Better Than Chance by Lane Hayes

chest and arms in all the right places and dark form-fitting designer jeans. He looked amazing, delicious, and too sexy for anyone’s good. Especially mine. From the corner of my eye I noticed a hand gesture he made to the bartender, who looked like he literally stopped everything he was doing to serve Peter. He had a drink in his hand within thirty seconds. Wow. Impressive. Mine was delivered a half second later.
    “Come with me.”
    I had rehearsed my line of conversation before I had arrived. I would ask him about the rest of his week and weekend plans and try to lead into what the hell it was he wanted to show me. He stopped me with a look. It was a little dangerous and brooked no argument. I simply got up from my stool and followed. Halfway across the room, I stopped and grabbed Peter’s elbow.
    “I have to pay for my drink.”
    “Don’t worry. I got it.”
    I stared after him, intending to ask when he’d managed paying or even starting a tab without me noticing, but he’d already turned away from me and was walking toward the exit. When he’d almost reached the door, he made a sharp left through a set of heavy beaded curtains, turning once to make sure I was close behind. He spared me a pirate’s smile before making his way up the stairs to the club area above. It was a large, open space furnished with black leather contemporary chaise lounges and ottomans. There was a large dance floor in the middle and at least two full bars that I could see. No one, however, was in the cavernous room except us. Peter and me.
    “This is what I wanted to show you. Come on.”
    I watched him for a moment before I followed as instructed. He looked carefree and excited. This, whatever it was he was showing me with his eyes lit like a child’s on Christmas morning, was the key to who Peter Morgan really was. He walked toward the far end of the expansive area and then stopped abruptly with his arms outstretched, his smile now guarded but not quite hiding his excitement.
    “What do you think?”
    “About?”
    “The club. Do you like it?”
    I made a show of checking out my surroundings, but all I was really interested in was the man standing three feet away. What the hell was he trying to tell me?
    “Peter? Can I call you Peter? Because Mr. Morgan feels a little funny right now.”
    He nodded and chuckled softly.
    “Plain speech here, please. What exactly are you showing me? And don’t skimp on details.”
    He lowered his arms, nodded silently, and moved across the room to a private seating area with a small chaise, two chairs, and a couple of low mirrored tables. He set his drink aside and sat in one of the chairs.
    “Sit.”
    He looked at me long and hard for a few minutes. I hated prolonged silences. My impulse was always to fill them in. I was about to do just that, when he sighed and leaned forward with his forearms braced on his knees. I heard the faint sounds of music, something soft like jazz being played in the background. It was all so sophisticated and surreal, like something special was in the air but I had no way to quantify it. I was in the dark. Finally he spoke, his voice low and sexy.
    “I own it. This place. Well, the truth is I co-own it, but I wanted to….” He gave a half chuckle as though he were laughing at himself before he turned back to me. “You asked me the other night at the restaurant what I was doing in that alley. I’d been here, checking something with the manager, and I was walking to my car when… you know the rest.”
    “O-kay. Um, so what you’re trying to say is…,” I prodded.
    Peter chuckled, sat back, and massaged the back of his neck with his right hand. It was a gesture I’d noticed him make last Saturday night. I sensed I was frustrating him and he was struggling for patience.
    “Really, Jay? I think I’m being pretty clear here. I’m telling you I am part-owner of a gay club in the—how did you put it?—the gayest of the gay part of town. If you didn’t figure it