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entire escapade upstairs until he saw me in the bar. “I wanted you to know I had a great evening.”
    “Yeah, the best I've had in quite a while.” I could have kicked myself. What was it about him that made me say things I'd never admit to anyone, not even myself?
    He lifted a hand and stroked the side of my neck, grazing my chin with his thumb. The touch was more intimate than anything he'd done to me upstairs.
    A swell of nerves gathered in my gut. Was I enjoying his touch that much?
    “I'm glad,” he said. “I must admit I haven't been to the club in a while. It far exceeded my expectations.”
    I smiled at him before he dropped his hand and walked away.
    I'd completely lost my mind.
    I awoke the next morning hard as hell and pissed off.
    I couldn't get them out of my head. I heard the grunts and moans, mine and theirs. Felt Matthew's tongue in my mouth. Heard Richard's groan as he came. Tasted his lips. Felt his dick slide in and out of me.
    It was odd and disconcerting and hot as hell.
    I pushed them out of my mind, threw back the sheet, and planted my feet on the bed. I grasped my dick in my hand and gave a few good strokes. It never took much to find my release.
    Until then.
    I bolted out of the bed and headed for the bathroom. The shower caddy had lube, and the heat of the water relaxed me in a way little else did.
    The water turned tepid, and I still ran my hand over my dick.
    The hot water in my cheap-ass apartment was for shit. There was never time for fancy jerk-off sessions. Normally that didn't bother me. I never had so much damn trouble getting off.
    I concentrated on the slide of my hand and quickened the pace. I squeezed harder, ran my thumb over the tip, and jerked my hips. Finally, my body tightened, and I slapped the shower wall with my free hand as I came. I washed and got out before the water could go from cold to frigid.
    Dressed and ready to focus on anything else, I headed for the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. My apartment was small. One bedroom with space for a bed and not much else, the bathroom, a kitchen that accommodated a three-legged folding table leaning against the wall, and a small living room I'd set up as an office, complete with a battered particle board desk that smelled like petrified glue. I poured a cup of coffee and took a seat at the desk. The folding chair creaked under my weight. The damn thing was bound to break, but it was the best of the set. It should last until I moved again.
    The only other furniture in the room was a tattered, stained orange couch that smelled of sweat and dope and had too many places where the springs rubbed my ass. I hadn't bothered replacing it. I'd do as someone else did when I acquired it— leave it and the table and chairs for whoever rented the shithole apartment after me. I moved too much to care about the furniture I kept. I still had boxes of clothes and computer programming books stacked in the corner. I spent my money on what I had sitting on top of the desk— the computer and digital video equipment.
    I didn't fear my father. But I didn't like giving him the satisfaction of knowing where I lived.
    It had become a game. He'd spend resources and time tracking me. I'd spend my money and wits knowing when he was close and getting the hell out before his men could figure out I'd made them.
    I swallowed a gulp of coffee and hissed with the burn.
    It was going to be a long day.
    I reached for the keyboard and entered my password. Two monitors flashed on. I checked the video feeds from the night before and knocked back the rest of the coffee. Several interior and exterior views of my apartment displayed on the screens. The previous eight hours replayed in fast forward.
    Nothing. No movement. No unexpected guests. The extra precautions on the way home the night before had paid off.
    One more day in Shangri-la.
    I stared at the current video feeds, but I no longer saw the screens before me, or the apartment around me. The dimly lit room from