Tied to Trouble(48)

Chad’s pulse raced, and his hands shook. He leaned on the side of his tray and breathed deeply to get himself under control.

As he watched the table, anger shot through him, surprisingly white-hot. What was Owen doing there? Chad had been about ready to hand over his heart on a bow tie–adorned silver platter, and here was Owen, at a fucking strip club with a guy who looked like he wanted to take him into the champagne room. How could they be together when they couldn’t go three days without lying to each other? They hadn’t made promises about exclusivity, either, had they? Fuck, Chad had been an idiot to think otherwise.

He turned around, facing the wall, taking deep breaths to will himself under control. Maybe he would get up on that stage. He’d dance and shake his ass. Owen would disapprove, and that line would furrow between his brows, but fuck him. Chad wasn’t sure why he’d been so hell-bent on trying to impress him.

He was here, working at a strip club. And how many guys could say that? Not many. So Chad would earn all the tips he could and then go home and eat his weight in comfort food. Whatever.

Fuck this.

…

Two shots later, Owen didn’t even remember what the place was called.

Monica’s name had been on some sort of list at the door. Apparently she’d heard about this place from a friend. It was exclusive, and they hired the best, and Owen kind of zoned out after that. He did think the place did seem a little higher class than he’d expected a strip club to look. He’d only been to one in his life, when he attended a bachelor party for a friend from college.

All he knew was that he’d seen more boobs than he ever cared to see in his entire life. Cary clearly didn’t want to see boobs, and Monica didn’t seem into them, either. However, Owen had to admit that their muscle-bound and very attractive waiter, Ace, made up for all the boob flashing. And apparently the men were dancing soon.

Thank God.

For now, Ace was hot, and these shots called buttery nipples were delicious, so Owen stuck his tongue into the bottom of the glass to get the rest of the liquid out. When he looked up, Cary was watching him with undisguised lust.

Jesus Christ, that was the last thing he needed.

“So, Ace,” Monica said to their waiter. “I’m wondering if I can meet that guy over there.” She pointed somewhere across the floor, but Owen could barely make out the back of some guy in a pair of red briefs. Damn, he’d had a lot to drink.

Ace smiled. “Rod? Sure. I’ll call him over.”

Cary was craning his neck. “Ooh, Mon, he does look nice.”

“Cute, huh? Love the dark hair.”

Owen was licking the rim of his shot glass when two shadows fell across the table. He looked up.

And froze.

Because standing in front of their table, wearing nothing but his unlaced motorcycle boots and a pair of second-skin red briefs that left nothing to the imagination, was Chad.

Owen had no words, literally nothing to say as he stared at a greased-up Chad, looking hot as hell, who stared back with an unreadable expression.

No one caught on. Because Ace was squeezing Chad’s bare shoulder and introducing him as Rod. And Monica was trying to touch his abs, and Cary was tittering, and Owen thought he was going to throw the fuck up.

The buttery nipple was curdling in his gut, and yeah, oh, God, yeah, he was going to hurl.

Because Ace still hadn’t taken his hand off Chad’s shoulder, and everyone in this club could see what Owen had so very clearly understood was his.

Chad was his. That was more clear to him than ever. Right now. In this strip club.

Hell of a time to figure that out.

But Chad wasn’t his, not if he hadn’t thought it was fucking necessary to tell Owen that he worked at a strip club.

I work really late, Chad had said.

Ace was still talking, saying something about Chad getting up on stage because their regular male dancer for the night had to call out sick.

Owen didn’t know what to do, how to react properly, because the last thing he wanted Monica and Cary to know was that he was sleeping with their red-briefed dancer. That was exactly how he didn’t want to be visible at the company. Owen’s head swam, and his stomach rolled. It was all coming up now—his fancy dinner and the wine and those fucking shots. He murmured, “Excuse me,” and stood up, brushing past Chad and leaving the voices of Monica and Cary asking what was wrong. He didn’t want to see that stupid Ace’s concerned face, and he certainly didn’t want to see Chad’s expression, so devoid of emotion.

He made it to the bathroom, somehow, following the neon signs, and upchucked everything into the toilet. He retched until his stomach was empty and his limbs were shaking and he was sweating bullets. He didn’t know if the shaking was from the vomiting or from seeing Chad, or maybe a little bit of both. By the time he was out of the stall and washing his hands and mouth, the bathroom door opened.