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“Like hell you are.”

The bastard is never going to reveal what my tell is, but he’s undoubtedly right. I’ve gone too far for promises. I couldn’t abstain from sex if I tried. Not unless I was handcuffed and supervised 24/7. It’s been getting worse for the past six months. The bar has been busy, and my regulars outside of it have drifted or grown stale.

Eli Carlton isn’t called Ace for no reason. His golden hands on the poker table are driven by his hawk-eyed observations of everything. He probably knows how many bottles of cognac he passed in his rage fuelled strut in here.

I get a flash of guilt, because he’s totally justified. I feel like an addict as I stand before him. Back in the early days, before we set up the casino, we’d be laughing together as best mates between bouts at the table ourselves, but lately he’s been distant, battling demons of his own.

He doesn’t need my demons on top.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask him.

“I don’t give two fucks what you do. Just don’t do it here. Nothing more on these premises. Nothing that interferes with shifts, or staff, or clients. So, get your coat and get out of here. Rethink. Get laid. Do whatever the hell you need to do, but sort yourself out.” He pauses. “Don’t come back until you’re ready.”

“When I’ve got laid, you mean?”

His eyes pierce so sharp it hurts.

“When getting laid doesn’t overtake the need to run our fucking business.”

I could crack a joke about seeing him next spring, but jokes are dead in the water. I take a breath and grab my coat from the staff storage behind us.

“I’m sorry, Eli. I mean it.”

“Sorry doesn’t lead to solutions.”

“I’ll make it up to you. I’ll get my shit together.”

He gives me a nod before I pass by.

“I hope so, Jack, I really do.”

The walk of shame through our bustling club only reinforces the hurt I feel at Eli’s disapproval. We’ve been through a lot together over the years, but I’ve brought this all on myself.

I need to get my shit together. Therapy, cold turkey, whatever, I’ll do it.

But not tonight.

I’m already too desperate for more.

CHAPTER TWO

BRYCE

I’ve been out of the game so long I feel like an awkward fraud, perched on a stool at the side of the bar.

It’s tempting to bolt for the exit and go home for another night of single-handed action, but with my divorce papers finally on the table, I need to get back on the horse and take a ride.

That’s what I promised myself I would do.

The Kilby Club is living up to the online reviews. The guys in here are hot, grinding against each other on the dance floor and chatting in cosy booths. Plenty of women in here are hot too, but I’m not here for pussy. I’ve had enough of pussy for a decade after living with the bitch who had my wedding ring on her finger. The women in here are more interested in each other anyway. I picked this place for a reason.

I want cock tonight at The Kilby Club, just so long as I’m brave enough to actually go for some.

I’m too out of practice to mingle and go on the hunt yet, so I sit and wait until I get my confidence up, using my phone as a distraction as I start my second beer. The empty stool at my side likely looks as though it’s reserved for a guest rather than an open invite for visitors. I’m still a few beers away from making my position more obvious. I’m absolutely crapping myself.

I get a crazy rush of nerves when a couple approach to the side of me. They’re just two loved up guys, holding hands as they order drinks, but it makes the situation so much more real.

I’m here to get fucked by a stranger, expecting myself to jump right on in like I haven’t been on a cock drought since my early twenties.