At the door, the bouncer eyed them both—they were obviously out of place—but he just nodded and pointed deeper into the club when Shaw passed over a fifty and asked for Brueckmann.

Pigs and Pups had an obvious theme, and once the bare minimum of the aesthetics had been met—whips and chains and vinyl suits mounted on the walls, pillories and crosses dividing floorspace—the owners had obviously decided to spare any further expense. Cheap linoleum, cheap particle-board bars, cheap folding chairs. Music thudded in the background, mixing with low voices, and the air smelled like cleaner and a wet sponge. Like so many things, the fantasy of a BDSM club was a far cry from the reality, and North fought a surge of dark amusement as he passed the paunchy older men dragging their boytoys around—and, in a few cases, the reverse. To be fair, there probably was a back room where more serious action happened, but out here, in the main area of the club, it was the leather equivalent of a lady’s tea and gardening society.

A young man wearing nothing but a mohawk of jet-black hair, a nice set of abs, and tiny black leather shorts, was behind the bar in the back. He gave them each the once over and settled on North.

“Two whiskey sours,” North said, and he absolutely knew he was being an asshole. But to his surprise, he didn’t get a reaction this time.

“That your boy?” Mohawk said as he set down the drinks. He was tugging at the top of his black shorts, almost enough to give a show.

Something primal and terrifying coiled in North’s chest at the question, and it was terrifying precisely because he didn’t understand it. North tried to shake off the feeling, tried to smile, and said, “Well, Shaw? How about you? Are you my boy?”

“We’re looking for Brueckmann,” Shaw told the bartender.

Thumbing his abs—and giving North another peek at the trail of dark hair below his shorts—the bartender shrugged and looked at North.

“How do we get to see Brueckmann?” North asked, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“He’s the owner. I don’t know. Call and make an appointment.”

“How about you get him for us?” North smiled, and Mohawk melted. “Boy, give him a really nice tip before he goes to find Brueckmann for us.”

Shaw’s face was a storm behind a sheet of ice, but he peeled off another fifty and gave it to Mohawk. With a shrug, Mohawk moved down to a phone hanging behind the bar.

“Nobody’s going to cruise you if you don’t smile,” North told Shaw.

“Every time.”

“Speak up, boy.”

A flush worked its way into the triangle of Shaw’s face. “Every time you see your dad, you’re a total fuck.”

“What’s your problem? I’m just teasing. Christ, why are you so sensitive tonight?”

Shaw set his jaw and shook his head.

“Fine. I’ll cut it out. Geez, I’m sorry.”

This time, Shaw rolled his eyes.