Page 1 of Crown of Thorns
PROLOGUE
Tonight, I’m going to get my dick wet.
The Black Cat, the only gay strip club Saint-Laurent has, is quiet this time of the evening.
Perfect.
It hasn’t been more than fifteen minutes since my arrival from Paris, but already my hometown clutches at me like grief itself. Like the air still smells of Mom’s perfume in faraway memories. I need to bleed some of it out, quietly, behind shadows. Blow off steam before anyone sees how close I am to cracking.
Inside the place, Christmas lights dot the dark, casting an ethereal glow. At the center bar, two men in snug pink dresses twirl cocktail shakers. One bows for applause, takes a fifty-euro tip with a grin, and slides over two jeweled drinks.
I make my way over, ordering my usual: a gin and tonic. My eyes find the stage, where a man is dancing. Dressed in nothing but a g-string and a see-through, lace top, I gaze as he lifts his entire body on the pole and spins around, tipping his head back in one, elegant, smooth flow. Appreciative whistles sound through the darkness.
The performer moves to spinning upside down, showing off his strong, long legs and tight ass. When he finishes his song, one of the guests whistles him over. He’s all swaying hips with a sly grin as he accepts the bills to be slipped underneath his lace.
I down my cocktail, then order another. Two’s the maximum, it always is. It usually helps shake off the unease. Not tonight, though. Tonight, the tension rolls off my body in waves. It feels like someone’s watching me, like Saint-Laurent itself has eyes trained on my every move, remembering everything I swore I’d forget.
“Hi, handsome.” Another dancer approaches me, giving me a deliberate once-over. I smile, returning the favor, and take him in. He’s young, early twenties. Short brown hair, piercings, kissable lips. Glitter-dusted skin. Tight shorts that leave nothing to the imagination.
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
I watch him order his drink. “What’s your name?”
That playful look is back. “You can call me anything you like, handsome.”
Another song starts. A new dancer takes the stage as the front row gets rowdier. Some work the room, chatting, laughing, earning their bills. Everything seems normal for a club like this, yet something’s off. My skin prickles like eyes are on me, tracking every move. It makes me jittery.
For a second, I consider ordering another drink. But no, that won’t help. A nerve ticks in my jaw. I scan every dark corner. Nothing. No one. Still, the place is filling up.
I turn back to the dancer. “How much for some private time?”
“What would you like? I don’t fuck, but I can dance. It’s two hundred and fifty for thirty minutes.”
“No fucking, no dancing. I just want to watch you come. No touching.”
His mouth opens on a silent ‘oh’. “D'accord.” He grins, shaking my hand. “You’re nice on the eyes, so that shouldn’t be a problem.”
I blink in surprise as the bartender places another gin-tonic in front of me. “I didn’t order that.”
“Perhaps you have an admirer.” He winks. “This one’s on the house.”
“Thanks.” I glance down at the drink, then back at the dancer. Two drinks, I remind myself. Just two. I leave the glass untouched. “Let’s go.”
My dancer nods, but he doesn’t look as relaxed as he did before. Something has shifted. When we make our way to the back, the feeling of being watched persists.
Two bouncers guard the hall. When we walk in, one of them stops me. “Payment first.”
Taking out the wad of money, I make sure to hand it to the dancer and not to them.
The room is spacious and dimly lit. Golden floors and velvet curtains adorn the black walls. A big leather chair sits in the middle.
“I’ll be right with you,” the dancer says. Then he hops away. Stays away.
I check the time. Two minutes. I sigh and sink into the plush chair, questioning the series of impulsive decisions and the lingering grief that led me here.
The door opens. A man steps inside wearing a gold Venetian mask. Confident, predatory. Not my dancer.
