Stranger Things Have Happened: An Adrien English Write Your Own Damn Story (The Adrien English Mysteries) by Josh Lanyon

Maybe it’s the expression of wide-eyed consternation whenever someone gropes you. You’re either being randomly and regularly groped or this is a convention for sufferers of Saint Vitus Dance.
    Now that you’re here, you’re not exactly sure how to proceed. The place is like a warehouse. Both in appearance and purpose. Brick walls, utility lamps, and hot and cold running guys. There is music and it is loud. People are dancing. Hopefully. Did you really think it would be possible to hold a conversation here? Let alone discreetly question someone?
    Why are you really here? Wasn’t it really curiosity to see what Rob had been up to?
    If you’re honest…yes. You are curious. You were . Now you’re just feeling a little embarrassed and hoping desperately not to meet anyone you kn —
    Oh hell no.
    Who should you spot from clear across the industrial-sized room but Detective Riordan.
    No.
    Yes.
    Yes. It’s really him.
    He’s standing at the bar drinking whisky and staring broodingly into space. You can’t tear your gaze away and you walk right into a cement post.
    Fortunately it’s only a glancing blow.
    You’re scrambling to recover your somewhat shaken savoir-faire and look like you really meant to ask that post to dance, when a hand hooks around your arm. You look up and your heart jumps in your chest. Detective Riordan gazes down at you with a strange half smile.
    “Well, well, well,” he says in that voice that always feels like he’s lightly running the tip of a riding crop right down your spine. “Adrien-with-an-e.”
    “Oh. Hi ,” you say weakly. It really IS him. Detective Riordan is in a leather club. So it’s true. Detective Riordan is undercover.
    Because he couldn’t be gay, right?
    Right?
    Your gaze falls and you take him in, from the gleam of his black boots…leather jeans…studded leather belt…and then bare, broad muscular chest. Nothing else. Not a single extra anything. Severe and elegant. Beneath the gold dusting of chest hair, his pecs look like rocks. So do his biceps. He’s got an abdomen like a washboard. You can’t stop staring. Your mouth is dry, your heart bouncing around like those cartoons of Mexican jumping beans.
    “Fancy meeting you here,” you say.
    “And to think I almost didn’t bother tonight.” His eyes glitter. He’s amused. Amused and…
    He wants you.
    Holy moly. Detective Riordan wants you.
    You say cautiously, “Do you come here often?”
    He says gravely, “Often enough to make it worth my time.”
    You hear the echo of your words and blush. He grins, a crooked and deliberately charming grin. He’s watching you with unnerving intensity. “Very pretty,” he remarks. “Far too pretty to be left running loose.” He taps a knowing forefinger under your chin. “Come on.”
    “Uh…”
    Somehow Detective Riordan’s hand is clamped possessively on your left butt cheek and you are being steered gently but firmly through the crowd toward the entrance marked PRIVATE.
    “Actually, I was just about to leave,” you tell him. “I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. I was just going to have a quick drink and then home to bed.”
    “Uh huh.”
    “No, really. This isn’t my kind of thing.”
    He dips his head. His breath is hot against your ear. As noisy as the room is, you hear every syllable. “How do you know?”
    “I’m not into organized religion.”
    He laughs, gives your butt a little squeeze, and you jump.
    You really need to make it clear that this is not what you want. But you always were too damned curious for your own good.
    Next thing you know you’re being scooted into a small, private room. There is no bed, which is disconcerting. There are padded benches and an odd frame thing that reminds you of the dungeon in Princess Bride . There is an open cabinet with a staggering assortment of sexual toys and devices.
    Is this a communal room or is it Riordan’s private office? Which answer would be more reassuring? You can’t tear your gaze from the