It had been three days since Valentine’s. Gideon had not made another appointment, and Logan was not giving Cole any chances to turn a trick. He was freezing him out. Between this and not having a day job, his funds would run out soon, and he would have to start keeping more of his pay for rent instead of shucking eighty percent of it toward the debt. He hated doing that because it would let Logan know how successful his squeeze was.

Three days after Valentine’s Day was the day his whole world turned upside down.

His thighs were tucked tight around metal. His back arched as he twirled once around, then grabbed the pole, spread his legs wide, and tossed his head back to leer at the crowd. They got a nice view of the flat plane of his chest and belly. And it gave him a topsy-turvy view of a group of three marching for his stage. 

They didn’t fit into the shimmering glitter, blue strobe light nonsense. In fact, they stood straight out in their three-piece suits, wearing sunglasses of all things in the dimly lit club. Cole immediately clocked them as trouble as he hung there on the pole, suspended with his legs spread wide, slowly sliding down. One of the men slapped his hand on the stage and looked Cole right in the eyes. “You better come with us now, kid.”

His shoulders hit the sticky stage floor, and he toppled out of the pose, sitting upright with his thighs and fists clinging to the pole like a lifeboat in the storm. He looked around for Elijah, who should have been keeping an eye on things to make sure people did not do stuff like go up to the dancers and demand they go places with them. Elijah was standing by the bar with Logan and a guy Cole did not recognize, both of whom were staring straight at Cole. Elijah was pointedly looking away, an unhappy frown turning down his lips.

“Shit,” Cole muttered under his breath. If Elijah was unhappy, Cole was unhappy.

“Come on now,” the man lifted his hand from the stage to beckon Cole along.

He went because the only other choice was to cling to the pole while they tried to physically pry him away, which would only make the entire experience more unpleasant for everyone involved. Until he knew what was going on, he did not want to make things any worse for himself. Once he did know, then he could decide if it would be worth it. Anymore, he hardly ever found that it was worth it.

“Nikki,” Logan held out an arm to welcome him into their circle. “I’d like you to meet Mr. Barta.”

“My pleasure,” Mr. Barta purred, lifting Cole’s hand to place a kiss on his knuckles. Already the no touching rule did not apply to this man. Elijah’s jaw pulsed as he eyed Mr. Barta’s advances, but his arms remained crossed. Logan had his people-pleasing face on, the one that made everyone think he was a nice guy when he was not, in fact, a nice guy. So, Cole played along and let Mr. Barta stroke his thumb across the back of his hand.

He looked like he was probably in his thirties, with clear skin and jet-black hair, but had a mature build and cut to his jaw. The confidence with which he held himself spoke to the fact that he was an important man or at least thought of himself as one. And, while he did not wear a three-piece suit like his security, he was dressed up in a satin button-down and pair of black slacks.

“Mr. Barta requested a private dance,” Logan said. The bartender, some new girl who looked completely overwhelmed, set a bright pink cocktail with a ring of sugar around the rim in front of him. Logan picked it up and offered it to Cole. Cole's stomach flipped as he continued. “At his residence. For the night.”

This was no normal trick. Elijah looked like he had bit down on a cockroach, and the three security guards who belonged with Mr. Barta stood there, being menacing in their sunglasses. Logan was in the middle of not giving Cole a chance to turn tricks, so something significant must have made him choose to go along with Mr. Barta’s request. Not to mention, they never did overnights. Cole kept his face carefully neutral as he looked down at the drink. He took a sip and pursed his lips because Logan had ordered it very strong – another bad sign.

“Elijah?” He asked, expecting to be escorted to the back so he could throw some things together into a bag and make himself presentable to step out onto the street. Elijah did not look over.

“Mr. Barta’s security will be enough to take care of you, darling,” Logan said. This was beyond unusual. It was enough to make Cole’s hands shake. Logan, the control freak who wanted Elijah or some other bouncer to escort every one of his dancers - no questions asked, no liabilities to worry about, nobody messing with his product - was going to let someone else’s security take over? He had broken some of his usual rules for Gideon because the money was worth it. But even then, security had been non-negotiable. In fact, in Gideon’s case, Logan had probably been more insistent on the security escort.

Mr. Barta must have paid a certifiable amount or, more likely, threatened Logan in order to be able to do whatever he wanted with Cole for the whole night. And if he did not want the club’s security along, Cole bet it was not going to be anything pleasant. Cole looked at Logan with wide eyes and minutely shook his head. But Logan pressed his lips together in a thin smile and reached for the cocktail even though Cole had only taken one sip of it.

“Go on now,” he said. “Mr. Barta will take good care of you.”

Two of the security guards, with their ridiculous sunglasses, flanked Cole. No way in hell would he be able to get past them and run away through the floor. His only other option was to leap over the bar, which would hardly do any good. In both cases, he had nowhere to run to. And he had to come back to work tomorrow, so there would be no point anyway. His only real options were to walk out quietly or be carried out.

He squared his shoulders, softened his eyes, and gave Mr. Barta a sultry smile. “Lead the way, then.”

Not until they were out the door and on the steps of the club did the reality hit him in a rush of frigid winter air. He should have been more insistent about grabbing his coat so he would not be out in only sparkly booty shorts and platform heels. Thankfully, there was a historic town car waiting right in front of the entrance for them, the interior warm and toasty.

Mr. Barta ushered him inside, then climbed after. It smelled like a new car and had soft leather seats that were supple and comfortable. Mr. Barta slammed the door shut, and Cole hugged his arms around himself, leaning into the opposite door to peer out the tinted window.

“Would you like something to drink?” Mr. Barta asked. Cole turned to see him pull out a drawer beneath the center seat. In it rested a crystal decanter, two bar glasses, and an ice bucket. He did not say a word, but Mr. Barta began pouring two glasses anyhow.

“I anticipate that you might.” He dropped a cube of ice into one glass and handed it to Cole.

“I don’t know how much you paid Logan, but there are still rules,” Cole said, taking the glass like it was a curled-up cobra ready to strike. Mr. Barta’s eyebrows lifted, waiting, so Cole barreled on. He tried to keep his voice from shaking, but it was harder to appear confident outside of the club without Elijah’s solid backing. “First of all, I won’t let you tie me up. And absolutely no barebacking.”

“Woah there.” Mr. Barta cut him off with a hearty laugh. “Don’t worry, pet. I don’t want that from you.”

Cole frowned. “What do you want?”

Mr. Barta took a sip of his drink, drawing out the tension or, perhaps, trying to show Cole it was not poisoned. The car pulled away from the curb.

“I want you to marry my brother.”

Cole fumbled with the bar glass, almost dumping it all over his lap and the expensive leather. He gawped at Mr. Barta as the car merged into the flow of traffic.

“That is definitely a hard no,” Cole sputtered. “You can’t…”

“I can,” Mr. Barta interrupted. “I’ve bought your debt from Logan.”

“You what!” Cole shrieked, uncaring of how his voice grated, making Mr. Barta wince delicately. He smacked a hand over his face and groaned, not sure what to think. “I don’t believe you. Logan would never do that.”

“Call him if you’d like.”

“I don’t have my phone,” Cole hissed from behind his fingers, mourning his own negligence. Mr. Barta dug his phone out of his pocket and held it out to Cole. Logan's personal number was already pulled up. Cole grabbed it and jammed his finger into the call button.

“Logan, what the fuck?” He snarled when he picked up.

“I assume Mr. Barta informed you of our arrangement?”

“What fucking arrangement, you…” Cole was not sure he could even come up with a word to describe how he felt about Logan at that moment, so he changed trajectories. “You were too chicken-shit to tell me yourself, weren’t you? Afraid I’d make a scene on the middle of the floor? You fucking cunt. Is this all because of Valentine’s Day?”

“I told you before that I could just as easily enjoy another boy instead of you,” Logan drawled. “And I’m tired of dealing with your attitude.”

Right, because Cole was no longer head over heels in hero-worship love with him. After so many years, Logan finally decided to toss him aside so he could go find some other poor kid to bamboozle into servitude. Valentine’s Day had finally made him decide if he might as well get his money’s worth out of Cole and be done with him so he could go find someone younger and more fun.

Cole glanced at Mr. Barta as Logan spoke, only to see a smile of amusement playing across the man’s lips as he sipped his drink. Cole flipped him off and received a polite nod in response.

“Do you know what he’s going to do with me?” he demanded.

“Frankly, darling, I don’t really care.” Then Logan hung up.

Cole listened to the silence on the other end for a couple of seconds, rage blooming inside him. He wondered what Logan saw when he looked in the mirror. Eventually, he let the phone drop away from his ear and into Mr. Barta’s waiting hand. Then he took a swig of the drink. It was literally straight vodka, but he went ahead and took another.

“Now,” Mr. Barta tucked the phone away, “you have two options. One, you can work for me to pay off your debt. Just in case you have not yet connected the dots, let me give you a little more detail about who I am.” He held out his hand for a shake. “James Barta. Rian Corp.”

All the blood drained from Cole’s face as he stared at the hand. How had he not immediately recognized the Barta name? Rian Corp was the million-dollar front for the Barta family’s renowned money-laundering, human-trafficking, drug-peddling, you-name-it empire of tomfoolery. Whatever nonsense he had to put up with while working for Logan could not even come close to the realm of bullshit he would face working for the Bartas.

As the scary stories whispered underneath streetlights and in dark alleyways went, the Bartas were the thugs of the criminal underground. Others bribed the police and donated to public works, were known for negotiating deals with diplomacy when it was called for, and generally held to some kind of moral code among criminals.  The Bartas remained in power for generations upon generations by ruling with an iron grip of intimidation, never giving second chances, leaving only grisly bodies and burnt-out husks of crime scenes for the police to sift through. Their lawyers were renowned not only for their incredible skill at getting anyone off from any charge but also for their million-dollar mansions and fast sports cars. And James Barta was the worst of them all. There were other Barta siblings who operated in the city, but James was the most well-known because he was the Corporation’s main lawyer, always in and out of the courts and the news.

“Oh, fuck,” Cole whispered, trembling in the seat.

No wonder Elijah had been keeping his mouth shut. In all reality, maybe Logan had not wanted to let Cole go, but saying no to Barta would be a death sentence, so if he were offered a fair deal, of course, he would take it. That did not mean Cole forgave him for being a snake, though.

“So, you are welcome to work for me,” Mr. Barta continued. “Or you can cooperate and marry my brother.”

Cole knew next to nothing about the Bartas except that their mother ran the operation, James was on the news all the time, and they were too dangerous to mess with. They never played nice or made deals, preferring to strong-arm everyone and everything. So, this choice read as a threat. Cole could either marry Mr. Barta’s brother, or he could face the consequences and probably end up dead within a month because of what Mr. Barta would have him doing. He threw back the rest of his drink and slapped his palm against Mr. Barta’s to give it a firm shake.

“Why do you want me to marry him?”

“I’m tired of him running around all the time.” Mr. Barta leaned back in his seat. “Keeps getting into trouble. Making messes that I have to clean up. I figure if he’s got one of the asses he keeps chasing at home, maybe he’ll stay home more often.”

The old ball and chain was not the way to make playboys behave, in Cole’s opinion, but he decided to keep that to himself. This was more likely all some fucked up power play within a set of family dynamics Cole never ever wanted to have to consider. The Bartas, who were demons that crawled straight out of hell according to the stories, having family drama? No thanks.

“Can I get another drink?”

“You can have the bottle, pet.”