Rourke massaged his forehead.
“That bad?” Forrest asked lightly.
“Go to bed, Forrest.”
“But—”
“Now. That’s an order from your provocateur. You have a big day tomorrow, and Eric Montague is one of your clients. You know how important he is to our business. I want him to be happy with your performance, which means you need a good night’s rest.”
Forrest’s indignant stare might have been adorable, but Rourke wasn’t going to admit that, even to himself. Forrest glared and stalked to the door, slamming it shut behind himself.
Rourke refused to feel bad as he grabbed the bottle of whiskey Forrest had left behind. Another two or three drinks wouldn’t hurt. Or maybe he needed ten, enough to get drunk and forget that beautiful face that made him feel a jealousy he shouldn’t.
“Fuck you for being so smart and sexy, Forrest,” Rourke muttered, before he downed the amber liquid.
Chapter Three
Forrest slept deeply the entire night, waking up as refreshed and alert as Rourke had wanted him to be. He hated being treated like a child, but from the moment he walked through those looming front doors and asked to be a professional, he’d been nothing but a possession, to be used however the owners wanted. He’d accepted that a long time ago and he usually didn’t mind. He liked sex a lot, it gave him a purpose he’d never had before coming to the Virtue, and for however long it took for the guys to get off, he felt wanted.
Except there was one man Forrest hated beyond words—Eric Montague. Handsome enough, with a strong jaw and classic good looks, Eric’s appearance wasn’t the problem. He had a tendency toward violence that Rourke didn’t know about. Their interactions started off nice enough, with Montague holding Forrest down while he fucked him, but after the first few months, it had grown worse. He gripped harder, fucked rougher, and then came the sharp, forbidden bitemarks he put on Forrest’s skin, or the bruises he left behind.
Forrest warned him, but the warnings only made it worse, and as much as he wanted to tell someone—Rourke—his tongue grew heavy every time he tried.
“Hey.”
Forrest glanced up at Angel, who’d taken a seat at the bar next to them. While drugs were prohibited at the Virtue now, alcohol still had the green light. After the place had been shot to pieces, Terrance and Rourke installed a bar in the waiting area for their more privileged clients. Technically, workers were allowed a drink with their customers.
“Hey, Angel.” Forrest nursed his glass of rum and Coke, and sighed. “Who’s your next one?”
“Some out-of-towner. He’s a bigshot, so Terrance says. Likes guys with long hair. You should think about growing yours out.” He ran his fingers through Forrest’s blond hair to make a point. “You’d look gorgeous with this longer.”
Forrest grinned. “Honey, I’m gorgeous now.”
“You are.” Angel nudged him with his elbow. “Why so glum?”
Angel had applied his eyeliner thicker today, with more makeup than he usually wore. It made his eyes brighter and face gleam under the gentle, mood setting lights of the room. He wore flowy gray cotton pants with a red mesh shirt, and his bare feet stuck out below. The outfit might not have suited anyone else, but Angel could wear a garbage bag and it would look good on him.
Forrest shrugged and took a deep swallow of his drink.
“If Rourke sees you drinking that without your client here, he’s going to be pissed off.”
Forrest smiled. Rourke always got frustrated with him, but he’d never physically hurt Forrest, either. He’d take away privileges, as any good provocateur would, but he’d never hit him or hold him too roughly.
“Who’s your client?” The knowing glint in Angel’s eyes made Forrest squirm on his bar stool.
“Eric Montague.”
“That big time lawyer?”
“Yeah. He’s famous apparently, not that I would know. I don’t watch TV. But Montague says the cops hate him because he got a rapist off on criminal charges, as though that’s something to be proud of.” Disgust rose in his throat, and he stared at his alcohol. Not even the rum could numb the dirty feeling that clung to his skin before and after his hour with Montague. Sometimes he even hired Forrest for two or more hours, and that was even worse.
“Does he treat you right?” Angel asked quietly.
The truth would be no, but it wasn’t the easiest answer. There were codes in place, and even though the Virtue had rules about how clients treated their possessions, Forrest would always just be awhore. No one of importance—a hole for another man’s dick. “He treats me fine.”
The twist of Angel’s mouth told Forrest he knew he was lying, but it wasn’t a subject many men like them pushed. They both had a role to play because out there in the real world, they were the lowest on the social ladder. The Exotic Virtue was all they had in this life.
The doors to the waiting area burst open, and Sam stumbled through, his bleached hair a mess on his head. He chewed on the corner of his lip, where the ring pierced his flesh. “Is Rourke in here?” The fear in his voice made Forrest straighten on his stool.
