Prologue
JAMIE
As my twin sister and Patrick—her brand new boyfriend and my soon-to-be ex-friend if he doesn’t treat Jillian right, sit across from me and Mitch Thomas, I contemplate if going to breakfast with the new couple was a good idea.
Last night Jillian and I met our friends at The Limelight, one of Chicago’s most epic nightclubs, to celebrate our twenty-first birthdays.
The plan was for us all to be together for a while, then she would hang there with her girlfriends while the guys and I headed to a couple of gay bars in Boystown, off North Halsted.
I knew she was a little uneasy about the plan, so I was glad when Patrick asked me if he could stay at The Limelight with Jillian. I had suspected for a while that they had secret crushes on each other, so I agreed and then gave him a quick shovel talk.
Apparently, her night went as well as mine did, because—pinch me, I was still with Mitch this morning when we stopped at the three-flat I share with Jillian. And she hadn’t come home.
We finally tracked her down at Patrick’s apartment, and by then I was wigged out. Once everything was copacetic (thanks only to Mitch’s cool head), I agree to Patrick’s suggestion that we all go to breakfast. Like I said—not sure it was a good idea.
The down side to the idea isn’t that we’re here at Lou’s for breakfast, it’s the fact that Mitch, whom I just met in person last night, is sitting next to me, eating pancakes and talking with my sister like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
The strange thing is, it feels… Normal. Which totally blows my mind.
Not twenty-fours ago, I was in my bedroom, poring over my dog-eared copy of Drummer magazine—the magazine for all things leather.
That issue, with its feature spread about Mitch Thomas, last year’s International Mr. Leather, has fueled a lot of my fantasies.
Some so hot I swear they made me glow like a neon sign.
The picture sure filled my neon dreams of sex with a hot, dominating man.
When Jillian banged on my bedroom door to tell me she was done in the bathroom, I forced myself to set it aside. It was time to get ready to party the night away, first with my sister and our mutual friends and then just with my gays.
Not long after we got to The Limelight, though, my best friend Jordi sidled up to me. “I saw your issue of Drummer the last time I was over. Babe, you’ve got it bad for that leather guy.”
“Shut up. Someone will hear you. Were you snooping?”
“Nah. Saw it on your bed when I went to get the sweatshirt you borrowed from me.” He took a drag from his cigarette, blew smoke toward the ceiling, and elbowed me.
“Chill. I’m not gonna blab your secret kink.
But I think a little birthday dare is in order.
I bet you don’t have the balls to switch up our plan.
Instead of going to those vanilla gay bars, let’s go to Gold Coast.”
I’d heard of that bar—what gay man hadn’t? It’s on North Clark, in Andersonville, and is one of the oldest leather bars in Chicago. Despite being hung up on International Mr. Leather, I’d never been there, or to any other leather bar.
To tell the truth, I’m afraid to mingle with men in leather, because I think I’d like it too much. But now Jordi knows my obsession, so when he challenged me, I went with it, to keep him quiet and because I can’t say no to a dare.
Now, as I glance at Mitch out of the corner of my eye, I can’t help but remember the night I just had with him, and how being with the real International Mr. Leather was hotter than any of my neon fantasies.