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Chapter one
Theneonsignabovethe door of The Swan flickered erratically.
Wyatt pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
He scanned the room quickly. A few regulars were huddled around the scarred pool table, while others nursed drinks alone in the darker corners of the bar. The patrons all looked up at him as he came in, their eyes checking for fresh meat. When they saw him, half of them turned away — they wanted pretty little things, not a big, scarred-up bruiser like Wyatt.
The other half, though… They didn't look away. The young men, with their tight jeans and their carefully-casual hair, watched him with keen eyes.
Wyatt didn't have time for them right now — as much as his cock stirred in interest.
The Swan was one of those places that felt more like home than any other place could ever hope to be: grungy, familiar, comfortable. This wasn’t just another shitty dive bar for him, though.
Tonight, it served as his office.
He found his usual spot near the back wall, where his was back defended and he had a clear line of sight across most of the main floor. Sliding onto the cracked leather seat, he propped his elbows up on the sticky formica tabletop and waited. His eyes drifted from one patron to the next, taking stock of anyone new or out of place.
He had a whiskey while he waited for his client, keeping an eye out for anyone who matched the description of his client. The guy on the other end of the line had sounded normal but nervous, some buttoned-down office drone who had finally snapped and hunted for a little extrajudicial justice.
Someone who wasn't used to hiring hitmen.
What had Mr. Office Drone's intended target done to him? Fucked his wife? Stolen his favorite stapler? What was worth hiring a hitman over? These days, Wyatt didn't ask, and he didn't care.
At the start of his career, he'd wanted to know. Back then, his clients had reasons that made his blood sing for violence: murderers, rapists, wife-beaters. Real pieces of shit. Wyatt had enjoyed taking them apart.
But these days, it was all fucked wives and petty shit. Soon, someone was gonna try to order him out on a hit for a scratched car or a late pizza delivery.
Wyatt finished his whiskey, and checked his watch. Then, sighing, he had another, already knowing that this was a bust.
Another hour passed before Wyatt finally conceded defeat. He checked his phone. There was nothing but silence from his wannabe client. No message, no missed call. Just… silence. He knew that if he called the number, it would go to a dead line, some burner phone tossed into the trash after a case of cold feet.
Great, another potential job gone cold. Fucking tire-kickers.
With a grunt of annoyance, Wyatt dropped his head into his hands and massaged away the ache that was growing behind his eyes. Why bother contacting a hitman if you weren't 100% sure that you wanted to go through with it?
Being a hitman wasn’t all glamor and excitement like TV made it seem. Most of his days consisted of sitting around doing recon, plotting out the proper way to take care of business. Other times involved dealing with flakey clients, like tonight’s no-show.
The moments when things were actually going according to plan, and he could do what he did best… Those were rare.
He gave up on his wait. Fuck it, the business portion of his night was officially over.
And unless he wanted to go home seething, he was gonna have to find some way to shake this black mood.
In a place like the Swan, that wasn't going to be hard.
Wyatt's eyes drifted over the crowd, taking in the various men with a critical eye. He knew what they saw when they looked at him — a man who exuded confidence and dominance, someone who could take control and give them exactly what they craved.
One of the pretty young things hustling the pool table — because that's what he was doing, even if his opponent hadn't yet realized it — caught Wyatt's eye. Wyatt imagined himself bending the kid over the pool table, his hands rough and calloused as they gripped the boy's hips. The boy would tremble with anticipation, his eyes wide with fear and excitement as Wyatt pushed into him, taking him roughly.
All fantasy, of course. The staff didn't let that sort of shit fly out here.
But backstage…
Wyatt's eyes flicked towards the door that led to the back rooms. It was a place he frequented when he needed release, but couldn't risk bringing someone home — which was most times. With the sort of shit he got up to, he couldn't risk someone rifling through his closet.
That door led to a narrow, dark corridor, full of doors. Each door opened to a booth, small enough for one person to stand in darkness — or to kneel.
And in the wall of the booth was a hole.
