Chapter One
What do you get when you cross a handsome, Irish mobster and an all-American whore? A bad love story, that’s what. Forrest didn’t have a chance in hell with Rourke Tormey, but that didn’t stop him from staring at the man longer than he should have. Being that good-looking should have been illegal, or at the very least, frowned upon. Rourke had a sharp jaw; delectable to lick, thick eyebrows that dipped low; and a short beard Forrest wanted to run his fingers along, with brown hair buzzed into a fade around his ears. Everything about him made Forrest’s mouth water. Even the tense shoulders, held stiffly like the rest of his body. Rourke always held himself at attention and his posture reminded Forrest of a solider.
“Stop staring.” Angel nudged Forrest with a roll of his black-lined eyes. “He’s not Conall. He’s not going to fuck you.” He lounged beside him in his usual black leather pants, his chest bare. The ring through Angel’s nipple ring taunted Forrest. He’d wanted one for years, but Terrance and Conall had forbidden it. (“You’re our golden boy. People think you’re innocent. Nipple piercings aren’t innocent, Forrest,” Terrance had said, shrugging his shoulders). Funny, considering Conall got one recently.
“Who says Rourke won’t fuck me?” He sent Angel a wicked grin. “I’m the highest earner for a reason. I make men crave more.”
Angel snorted at him and swiped at his shoulder-length, light brunet hair, brushing it out of his eyes. Forrest didn’t know Angel’s age, but he’d been around the longest. Whispered rumors said he used to warm the bed of Conall’s and Terrance’s father, but the only time Forrest had worked up the nerve to ask him about it, Angel gave him a nonchalant look before striding away.
Angel leaned against the wide banister that bracketed the staircase leading up to the second-floor rooms, the lines of his body sleek and slimmer than Forrest’s. The leather pants that clung like a second skin did wonders for his ass. Forrest had a better ass, of course, but Angel’s wasn’t completely terrible.
“He’s not a desperate client.” Angel stretched, the expanse of his oiled, golden skin glimmering under the dim lights of the foyer. Soft, romantic music lulled the room, enticing their clients with the sultriness.
He reminded Forrest of the tortoiseshell cat that sometimes hung around the Virtue. No one knew where she came from, but she worked the building as though she knew the ins and outs and all the secret passageways of the thirties architecture. She got from one part of the small mansion to the other in the blink of an eye. Angel was the same—his nimbleness made him stealthy and his intelligence made him quick-witted. The cat liked him too and that fact made Forrest think they’d known each other longer than they let on. Angel went so far as to name her Honey.
“No one can resist me.” Forrest canted a hip and grinned.
Angel sent him an unimpressed stare before he slipped upstairs without another word.
Forrest would have followed him and continued thediscussion, but the front doors to the Virtue opened and two men the size of mountains stormed inside. Terrance straightened eagerly, his red hair glinting and cheeks flushed over his freckles. He said “hello” to them, like he always did, but they ignored him as they surveyed the foyer, and then the first and second floor for threats. Seven months ago, Forrest might have laughed, but that was before Italians shot up his home to send a message to Sloan Killough, the mob boss and owner of the brothel. Forrest lost people he knew that afternoon. Not good friends, but acquaintances he didn’t hate enough to make their lives hell.
If the destruction of a good building wasn’t stupid enough, the Italians had kidnapped the boss’s pet, Forrest’s ex-lover. Terrance had been worried sick about Conall, but Rourke gave him strict orders not to leave the Virtue. It’d been Sloan Killough’s job to get Conall back, and he did it with style, or so the gossip said.
Forrest had seen Conall once since the kidnapping happened, and he’d asked him about it, but his ex had merely shrugged his shoulders, smirked wickedly, and changed the topic. Forrest supposed it was retaliation for keeping his mouth shut to Conall when he asked about the rule changing Rourke did around the Virtue all those months ago.
The mountains seemed satisfied with the safety of the newly refurbished Virtue, so they spoke into the earpieces they wore and a few seconds later the door opened again. Sloan Killough walked in, his presence powerful and domineering in the large, golden foyer that sang elegance. He outdid any sophistication the Virtue had though, with his designer suit, large build, and handsome face. Forrest felt almost jealous of Conall. No, not almost, at one point he’d been jealous of both KilloughandConall. He had thought he was in love with his ex, and when Killough took Conall as his pet, Forrest experienced what he had assumed was a broken heart.
Then Killough sent Rourke and everything changed. He’d wanted him. Badly.
Conall followed after Killough, his face no longer as bruised as the last time Forrest saw him, but it’d been at least six months since the boss saved his ass, so it shouldn’t be. Conall stared around the foyer, taking in the golden wall lights, black-and-white marble floors, stone pillars painted the same color as the freshly plastered walls, and the new tan couches Rourke had bought to spice up the waiting area. With everything brand-new, Forrest never thought the Virtue could look any prettier than before, but he’d been wrong.
Finally, Conall’s attention landed on Forrest and his lips curved into a smile. He leaned up and whispered something to Killough, whose own eyes found Forrest, before he nodded at whatever Conall had said.
Forrest stepped forward when Conall strode toward him in those fine leather pants that clung to his slim legs. He never thought he’d see the day that Conall wore leather, but it looked surprisingly good on him, and Forrest mentally commended Killough on his choices. He never expected to see Conall in a shirt because Killough usually preferred his pet without one. The black button-up shirt still looked worth more than everything Forrest owned.
When Conall reached him, he dragged Forrest into a hug, and Forrest returned the squeeze as gently as he could. Terrance told him about that Italian bastard cutting up Conall’s chest, even if Conall never admitted that it had happened the last time they talked.
“Stop it.” Conall snorted when he released Forrest. “I’m not fragile.”
“You must be because you hugged me. You never hug anyone.” He folded his arms over his chest, one eyebrow raised. “I heard you got hit on the head, but I didn’t realize it wasthathard.”
Conall laughed low in his throat and glanced over his shoulder. Killough approached Rourke and Terrance where they stood at the reception desk on the right side of the room, and Rourke gestured to the marble floor, clearly chatting about the redesign. “Maybe I like making my master jealous.” He turned back toward Forrest, mouth twisting into a saucy grin. “He spanks me really good when I touch other men.”
Forrest couldn’t help but chuckle. “I never saw you as someone who enjoyed spanking.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes Sloan surprises me.”
Forrest turned serious and touched Conall’s arm. “How are you, though? I’ve heard a lot of rumors, and Terrance has been a mess since he heard you were taken. He’s carrying a gun now, and he convinced Rourke to hire more guards. I wish you’d talk to me.”
Conall cringed and glanced at Terrance. His brother’s attention was focused on Killough, but neither of them missed the way Terrance’s gaze flicked over to Conall, or how he grimaced.
“Have you talked to him since you were taken?”
“Yeah.” Conall sighed and carded his fingers through his long, dark hair. He turned back to Forrest, shoulders taut and jaw tight. “A few times. He came to Miami with us for Christmas.”
“How’d that go?” Forrest leaned against the banister of the new set of stairs they’d put in. It ended on the opposite side of the second floor from where the original set had. The old stairs still existed, but the new ones came directly from the foyer rather than from the back of the first floor, which made a shorter trip for the important clients who wanted to get down and dirty with their chosen sex professional.
“Not great. He mentioned me coming back to the Virtue. He said he’d convince Sloan to let me go.”
