Chapter 1
The suit fucking itched.
Every seam scratched like a line of ants crawling under my skin, and I tried to pull the expensive collar away from my neck. The fabric scraped the back of my skin and clung too tightly to my shoulders.
I need air.
This shit is suffocating.
I can’t breathe.
Wearing clothes at all felt wrong. Skin was supposed to breathe.
Mistress said the suit made me look “respectable.” She said wealthy men trusted someone who looked expensive.
“You need the wealthy men to trust you, the women to want you, and the boys to envy you.”
Whelp. Here I am.
Twenty years old, wrapped in charcoal wool that probably cost more than the club itself.
My fingers slid along the inside of my sleeve again, letting my nails graze the skin where the irritation had already turned red.
Don’t scratch.
Don’t let them see.
Be normal.
Mistress hated when I scratched at my skin, she hated my paints, and when I counted her freckles out loud.
I withdrew my hand from my sleeve slowly and looked around the bar.
“Introduce yourself. Become part of the scene and make them interested in you. You are masquerading as a businessman, a young entrepreneur, with a price most cannot reach. Use their greed to bring them to me.”
Her words bounced in my head like waves stuck in a glass bottle.
Left to right.
Right to left.
The place pulsed with awful robot music and too many bodies, all smelling of sweat and cigarettes. The walls were covered in blue and violet lights. The strobe effect flashed across the crowd, turning sweat into glitter and shadows into whispers that led to people running off to fuck, probably.
The air smelled like alcohol, too powerful cologne, and a thickness that felt like heat.
I want to paint them, all of them.
It was a perfect hunting ground. Rich men came to bars like this because they were lonely, right? Everything I’d been told blended together, giving me a headache.
These rich guys were bored with their Beverly Hills housewives and annoyed at the hundreds of bastard children mooching off them.
That, or, well…they were just horny.
“Maybe they’re drunk enough to forget the reason why.”
Sometimes it was all of those reasons or more.
“Huh?”
I ignored the guy next to me, not realizing I'd spoken my thoughts aloud, but not really caring either. The man in front of me was cute. Boyish features, sparkly blue eyes, and a tuft of red hair. He wasn’t much older than me and definitely didn’t fit the Mistress’s target plan for the night.
He was more like who we sold and not a buyer. I leaned against the bar and watched the others the way Mistress had taught me over the years.
“Don’t fuck this up.”
“You say something, man?” he tried again, and I sighed.
“No.”
I wasn’t much for conversation. The Mistress preferred my silence.
Observe first, then strike.
Touch later?
A group of college boys crowded the pool table, and I held my hands over my ears.
No. No. No.
Too loud.
Them?
No.
Too many witnesses, and the men in the crowds never dissipated.
Two older men in their forties argued over a dart game, but even with the racket, they were too sober.
“Okay, then. You’re weird. Never seen you here before. I would’ve remembered that perfect platinum hair and the feral look in your eyes.”
I grunted in response, giving a nod.
Focus.
Near the jukebox area, there was someone interesting.
Mid-thirties.
Wedding ring tan line, but off for this outing…
And look at that. He was already on what appeared to be his third drink, if the empty glasses beside him were anything to go by.
One last thing…
I scanned the space around the man with my eyes, dodging the guy still standing beside me.
Sure enough, the lonely married drunk was alone.
“Bingo.”
This was promising. Mistress would like this man.
“Bingo? Is that your name, Cutie? You grow up on a farm, too?”
My eyes narrowed on the red-haired man, and my imagination ran wild with his words. I didn’t see the red hair or youthful face anymore. Now, all I saw was a canvas, painted in dripping red blood and without a face able to wink at me anymore.
“No,” I said again, in the same flat tone as before.
My eyes drifted across the bar again out of habit, casing every possible mark for Mistress.
The door to the club opened, and cold air rolled inside, along with two men who made me double-take.
The first thing I noticed about the taller one was how much space he seemed to take up, even with his arm wrapped around the second one’s neck.
The man wasn’t just tall.
He was built like someone who used to shove kids into lockers. Showed I still remembered from the time before Mistress had found me. His broad chest nearly popped the buttons on his white suit top, and his thick, muscular arms were inked.
The images were bleeding through the white sleeves from the light raindrops he carried in from outside, making the shirt see-through.
My mind counted the buttons on his shirt.
One.
Two.
Three.
His cropped, short black hair was as thick as my own fair hair, but even shorter. I wanted to run my hands through it, feeling the raindrops coat my skin.
“Oh fuck. It’s the pig!”
“Pig?”
“Cop and his boy toy. Don’t look at them.”
I snapped my attention back to the annoying straggler beside me.
“Why?”
The man snorted when my gaze went right back to the men walking towards the bar area of the club. Every head in the room followed them, not just mine.
The tall man’s posture screamed authority.
He must be the cop.
What is a ‘pig cop’? I needed to ask the Mistress.
Military?
I imagined a gun slung around the man’s shoulder, his white shirt covered in blood droplets, and the thought made me feel weird, my body responding to the images.
“I warned you not to look, and now you’re poppin’ boners for them. Fine, don’t say I didn’t tell you beforehand that this would end badly, my friend.”
I grunted, not bothering to break my gaze.
The man clinging to the cop was smaller, but not by much. They were both noticeably taller than me. I was only five foot eight, but my body type was similar to the second guy’s. Softer, without all the muscle, but still lean and capable of breaking anything in the way.
“Which one caught your eye?” the redhead said.
I continued surveying them. Dark hair versus a soft brown. Smirking smile instead of a glowing grin. They were opposites. One ruled the world, while the other saw the world as a wonderful place.
They barely made it three steps into the bar before the tall one grabbed the back of his boyfriend’s neck and kissed him roughly, smashing his body against the wall.
My dick twitched to life from the scene, my eyes not used to this kind of display.
It was messy.
I wanted to paint them.
The smaller man laughed into the burly guy’s lips and tried to compose himself. People glanced over with stars in their gaze. Some smiled, and others rolled their eyes.
The midnight-haired man didn’t give a shit. He devoured the guy’s mouth, biting and sucking until the groans were louder than the pounding music.
I didn’t break my stare, watching the entire time that the interaction was taking place.
I knew how to read lips and could follow any conversation, no matter how far away someone was, or what other noise was around.
The Mistress hated when I parroted her conversations, and I’d learned early on to keep my superpower a secret.
I counted the times they flipped their heads.
Left.
Right.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
When they finally separated, the smaller guy tried to straighten his clothing and adjust his dick in his pants.
“You’re stopping me already. You know that means your punishment will be worse tonight.”
“Relax, Ho,” the smaller man said, but my mind was still caught on the other’s words.
Punishment?
He doesn’t mean the kind that Mistress gives me when I misbehave, surely.
It was most likely some sexual teasing game.
The voices carried to me, even though they were whispered, and I listened as if they were spoken directly to me.
“Are you sure your ass can handle another pounding so soon?”
“If I say no, will you do it again anyway?”
They moved deeper into the bar, the boyfriend still practically glued to his taller companion’s side.
My eyes followed them for a moment before I forced my attention back to my hunt.
Focus.
If I didn't get this right. I would be punished, and it would not be the fun way that the two of them were planning.
Mistress did not accept distractions or excuses.
I slid over to a barstool near them and tapped the counter.
“Bye to you too!” I heard the redhead call after me. He was still in my peripheral vision, and I kept him in sight in case I needed him.
The bartender was a woman, and her cleavage was the main view of the night, so distracting that most of the guys weren’t paying attention to the annoyance on her face.
“What’ll it be, doll?”
“Two drinks,” I said, pointing to the menu with my finger at a random high alcohol beverage.
She glanced down automatically, and her eyes landed on my hands.
Her mouth flattened, and she slowly shook her head.
“No can do, baby boy.”
I blinked, irritation and annoyance flashing in my eyes.
“Two drinks,” I repeated, my finger tapping more aggressively.
“Doesn’t matter what you want. Sorry.”
Her gaze flicked again to my hands resting on the bar.
Damn.
The black crosses.
They were faint, but still there, despite my intense removal efforts earlier when Mistress had sent me to clean up. I’d scrubbed them in the bathroom sink until the water ran black, but some stains liked to linger. I needed to paint her.
Let her feel the red of my anger.
“I can use your pink tongue.”
The bartender didn’t ask what I meant and instead walked away to another patron.
“I need a drink,” I repeated when she came back.
The bartender huffed, and her brown ponytail swished as she pushed a glass of water toward me.
“I’m not serving you alcohol.”
The red-haired guy from before saddled up beside me, as if we were besties or some shit, and whistled when he saw the water in front of me.
“It’s just paint, Sammi,” he said awkwardly. “Don’t be such a hard nose.”
No. It was not paint. Or not paint, as he understood it.
The bartender didn’t look at all convinced, and before I could demand a fucking drink again, a sharp laugh cut through the bar.
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
I didn’t turn immediately, even though I knew who the laugh came from.
“Get outta here, Jailbait.”
The words landed like a spilled drink hitting my face, and a couple of people nearby snorted.
Schooling my features to a charming smile, I turned to see the tall black-haired man sitting two stools down, one arm slung loosely around his boyfriend’s waist and the other fussing in those dark locks.
Up close like this, it was a shot of something strange embedding in my veins, immediately traveling down to my dick.
What the fuck?
His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were half-lidded with alcohol and amusement at whatever he saw in me.
He looked me up and down with an open disdain that I matched with my smirk.
My ‘friend’ bristled and shook his head.
“Hey, Hollis—”
The man waved a dismissive hand.
“Relax, Biggie. I’m doing you a favor. Wouldn’t wanna see you end up in a cell beside Garrette.” He jerked his chin toward me. “Kid looks like he’s twelve. Haven’t you learned yet?”
More laughter trickled down from the bar.
My fingers tightened slightly around the glass of water.
Don’t. Do. It.
The suit sleeve pulled against my wrist, and the itching was unbearable. Dickbag’s boyfriend nudged his arm gently.
“Babe…”
The massive douche ignored him, still intent on staring at me.
“Bartender’s right,” he continued. “Send him home before someone calls his mommy.”
My jaw tightened. The anger surprised me.
People insulted me all the time. Any time I was in public with my collar on, Mistress didn’t allow me to speak.
The jeers and voices were never-ending. I didn’t feel angry. Anger was better than paint.
But…
Something about this dick made me feel something.
It was in the way he sneered and that fucking smile.
Something about him felt familiar, yet foreign.
The way he dismissed me like I was nothing had me seeing red, and not just for paint. It woke something ugly in my chest that stirred my dick to life. His boyfriend tried again to calm him, his voice softer this time.
“Don’t be so mean, baby.”
The man finally looked at what he claimed as his and laughed.
No other words were spoken. He just grabbed his face and kissed him.
It was like he’d gotten bored with the conversation. The boyfriend laughed against his mouth but kissed him back anyway. And the entire time, his dark gaze didn’t leave my own.
When they separated, the boytoy lightly pushed his chest. “Seriously. Stop picking fights.”
Dick-fuck hummed dismissively and took a handful of ass, then glanced back at me like he’d forgotten I was still there, even after eye fucking me while macking on his man.
“Oh, good,” he said dryly. “Still here.”
Biggie shifted beside me uncomfortably.
“Look, man—”
Ass-weed cut him off.
“You gonna cry about it?”
Those fucking words ignited fire inside me.
Biggie flushed and shook his head while the pacifist boyfriend sighed.
“Okay, you’re drunk.”
“Probably.”
He leaned down and kissed his boyfriend again, longer this time, and a hell of a lot messier, completely ignoring the rest of us.
The entire situation ceased to exist when they had one another suctioned.
My nails dug into my palm, and the itch under the suit spread up my arms, crawling along my spine.
I hated the fucking thing.
Biggie leaned closer, dodging the sprawling morons.
“Forget that guy,” he murmured. “Drunk asshole, like I tried to say before.”
I ignored it when the dickbag tried to catch my gaze again. The water glass was wrapped so tightly in my hand that it was a wonder it didn’t shatter.
That strange tightness in my chest twisted harder.
I didn’t like him. Not even a little.
“Come on,” Biggie said quietly. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
I looked at him, then back at the other man one last time. He wasn’t even pretending his attention wasn’t on me.
Slowly, I smiled and looked at Biggie.
“Okay.”
Biggie brightened immediately and slid off his stool, but I rose with my drink and walked over to the couple.
With one swift flick of my wrist, the water coated them both, and gasps erupted around me.
“What the fuck!”
I smiled at the names thrown at me. I already knew of all of them.
Freak.
Creep.
Asshole.
“You roll around in shit so often, Piggy. Thought you could use a bit of a wash.”
I ignored the slurs and curses as I walked away with a wide-eyed Biggie.
We started toward the door. But as we passed through the crowd, I glanced over my shoulder. The man followed my every movement, and I slowed my steps to let him follow with his gaze.
Another time, Pig.
I have a job to do.