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way in between her thighs, rubbing, grinding from inside the underwear. She presses herself against me. For some reason, she reaches behind me. There’s a click, and suddenly, in the middle of our passionate kiss, the breeze from the hallway hits my back.
    One quick shove, and I’m outside. My front door snaps shut, and Ingela’s cracking up on the inside. “Do the walk of shame yourself, prick-wad!” she screams loud enough for the entire building to hear.
    Of course, like the idiot I am, I start pounding on the wood, which does nothing to make her open.
    “It’s dick wad,” I shout back, and she howls with laughter.
    “Fine, so you’re a dickwad.”
    “Open, Inga, please? I’ll make you squeal again.” No way in hell she’ll open now. I’m not sure why I’m making it worse—the hallway’s anything but warm this time of year.
    God, this is a disaster. I chuckle.
    When two doors open to see what the commotion is about, I become very aware of my boxer briefs. Their biggest problem isn’t the reindeer scattered all over them. No, I should’ve thrown them away because they shrank in Dan’s round of hot whites wash. Dude’s Mister Mom, and neither of us know why my undies ended up in his hamper. What matters at the moment, though, is that they form around my fucking halfer of a cock like sausage skin. Damn, I look ridiculous.
    The doors shut quickly with no offer of assistance. Great. So here I am, indeed doing the walk of shame to the RA’s digs. “Thanks, Inga!” I yell as I head down the corridor. I faintly make out her reply.
    “Pleasure.”

It’s Thursday night, and Robin’s cranking the volume on some old song, Haze of Winter . Only a handful of patrons have arrived when I catch a commotion on the stairs to Leon and Arria’s apartment. A tiny something is wiggling his way down backwards, one determined step at a time.
    Neither of his parents is in view. Lyric’s babysitter should be there with him tonight. On historically slow days, Arriane and Leon take turns upstairs and use a baby monitor while in the club, but on the most traffic-heavy nights, Thursdays through Saturdays, they pay a sitter. So where’s she now?
    I make my way over to my godchild. Not that he really is my godchild. I just always thought I deserved it for all but holding his mother’s hand through her difficult pregnancy, and yet she chose her brother and Leon’s sister as the godparents. It’s a standing joke between Arria and me, one I still give her hell for.
    “Lyric,” I call out and am rewarded with a swift glance of the lightest of glittering blue eyes. They contrast beautifully with his golden skin and silky black hair. His eyebrows are already perfectly shaped little bows above the irises he’s inherited from Daddy, and that cute mouth is a plump berry you just want to place a loud smooch on.
    Oh, yeah, Lyric is something else. Because of his parents, he shows signs of being part Japanese, part Indian, and part white. If Hollister kids existed—in the United Colors of Benetton—this one-and-a-half-year old little piece of candy would be the poster child. He’s so darn adorable you want to eat him up, mischief and all.
    The little guy skipped the stage where he was supposed to crawl and catapulted straight into running. Now, he dodges me and does a few fast yet aimless circles in the main room of the bar, then zigzags table legs and barstools until he corners himself between a couple of old-timey arcade games.
    This is so not a place for kids, but it’s home turf for Lyric. He knows every nook better than anyone. But when his goal is escaping our long arms, he has no plan. I’ve got him. Oh yeah, I’ve got him, and his mouth is open wide in a cry of delight I can hardly hear over the music.
    “You rascal,” I tell him as I lift him up and plant lip-smacks from his cheek and up to his soft little ear. He’s still whining with excitement and squirms to get out of my hold. Definitely not falling for