laughter. The rhythmic clack of high heels on tile. Master Benjamin’s rule came back to me: barefoot or fuck-me heels. A few of the male subs had chosen the latter and looked incredible doing it. I’d have ended up in a cast.
