Chapter 7
Shaw moved before Benny could process what was happening.
One second they were tangled together on the floor, the afterglow still warm between them.
The next, Shaw was on his feet, every line of his body gone rigid with alertness.
The change was so sudden, so complete, that it took Benny a moment to recognize him as the same person who’d been holding him thirty seconds ago.
“Stay hidden,” Shaw said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Find a spot, keep quiet, and slip out when you get the chance.”
“It might not be?—”
“It might be.” Shaw was already picking up the gun he’d set aside earlier. He checked it the way Benny checked a pulse—quick, practiced, no wasted motion.
The slide came back on nothing. Whatever that gun had held, it had all been spent in the alley. Shaw absorbed the fact with a stillness that was worse than swearing. He set the empty gun down behind the bar and pulled a knife from the garnish station instead.
A knife. “You’re empty.” His voice came out flat. “You’re going on the warpath with a lime knife?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t die in my club, please.”
Shaw held his eyes for half a second. “If things go wrong, you run. You hear me? You run and you don’t look back.”
Benny wanted to argue. Wanted to say that running wasn’t an option, that he hadn’t stitched him up and fallen into bed with him just to abandon him now. The words crowded in his throat, pushing to get out.
But Shaw was already moving, slipping through the shadows toward the back of the club with a silence that made Benny’s skin prickle.
Shaw didn’t make a sound. Not a footstep, not even a rustle of fabric.
One moment he was there and the next he was gone, swallowed by the darkness like he’d never existed at all.
Benny had almost forgotten what Shaw actually did for a living. The foot rub and the sex had blurred the edges of that reality. Watching him disappear into the dark brought it back fast.
Right now, that was probably the only thing keeping them alive.
Benny scrambled to his feet, tugging the bunny suit back into some semblance of order.
His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking, actually—another dose of adrenaline on top of a night’s worth, fear flooding back in to fill the spaces that satisfaction had briefly occupied.
His heart was pounding so hard he was sure whoever was outside could hear it.
He needed to hide, like Shaw had told him.
Benny knew this club. Knew it better than he knew his own apartment block, probably. He’d worked here for a few years, had learned every corner, every place where the light didn’t quite reach. He knew which spots were big enough to hide a body.
The back counter. There was space behind it, a narrow gap between the shelving units where the staff stored extra supplies.
He moved as quietly as he could, bare feet silent on the floor. He wedged himself into the space behind the shelves, pressing his body into the narrow gap, making himself as small as possible.
The metal shelving dug into his back. A bottle of something—vodka, maybe, or rum—pressed against his hip.
The space smelled like dust and old spills, years of bar work soaked into every surface.
It was dark back here, away from the dim glow of the emergency exit lights, with only a thin sliver of visibility through the gap between shelf units.
Benny pressed himself deeper and tried to breathe.
Seconds crawled past. The club was so quiet he could hear the tick of the wall clock behind the bar.
The back door crashed inward.
The sound felt enormous in the silence—wood splintering, then the heavy thud of boots on concrete. Benny bit down on his tongue to keep from making a sound, pressed himself harder against the shelves, and watched through the gap with his heart in his throat.
Two men. Dark clothes, hard faces, guns drawn and ready. They moved into the club like they knew what they were doing. Not amateurs, not a random break-in.
And in front of them was Gary Dunham.
Fuck. Rick’s brother.
Benny recognized him immediately. He’d seen Gary at the start of his temp shift at the Dunham club.
Gary was the business half of the brothers—the one who handled the money, the permits, the legitimate face of the operation.
He’d looked right through him, like Benny was furniture that happened to talk.
Gary was the more respectable Dunham. The safer one.
He didn’t look respectable now—and definitely not safe.
His face was twisted with fury, his eyes hard and cold, and there was a gun in his hand that he held like he knew exactly how to use it.
“You sure they’re here?” one of the guys asked. His voice was low, careful.
“Yeah.” Gary’s voice was tight with barely contained rage. “Tracked his car, spotted it out back.”
Fuck.
The car. Benny had parked it right outside, hadn’t even thought about hiding it. He’d been too focused on getting Shaw inside, on stopping the bleeding, on the thousand other urgent things that had crowded out any thought of operational security.
He was a go-go dancer, not a professional criminal! Shit. They didn’t exactly teach this in nursing school.
And now Gary Dunham was here with two armed men, looking for revenge.
From his hiding spot, Benny watched them fan out across the main floor. They moved with careful precision, checking behind tables and under booths, guns sweeping in controlled arcs. They weren’t panicking, weren’t rushing.
They must have known Shaw was injured from all the blood back in the alley. They knew he was cornered.
They could take their time.
One of the goons checked behind the DJ booth, panning his gun across the dark before moving on. Another disappeared down the hallway toward the storage room. Benny could hear him kicking open doors, the sounds echoing through the empty building.
Gary stayed near the center of the floor, directing. Every order came out clipped and mean. Whatever patience he had was thin and audibly fraying.
Benny counted. One man on the main floor, one in the hallway. Gary holding center.
Three against one. Benny’s stomach was ice.
If they found him back here he was dead.
But they weren’t going to find him. He could be out and gone before they finished the main floor, and none of them would ever know he’d been here.
His legs were tensed for it before he’d decided anything. Go. Right now, while they were all still turned the other way…
Benny got a hand on the shelf and shifted his weight toward the gap.
Down the hallway, another door banged open. Then the next one. Working his way back, toward the darkness Shaw had walked into.
Shaw.
Fuck.
They’re going to kill him, Benny thought with sudden, terrifying clarity. They’re going to find him, and kill him.
Shaw was good. Shaw was dangerous. Benny had watched him take Rick apart in that alley. But he was also hurt—even with Benny’s stitching, he’d lost a lot of blood. Shaw was exhausted, running on fumes and stubbornness.
And he was outnumbered three to one.
The service entrance was twenty feet away. Benny knew this club cold—left past the storage closet, straight out the fire exit. Thirty seconds. Maybe less. He’d be gone before anyone even registered he’d been here.
The old math said run. Get out before it cost him. It always had.
Benny didn’t run. Shit.
He was staying, then. A stupid decision, but he was staying.
Which left the hard part. What advantage did he have? No gun, no training…
What he did have was a pair of bunny ears and a building he knew in the dark better than any of them ever would.
Not much of an arsenal. It would have to be enough.
Gary’s voice cut through the silence, closer now than Benny was comfortable with: “Split up. Check everywhere. He’s injured—can’t have gone far.”
Footsteps scattered in different directions. The hunt was beginning in earnest.
The nearest man drifted toward the booths, his back turning.
Benny counted it down—three, two?—
Then he was out of the gap and into the dark, and there was no taking it back.