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.
Justin laughed. “Right. Because your man boobs are bigger than mine.” And they were. Nick was as tall as Justin at six-two, but he was a solid twenty pounds heavier and it was muscle stacked on muscle.
Nick stuck his head around the end of the lockers and made his pecs dance. “Don’t hate on me because I’m built better.”
Shrugging, Justin grabbed his shower caddy and slammed his locker. “Anyone can build a body, brother, but there’s not a damn thing you can do about that face.”
The room erupted in laughter, Nick included, and Justin headed for the open showers.
It surprised him to realize he would miss this, the camaraderie and feeling of brotherhood, when he cut back to working only a couple of nights a month. Graduating with his PhD meant he’d finally scored a more traditional, definitely more socially acceptable job. Beginning Monday, he would no longer be a full-time Beaux Hommes man but rather Dr. Justin Maxwell, staff psychologist for Second Chances, a nonprofit leadership initiative for disadvantaged inner-city youth. Receiving counseling from a licensed psychologist was a big part of the program.
He would know.
Hot water sluiced over his body as he soaped up, but the heat did little to ease his tension. All he wanted at the moment was to skip tonight’s show, go home, get his stuff ready for Monday and then crash. But the efficiency apartment was brand-new to him. “New” really meant “empty.” He’d bought a bed, but that was it. Save for that and a few pots and pans from a local thrift shop, the apartment was empty. He still funneled most of his earnings to his mom’s house, covering the majority of the bills, making sure his sisters were fed and clothed. He owed them that much at least.
Resting his forearm against the tile wall, he let his chin fall forward so the shower stream pummeled his neck and shoulders.
Sixteen years. Sixteen years since the military had sent the chaplain to their door, and it still pissed him off. But thinking about it wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He needed to get his game face on, dress and hit the weights before his first set.
Shutting the faucet off didn’t stop the emotional trip down memory lane. He found himself considering who he was now versus who he’d been the first time he’d walked through the doors of Beaux Hommes on an open-call night ten years ago. He’d been working as a janitor for several weeks, watching the dancers’ nightly cash take. When the next open call came for tryouts, he was there. He’d figured he’d get up on stage and show everyone how it was done and had brought a couple of his homeboys with him to yuck it up when he was finished. Mistake number one. The lead dancer hadn’t even looked at Justin twice. He’d not even set foot on the stage before the guy called out, “Pass.”
Furious, Justin had got up in the guy’s grill. Mistake number two.
The lead dancer hadn’t backed down, didn’t even bat a damn eye. He’d come at Justin, drilling his finger into his chest. “Grow a pair, and I don’t mean Leftie and Rightie over there, and you can audition again. If, and I do mean if, you cut clean now.”
Justin’s anger, always simmering so close to the surface then, had boiled over. “You’re calling my boys—”
“Your testicles. Yes, I’m calling them your testicles. If you’ve got to wear ’em on your sleeve, this isn’t the job for you. Get out.”
Ego bruised, he’d gone home, stewed over it for a few days and then talked to his counselor about the opportunity. With support from Second Chances, he’d come back. Alone. They’d hired him with one major caveat: the stuff they suspected he was dabbling in—gangs, guns and girls—could never, ever come to work with him. He’d had a choice in that moment. Clean up and make a decent living at twenty, or turn to the streets full-time. Most of the Deuce-8 crew didn’t live to see thirty. It wasn’t much of a choice.
Bracing a fist against the shower wall, Justin grinned and shook his head. He’d been an idiot that first night, thinking he was all that while living fast and hard amid gunfire and turf wars.
