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was open concern on Gareth’s face and a question in the man’s eyes.
    Out? Gareth’s fingers queried, and he meant it. The thought steadied Jack, and he moved his head in a negative, grateful that their target chose that moment to make his entrance. He needed the distraction.
    Clive’s description of the pimp—medium everything and white-blond hair—didn’t mesh with the reputation the man was supposed to have in the clubs. Jack had met a few gorillas in his time, and at first glance, his current target just didn’t make the grade. The man was neither very tall, nor very broad and had no discernible fashion sense. He looked washed-out and forgettable despite the black leather trousers and vest he wore.
    His sneer told a different story. One that convinced Jack that Clive had the correct man in his sights. The sneer and the way he swaggered in, arm around the shoulders of another teenage boy. This one had brown hair that flopped loosely around his head and brown eyes that seemed too big for his thin face. He walked docilely enough beside the pimp, but his eyes looked anywhere but at the man, and when the arm around his shoulder tightened, he turned his head away.
    The small signs of defiance heartened Jack even as they made bile rise in his throat, and as the music got louder and the beat picked up, he decided that now was as good a time as any to make his play. The pimp had settled on a bar stool close to Gareth and was idly scanning the crowd while nursing a beer, the brown-haired boy close by his side.
    Jack moved from the dance floor to one of the columns in the man’s line of sight. He leaned against it, one knee bent so the sole of his boot rested on the black vinyl and the tight leather trousers showed off his long legs and the line of his ass. He draped himself against the column as if lost to the music and whatever chemicals he enjoyed for recreation, head back, throat bared, eyes closed, and dark spikes of hair falling every which way. The hem of his shirt rode up another inch to show off his abs, and a spotlight hit the tattoo on his face, making it stand out stark black against his skin.
    The pose was an invitation. Jack knew exactly how he looked and what he offered. He’d practiced the move in front of a mirror over and over, and if he tilted his head just right and squinted through his lashes, he could usually watch his target lose their cool.
    The pimp was better than most. He leaned forward, clearly interested, but he didn’t get up or take his eyes off Jack. Instead, he waved to one of his men and pointed. And Jack dropped his lashes and waited.
    “Hey, you!”
    Jack ignored the rough voice close to his ear until the man prodded him. Then he lifted his head—slowly, as if it weighed a ton—and opened his eyes. “Yeah?” he slurred.
    “The boss wants to talk to you.”
    “Huh?” Closing his eyes completely hadn’t been a good idea. The sudden influx of light started painful fireworks in Jack’s head. He bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a pained groan before it could slip out and focused on breathing until his eyes adjusted.
    “Guy at the bar wants to talk to you,” the rough voice repeated, barely patient. “Move your ass. He doesn’t wait well.”
    Jack pushed himself upright and stepped away from the column with a small provocative sway to his hips. The pale-haired pimp was a little to his left, Gareth right in front of him. Both men were leaning forward on their barstools, and both wore almost identical looks of eager interest.
    Jack might have found that gratifying or embarrassing or even faintly amusing, had Gareth not reached back toward the bar right then and snatched the pimp’s beer bottle from the counter. The bottle disappeared into the inside of Gareth’s jacket before anyone had noticed the man had even moved—and Jack felt a strange stab of disappointment that was swiftly followed by irritation.
    They were on a job. That meant blending with the crowd and acting