Wound Up
1
THE METRO TRANSIT belched a nauseating exhaust cloud as it pulled away from the curb. The transit authority might have a clean-fuel initiative, but Justin Maxwell couldn’t breathe. He wiped his tearing eyes at the same time a luxury coupe sped by the bus stop and blanketed him in a sheet of gutter water.
Drenched and sputtering, he cursed. The first thing he was going to do when he started his new job next week was start saving to buy a car. It didn’t have to be a sports car. It didn’t even have to be a new car. Hell, he couldn’t afford new. Just something with a roof, and doors and windows that didn’t leak. Anything that kept him from having to take public transportation through the rotten Seattle weather.
No more crowding under bus stops to get out of the rain. No more shuffling through the bus’s packed aisle to find space to stand. No more leaving his house an hour and a half early in order to make all his connections across town.
Hoisting his duffel over his shoulder, he trudged up Broad Street, cut across Third Avenue and slipped down the alley behind Beaux Hommes.
The front of the all-male revue was decidedly posh. From the back, though, the building looked like nothing more than unimpressive cinder block, barred windows and steel doors. Very industrial chic, if he ignored the rancid smells of the Dumpster and old restaurant grease from the Chinese place across the alley.
He jogged up the steps to the third door and entered his digital pass code. The keypad beeped, the lock clicked open and Justin slipped inside, heading for the locker room and the showers. No way could he hit the stage with the film of grime covering him.
Deep voices and masculine laughter echoed down the hall. As he shoved through the swinging door, he was met with shouts of welcome followed immediately by some serious ribbing about his grungy state.
“Hey, I can’t help it if I’m better dressed on a bad day than the rest of you are on your best.” He dumped his bag in his locker and began peeling off his wet clothes. Since he’d started at the club, he’d always been particular about the way he presented himself. It came from the lean years when clothes were too small because there hadn’t been money to replace what he’d outgrown.
He was not that kid anymore.
Levi, a longtime friend and the club’s lead dancer, sank onto the nearest bench and evaluated him dispassionately. “What the hell happened to you? You look like you’ve been rolling around in the alley. Brawling or balling?”
Justin snorted and scrubbed his hands over his hair, flinging water everywhere. “Neither.”
“That’s too bad.” Levi stretched, lines of thick muscle quivering before he relaxed. “A little action before the show never hurts.”
“Says the least discriminating man I know.”
Levi stood, whipped his towel off and snapped it across the back of one of Justin’s now-bare thighs.
He yelped and spun around. “You suck, Levi.”
The dark-haired man grinned. “Only if they return the favor.”
Justin shook his head and laughed. “I’m grabbing a quick shower. What’s my rotation tonight?”
“You’re fourth. You follow Nick. I follow you.”
“Our resident shrink won’t make any money shaking his junk after me,” Nick called.