Wicked Solutions (4 page)

I picked up the name Chance as a kid when my grandma kept telling me "Chances are you'll come to no good, just like your pa." She had said it so often, it just kind of stuck. I've been Chance ever since. When she passed away and left me the remains of her estate, I sold everything but a few special items then invested it all in a nest egg for a rainy day.

I figured that's what she'd intended it for anyway. She'd said as soon as I joined the police force back in the eighties. "Chances are you'll come to no good there. It's a dangerous job and you're an accident waiting to happen."

"I have to go. Gerry leaves now. Sorry to leave you hanging." I had to get behind the bar. We do a steady business with the cops and the neighborhood people, and even though it was ten o'clock, I had four more hours until closing.

"Call me." His voice was husky and I fancied I heard just the slightest
clink
of that metal stud clicking against his teeth.
He wasn't the first visitor to my office, not the first face I'd stared at, trying to forget the one that was burned into my retinas, but he was different. I might have to get his name.
Shit. I don't think I even gave him my name
.

"I'm Chance, this is my place. You want me; this is where you can find me." I won't call. Been there, done that. Got the emotionally stunted psyche to prove it. I shoved him out the door ahead of me and let it close on our little interlude with a sensation akin to gratitude. The problem with that, of course, was that it wasn't my name. My name was actually Aaron Dumont.

I picked up the name Chance as a kid when my grandma kept telling me "Chances are you'll come to no good, just like your pa." She had said it so often, it just kind of stuck. I've been Chance ever since. When she passed away and left me the remains of her estate, I sold everything but a few special items then invested it all in a nest egg for a rainy day.

I figured that's what she'd intended it for anyway. She'd said as soon as I joined the police force back in the eighties. "Chances are you'll come to no good there. It's a dangerous job and you're an accident waiting to happen."

She was right too. That nest egg came in handy after the not-so-accidental shooting that ended my career. After my injuries healed and the physical therapy was done, I loafed around doing nothing for a bit, sinking into depression and dying slowly inside of sheer boredom. Then I found the bar, and Chances Are was born. I don't know if the name was a tribute to the woman who loved and understood me or a
fuck you
to the one who ruled my childhood with an iron fist. Since they're the same ruthless, gently bred Southern lady, I don't spend a lot of time dwelling on the motivation behind the name.

Every night found me here, polishing glasses, pouring drinks, and soaking up the world. I got to talk shop with local law enforcement without being responsible for the paperwork. The neighborhood itself was eclectic and I got plenty of customers in on any given night who were prone to chat and flirt and sometimes, like the rookie, even a little more.

He was still there, watching me when he thought I wasn't looking, taking the ribbing his buddies were dishing out with a flush and a faint smile. I was impressed. Rory Gaines had backbone. I liked that. It kind of made me want to test his limits, crush his spirit, just to see if he'd let me, but I knew that was the bitterness of lost love, and I'd never actually do it. I don't think.

As I polished the shot glasses, I was giving serious thought to actually going back to my office and digging that business card he'd given me out of the trash can. When the front door burst open and smashed into the wall with a sound so akin to gunfire that several of the off duty cops in the room dropped to one knee and reached for weapons they weren't supposed to be carrying in my establishment, I forgot about everything else.

Master Archer found his forever with fellow Dom, Zachery, but when their discreet recovery business interferes with their personal time, Archer buys exactly what his lover needs— submissive Jeremiah.

“Come here, Zachary,” he said. His voice was a low growl, nothing like the cultured tones he’d used with our guest. My dick responded, despite the vigorous workout from earlier this morning.

I moved to stand between his spread knees, prepared to kneel if that’s what he wanted, but he seemed content to wrap his arms around my waist and rest his cheek against my stomach. He rubbed his hand over my heated ass, his firm stroke raising my level of awareness. “Do you still feel me, here?”

His words shivered through me.
“I think I might still be feeling you through next Tuesday, but I could take more.” Archer threw his head back and laughed. “Such an eager boy. Are you sure you’re a

switch?” His to ne was teasing, but his hard hand squeezed my ass, and I moaned in pleasure. He laughed again and the sound eased the slight concern I’d felt at his earlier shift in attitude. “We have a lot to do in a short amount of time.”
“You have a plan?”
“I do.” Archer reached for his e-tablet and I opened a new document on the laptop. Archer was a genius, and there was no telling how fast his ideas would pour out once he got going.
“Check the calendar,“ Archer said, his own fingers turning electronic pages.
“What am I looking for?”
“Hold on…” He shook his head. “Opera…no…damn, there’s a premiere…what about…” he looked up, his eyes shining. “Check Thursday, three weeks from tonight.”
I checked. “There’s nothing on your schedule, shall I save it?”
“Yes. We’re throwing a party. Scour our old client list. I particularly want Peter and Cartier to attend. Ah, and don’t forget to add Wick. What do you think, Zachary? Will we draw Franklin in?”
I laughed—it was a beautiful plan. “Master Archer is coming out of retirement for one evening to host a private reprise of Wilde Sides in his beautiful home, and bringing in three other Masters he personally trained? How could a pain slut like Franklin resist?”

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