I was starting to feel like there was no man left in this entire city that could offer me what I needed. Each day this realization stung a little more. It had been months since my last sexual encounter—a rendezvous in France that would stay with me in memory but was hardly enough to sustain me now that I was back stateside—and the outlook for something happening again soon was becoming increasingly bleak.
Perhaps it was time I started entertaining the idea of returning to The Club. Although it wasn’t my preferred method of companionship, it would certainly prove easier and more fruitful than whatever it was I was currently doing.
The ticking of the clock was back, just as loudly at the front of my focus. I leaned back on the chair, sighing heavily. Yes. Perhaps a visit to The Club was exactly what I needed.
3
Arlo
The clinking of champagne flutes was a particularly high-pitched noise that I had not known was annoying, but, upon consideration, was actually very, very obnoxious.
I was used to loud noises—the whirring of machinery, growing up with a dad who worked construction, the shuttering noise of an espresso machine working too fast, the bell over my door going off with rapid succession when children come to the shop and like the sound. I was used to loud noises. But this? The tinkling sound of muffled chuckling and crystal gently tapping crystal, the sounds of a party I would never be able to afford even if I saved every penny I ever made—
It was a little overwhelming. I didn’t want to be overwhelmed— didn’t want to feel the cloying, insecure bundle of nerves in my chest vibrate with every new noise.
I wasn’t an insecure man—it was just—
I was a little out of my depths, was all.
When Jeremy told me someone would call me, I didn’t expect to be approached by a scout for the Billionaire Club. I’d almost laughed and hung up immediately, thinking it was an elaborate joke.
But then, instead, it was very much not a joke. The last week had been a whirlwind—an interview that I was almost still blushing from, a package full of clothes that were more exuberant than anything else I owned, and then, tonight, popped into a room full of fancy strangers.
Presumably, half of the men in the room were like me—here at the open call event, trying to play it cool when we more than not wanted to melt into the Earth itself. But the other half—
Well, the other men were rich, powerful men who paid an exorbitant amount of money to meet young men and have kinky, no-strings-attached relationships with them. With us—with me.
This was insane. It was corporate jerks like this that were trying to put me out of business!
I shook my head and tried to remember what Jeremy said: one event wasn’t signing on to anything. I could leave at any point. I was still in control.
I took another large gulp of the champagne in my hand, trying to drown out my thoughts with the bubbling alcohol. I had to be careful to not get drunk. Something told me the men here weren’t looking for some sloppy newbie and at the very least, I needed to keep my wits about me enough to not spill anything on the ghastly expensive suit I was wearing.
The Patek Philipe watch on my wrist was probably worth more than all of my possessions, mortgages, and soul put together. The imitation gift was quickly slapped on my wrist when I first got to the open call, some guy I couldn’t remember prattling the details. The only thing I remembered was the words “white gold” and “net worth” and I was fairly certain that hocking that alone would solve all my cash flow problems in one fell swoop.
I had showered twice, was wearing all new fancy clothes, and even made sure to wear my special occasion cologne—still, I felt grimy and dirty. I was from a working-class family and I could feel it, like a layer of dirt on my skin. I was sure that other people could feel it too.
Everyone else looked at ease—if it wasn’t for the obvious age differences, I wouldn’t have been able to peg who was buying and who was selling. The rest of the consorts didn’t look out of place or nervous or dirty—just me. All the rich guys looked like they didn’t even know what the phrase “payment plan” meant.
How was I supposed to—what did the scout say?—sparkle around all that? How was anyone going to notice me in a room full of sparkling, happy, excitable men at ease.
I locked my muscles in place to keep from fidgeting. The room was too warm, enough that I was itching to take off my jacket. Everything smelled like heady cologne and the champagne tasted cool on my tongue. It was like being in an alternate dimension, where everything was just a little bit too decadent. Hell if this wasn’t weird and a thousand degrees out of my comfort zone, but I was here. I was here and I was doing this—or, at least, I wasn’t not doing this, so I was going to do it well.
Or at least not piss myself in anxiety. One or the other, it was a win either way.
I looked around the room, trying to find a familiar face in the crowd of strangers. I knew it was highly unlikely, but a small part of me was hoping Jeremy was there—either as a friend in this weird situation or a monster ready to tell me this was all an elaborate joke, I didn’t care.
Still, Jeremy was nowhere to be found. I bit back a sigh and finished my drink. Nearly immediately, a silent waiter came and replaced my flute with a fresh one.
I took a sip. The bubbling champagne was still cool, just this shy of cold, and it felt amazing.
“Excuse me,” a tall, thin man with brown hair slid by me, quickly grabbing a flute off the waiter’s tray and setting down his empty one.
The waiter nodded politely and slipped away.
The brown-haired guy stood next to me, shifting and rolling back on his feet. “Hey. I’m Shelton.”
“Oh! Arlo.”
“Arlo,” Shelton quirked an eyebrow. “That’s a name.”
“So they tell me,” I mumbled.
Shelton smiled. Even though he was a stranger, I felt oddly at ease—at least now, I wasn’t standing alone. Maybe if one person spoke to me, it would break the ice and everyone else in the room would think I belonged.
“First time?” I asked.
He gave me a quick side eye, lips quirking as he muffled a smirk behind a sip of his drink. “For all of us non-masked guys, I think.”
I laughed. “Okay, fair.”
We stood side by side, glancing out into the room. I considered asking Shelton about himself, what he did—but then I wondered if I was supposed to do that. No one had said anything about how we were supposed to talk to each other, if our information was meant to be kept private. I really should have asked for a handbook.
“Oh,” Shelton inhaled sharply. I glanced over at him, following his line of sight to a man with a gold mask on his face. Without looking away, Shelton handed me his champagne flute and murmured a quick “Excuse me,” before nearly floating away toward the guy.
I sighed. “And then there was one.”
A waiter came by to grab Shelton’s champagne.
Those guys were so silent—they’d make good spies. I briefly entertained the idea that they were spies, collecting information on who was rich, who was poor, and what they talked about when gathered in the same room. Marginal income tax was probably not high on the list.
I managed to tear my gaze away from the waiters when they frowned at me, one taking a half step forward as if to ask me what I needed.