Chapter Twenty-Three
Ash stood by the vanity framed with glowing light bulbs, sliding his jeans up over his bare hips.
They clung to his thighs and ass with unapologetic precision.
He zipped them up slowly, letting them ride low and loose, the waistband hugging the V-cut of his pelvis.
Sweat slicked his skin under the warm, theatric luster, catching gold at his collarbones, below his ribs.
He was down to bare essentials now—no veils, no silk, no illusions.
The genie had retreated into the bottle, and the magic was gone for the night.
Yet the dressing room still buzzed with activity.
Cody stood at the mirror three stations down, adjusting his thong and checking his makeup with religious devotion.
Near the costume rack, Marcus shimmied into vinyl pants while humming along to the muffled music.
Someone’s cologne mixed with hairspray and sweat, the chemical sweetness thick enough to taste.
A sequined vest hit the floor. Ice clinked in a glass of vodka someone had smuggled in.
Lounging on a stool beside him, Vinny puffed a fat cigar and fanned himself with a wad of cash. He looked happy as a bookie who’d just fixed the Super Bowl—a grinning hyena, bald head gleaming under the bulbs.
“Kid,” he said, slapping the bills on his thigh, “you fuckin’ slayed tonight. Made goddamn poetry up there. Did you see how rabid the mob went? Jesus Christ, I’m gonna need sandbags to keep the place from flooding. Oh boy,” he added, puffing smoke, “it is so good to have you back.”
Cody snorted from his mirror but said nothing.
Ash ran a hand through his hair, tousling sweat-matted strands, not looking at him. “Glad to be back, boss.”
Vinny stood with a grunt, slipped the dough into the breast pocket of his three-piece suit, and flicked ash onto the floor. “All right, kiddo. Since it’s your first night back, you can clock out early. Go enjoy your night. You earned it.”
Ash nodded, but didn’t watch him go.
As the door clicked shut behind Vinny, the room felt quieter than it should. Marcus muttered something about “teacher’s pet” to no one in particular. Someone laughed. The costume rack rattled as Tyler rifled through it for a prop.
He tugged on his hoodie, but his palms were clammy, the fabric catching at his wrists.
He felt twitchy. Distracted. The edges of him were blurred, like the curtain hadn’t fully dropped.
Because he knew who was out there, in the crowd.
He could still feel that hooded, stone-cut stare, all flint and storm clouds, watching him from across the club.
Unmoving. Unblinking. Slade hadn’t just looked at him.
He’d seen him. He stared with a stillness that didn’t match the pulse of the niterie.
As if nothing else existed. As if he were the only goddamn thing moving.
Ash chewed on his lower lip, jaw working.
Cops get horny too, he told himself. Didn’t mean a thing.
Lust was only an appetite—he understood that better than most. He bathed in it nightly, bottled it, and wore it like perfume.
But that look, that focus, wasn’t simple hunger.
A look like that from a man like him could break rules Ash didn’t even know he was still following.
He was fumbling for his jacket when a commotion outside started. Raised voices. A sharp thud. Someone laughing nervously. Not just the usual drunken stumble or backstage squabble.
Then: “Hunter!”
He froze. Around him, the other dancers paused mid-motion.
The door flew open like it had been kicked.
Slade filled the frame, towering like a storm that had blown in through sheer willpower.
His eyes locked on Ash, his chest rising with adrenaline, and for a moment, the dressing room felt too small, like the walls had started closing in.
The detective shut the door behind him and stepped forward like he didn’t see the room at all—only the man in front of him.
“Uh, excuse me?” Marcus said, spinning around. “This is a private—”
“Why, hello, stud,” Cody drawled, sauntering closer. “I was hoping to see you again.”
Rico backed toward the costume rack, wearing only a G-string, like he expected to be arrested any second.
Ash didn’t flinch. He faced the detective and exhaled, slow and unimpressed, like this kind of thing happened every other Wednesday. “It’s okay, guys,” he said without looking at the others. “I’ll deal with him.”
Cody opened his mouth to argue, but the look Ash shot him shut it.
Marcus shrugged and went back to his reflection.
The room’s energy shifted—still tense, still watching, but no longer intervening.
The buzz of activity resumed at a lower volume, everyone pretending not to stare while absolutely staring.
“Well,” Ash said, folding his arms, “if it isn’t my number one fan.”
Slade’s voice came low and rough. “We need to talk.”
Ash raised a brow. “So you thought you’d crash backstage? Men had been kicked out for less.”
Slade stared at him like he was trying to see through him. Like he already had.
Ash leaned against the vanity, gripping the table behind him.
The scowl on his face said irritation, but the beat of his heart said something else.
Because some part of him—some traitorous, stupid part—liked that Slade had come.
His voice dropped, all honey and thorns.
“What’s the problem, Detective? Didn’t get your money’s worth? ”
“I didn’t come here to play games.”
Ash turned, grabbed his jacket, slung it over his shoulder like a shield. “You sure picked the wrong venue, then.”
Slade moved closer. “Would you prefer I haul your ass back to the station?”
“Fuck you,” Ash spat out. “You have no grounds to arrest me.”
The detective took a deep breath, trying to get his temper in check. When he spoke again, he sounded calmer, softer. “I just need a few minutes of your time.”
Tempting. “I’m done for the night, Slade.”
He reached for his wallet, pulled out a billfold, and held it up. “What if I’m paying?”
Ash snorted. “You couldn’t afford me.”
Slade’s mouth was a tight line. “One dance.”
Ash tilted his head, studying him. He let his gaze travel down the man’s figure: the suit jacket stretched across broad shoulders, tie loose, shirt clinging to the solid shape of his chest, tension burning off him like heat haze.
Clean-shaven, dapper. But there was something raw under all that restraint and anger.
Desperation, maybe. Or need. Ash’s mouth twitched.
The offer wasn’t about the money. It never was.
This was about power. Control. Leverage.
Before he could respond, the door burst open again—this time with fists and fury, as Nino stormed in, face tight. “All right, pal,” he barked, hand already on his baton, “you got about two seconds to turn your ass around before I drag you out the old-fashioned way. Cop or not.”
Slade pivoted fast, body coiled, jaw clenched like one wrong word would set him swinging.
Ash stepped between them, one hand raised. “It’s fine, Nino.”
The bouncer hesitated, eyes darting from Ash to Slade and back. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” Ash said, with a tight smile. “Go play with your brother.”
Nino gave Slade one last glare, promising consequences, before turning on his heel and leaving.
Ash stood near enough to smell the sweat on Slade’s skin, near enough to hear the man wasn’t breathing easy. He met his eyes, voice low. “Looks like you got yourself a dance, Detective.”
He slipped out of the dressing room without a word, knowing Slade would follow.
Down the velvet-lined corridors, Ash moved without a sound, every sway of his hips deliberate, every step a riddle in the dark.
He could feel the man behind him, a tall shadow of heat, his footfalls too heavy for the hush surrounding them.
The cop moved like a man out of his depth but too stubborn to admit it—spine stiff, tension roiling beneath his skin.
The VIP lounge lay tucked at the back of the club like a sin no one wanted to confess.
Smoke hung in the air, curling in lazy ghosts above low, red lights.
The music from the main hall bled past the walls, muffled bass and distant piano, loud enough to sway to, but soft enough for secrets.
Mirrors framed in tarnished brass lined the walls, catching warped reflections of bodies in motion.
Gauzy curtains fluttered between crescent-shaped alcoves, giving the illusion of privacy without the lie of it.
Two booths down, a dancer writhed in a client’s lap, his silhouette rippling to the tune.
Another knelt between a businessman’s thighs, lips doing more than hands could. No one looked up.
Ash led Slade to a booth at the far end. Wide sofa wrapped around a smoked-glass table, a curtain drawn half-shut. He tossed his jacket onto the cushions and gestured.
Slade hesitated at the edge like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He looked wrong here, too large, too hard, a gladiator strayed into a fever dream he didn’t trust. Still, he went in and sat.
Ash didn’t give him time to settle. He climbed into his lap in one sinuous motion, thighs straddling his hips, chest hovering just out of reach.
He could feel the hitch in Slade’s breath, faint but sharp, the first tremor before an earthquake.
Ash peeled off his hoodie and let it drop to the floor, bare skin gleaming in the low light.
He rolled his hips once, fluid and smooth, just to test the water.
Slade’s jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists at his sides. He was getting hard—Ash could feel it, thick swelling beneath the wool of Slade’s slacks.
He smiled, pleased. “Relax, Detective. You paid for this, remember?”
Slade didn’t answer. His throat bobbed, but his gaze never wavered.