Some Bunny to Love (Killer Holidays #1)

Chapter 1

It was four hours into his shift, and Benny’s feet were already plotting his murder.

The heels were killing him. Five-inch stilettos that made his legs look incredible and his arches scream for mercy. Worth it for the tips, usually.

Tonight was a different math. He was working Easter at the Dunham brothers’ club—the big gay club on the south side, two sweaty floors of men who’d paid cover to drink and watch boys like Benny dance.

It paid better than his regular gig. The clientele was worse.

“Hey bunny, want a carrot?” Some drunk asshole grabbed for his tail as Benny passed with a tray of shots.

Original. Never heard that one.

Benny sidestepped without breaking stride, kept his smile plastered on, and delivered the drinks.

His outfit was ridiculous, obviously. White satin bodysuit, cut high on the hips. Fluffy tail that bounced against his ass with every step. Cuffs at his wrists. And the ears—god, the ears—perched in his carefully styled hair.

Hop hop, motherfuckers.

The whole ensemble was a joke, but it was a joke that paid three times what he’d make waiting tables, so Benny played along.

Easter. Why Easter? It was the least horny day on the calendar—all pastel eggs and dry ham—and yet here they all were, a room full of men spending the night before the most childish holiday in a gay strip club.

Benny had spent the first half of the night up on the podium, working go-go sets under the lights, then gotten bumped to bottle service for the back half. Benny was adaptable. Money was money—and his tuition wasn’t going to pay itself. Nursing students weren’t exactly flush with cash.

“Looking good tonight, Benny.”

But there was the real reason this job was hell.

Wonderful. The man himself.

Rick Dunham leaned against the bar, watching Benny approach with that smile. The one that said I own this place and everything in it, including you.

He was in his fifties, soft around the middle, with a confidence that had never once been earned. His brother Gary handled the business side of their clubs; Rick handled the girls and the boys—and anyone else he decided he wanted to handle.

“Thanks, Mr. Dunham.” Benny kept his voice light. “Busy night.”

“Holidays always bring them out.” Rick’s eyes tracked down Benny’s body, slow and deliberate. “The suit looks good on you. Real good. You should bend over more when you’re serving, give the customers a show.”

Motherfucker. Benny’s smile didn’t waver, even as his fingers tightened on the tray. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He moved past, heading for the service station—and right on cue, Rick’s hand shot out for his ass. Benny pivoted, smooth as breathing, and the slap missed by an inch.

“Relax.” Rick laughed. “Just a joke.”

Right. A joke. The same one Rick had been telling all night.

Benny had Rick’s number. He’d figured it out within the first ten minutes of this temp gig. One of those guys who wasn’t as straight as his wife thought, and Benny was exactly the kind of femme pretty-boy he could pretend didn’t count.

It was gross. It was predictable. And Benny had to put up with it for—he checked the clock behind the bar—three more hours.

Fantastic.

He loaded up his tray with the next round of drinks and headed back out onto the floor.

The night ground on. Benny smiled until his face ached and dodged Rick three more times, collecting tips and insults in roughly equal measure while the clock crawled toward closing like it was personally fucking with him.

Around eleven, one of the other servers—a guy named Danny who’d been working the Dunhams’ clubs for about six months—came up to the service station with blood dripping down his hand.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Danny was pale, pressing a bar napkin against his palm. “Broken glass. I didn’t see it.”

Benny set down the bottles he’d been grabbing. “Let me see.”

“It’s fine, I just need a Band-Aid?—”

A Band-Aid. For that. Christ. Benny used his official voice. “Let me see.”

Obediently, Danny held out his hand. Benny peeled back the napkin and assessed the damage. A cut across the palm, right at the base of the thumb. Still bleeding freely. Definitely needed stitches.

“Okay,” Benny said. “Come with me.”

He led Danny behind the bar, to the corner where the first aid kit lived under the counter. He flipped it open and started pulling out supplies—gauze, antiseptic, and a small tube of surgical glue.

“What are you doing?” Danny asked.

“Fixing this.” He wasn’t performing now. The voice that answered Danny was the one from clinical rotations—level and certain, nothing cute about it. “This needs stitches, but I’m guessing you can’t exactly afford an ER visit right now.”

Danny’s silence was answer enough. No insurance, living paycheck to paycheck. Benny knew the type because Benny was the type.

“Hold still.”

He worked quickly. Cleaned the wound, the scent of antiseptic sharp and familiar.

He applied pressure until the bleeding slowed, then used the surgical glue to close the edges of the cut together.

It wasn’t perfect—nothing like proper sutures—but it would hold.

He covered it with a sterile pad and wrapped the whole thing in tape.

“Keep it dry for at least twenty-four hours,” Benny said. “Watch for infection. If it starts to go red or you get a fever, you need to get to a doctor, money or no money. Got it?”

Danny was staring at him. “Where did you learn to do that?”

Benny blinked. Grinned. Flipped his hair, shrugged one shoulder, let the airhead vibe slide over him like a second skin. “Youtube. You can learn anything on there these days.”

It wasn’t Youtube—it was years of nursing school and midnight study sessions fueled by energy drinks and desperation. But Danny didn’t need to know that. Nobody here needed to know that the ditzy bunny slinging drinks had a killer GPA and could get a line into a vein nobody else could find.

People expected less from you when they thought you were dumb. It was the best cover he’d ever found, and it didn’t cost him a thing.

“Thanks,” Danny said, still looking at him like he’d grown a second head. “Seriously, man. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Benny patted his shoulder and grabbed his tray. “Back to work. Tips won’t earn themselves.”

He headed back out onto the floor, and if his hands were a little steadier than they’d been before, if the restless, itchy feeling he’d been carrying all night had quieted under the familiar rhythm of assess and treat—well, nobody needed to know that either.

Last call finally came at two AM, and Benny had never been so happy to hear those words in his life. He helped close out tabs and pocketed his final tips, watching the last stragglers filter toward the exits. His feet had given up on him entirely. His face hurt from fake smiles.

He needed a cigarette. He needed seventeen cigarettes, and to never wear heels like this again.

Benny grabbed his jacket from the staff room—useless, really, it was barely big enough to cover the bunny outfit—stuffed his tips in the pocket, and headed for the back alley.

Most of the other staff had already cleared out. The smart ones had parked close and booked it as soon as their shift was done. Benny had gotten stuck wiping down tables.

Benny pushed through the back door and stepped into the alley. The night air caught his bare skin, cool enough to raise goosebumps after hours in the club’s heat. Dumpsters on one side, brick wall on the other, a single light above the door that couldn’t commit to being on or off.

He fished a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it, fingers stiff from hours of balancing trays.

God, this night. This fucking night.

The first drag was the closest thing to relief he’d had all night. Benny leaned against the brick wall, closed his eyes, and tried to release the tension that had been building in his shoulders.

Next week he’d go back to his own club, where the bullshit was at least the familiar kind, and the boss didn’t look at him like a piece of meat. He just had to get through tonight…

The door squeaked open behind him.

Benny’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t need to turn around. The heavy footsteps and the bad vibes were enough—that, and the irritation already curdling in his stomach like bad takeout.

Rick Dunham stepped into the alley. “Sneaking off without saying goodbye?” That smile again. Wider now, looser. “Thought I’d grab some air too.”

Air. Sure. In an alley that reeked of trash at two in the morning. Benny took another drag of his cigarette and kept his posture casual. “Just grabbing a smoke, Mr. Dunham. Long night. Well, I’m heading off?—”

“It was.” Rick leaned against the wall a few feet away, like they were just two guys chatting after a shift. Except for the eyes. “You worked hard tonight. I noticed.”

Bet he had. “Just doing my job.”

“You did more than that.” Rick shifted closer, shoulder to shoulder now. “I’ve been watching you all night, you know. The way you move. The way you smile. You’ve been teasing me.”

Teasing him?! God, what an asshole. Benny had been avoiding him all night—practically charting his routes around wherever Rick stood. “I don’t know what you mean,” Benny said carefully.

“Sure you do. Pretty thing like you? You know exactly what you’re doing.”

Cool. Great! Benny took a step to the side. “Mr. Dunham, I’m really flattered, but I don’t mix work and personal stuff. It’s a rule I have.”

“Rules are made to be broken.” Rick closed the gap Benny had just made, his hand landing on Benny’s waist like it belonged there. Casual. Proprietary. “Come on. I’ve seen you giving me the eye all night. You can’t tell me you’re not interested.”

Benny didn’t flinch at the touch, but his skin crawled underneath the satin. This was the part he hated most—not the hand itself, but the calculation that came with it.

If he shoved Rick off, if he told him to fuck off the way he deserved, Benny would never work in this part of town again. Rick knew people. Rick was people. The kind who could blackball him with a single phone call…

“I’ve got to get home,” Benny tried, keeping his voice light. “Early class tomorrow.”

“Class can wait.” Rick’s thumb rubbed a slow circle against Benny’s hip through the satin. “I just want to have a little fun. That’s all. Just you and me.”

God, this fucking guy. Benny was working out the least explosive way to extract himself, when the back door banged open.

Rick jerked back, hand finally leaving Benny’s waist. Small mercies. Benny’s head snapped toward the sound.

A man stood in the doorway. Huge, the kind of build that took up a whole exit. Benny couldn’t see all of his face, but he could read the part that mattered—flat, focused, zero interest in anything but Rick.

Whoever this was, he hadn’t come for a drink.