“I don’t suppose one of you is going to finish what Timothy started.”

“Lee Brueckmann?”

The man stood, letting the chair roll back, and planted a boot in Timothy’s chest. He pushed lightly, and Timothy scuttled backward, his face flaming, his dick bobbing. The man followed him around the desk and then caught a handful of ginger hair and tilted the boy’s head back. He slapped him once, and the boy moaned. The second time, harder, split the boy’s lip.

“Always finish what I tell you to do. Even if there are interruptions.”

The real lesson, North knew, wasn’t for Timothy. The real lesson was for North and Shaw. This man wanted them to see what he could do.

“Take him,” he ordered, and the big man hauled Timothy out of the room. Then, facing North and Shaw, he planted his hands on his hips. If anything, his erection had only grown, and to be fair, the man didn’t have anything to hide. “I’m Master Brueckmann.” He adjusted the sleeves of his leather jacket. “Who are you?”

“Santa Claus,” North said.

“The Easter bunny.”

Brueckmann didn’t smile. He didn’t frown. He was older than North had first realized, late forties, early fifties, but trim and muscular and radiating that intense presence. As he studied them, he walked closer.

He stopped in front of North. “You have a lot of potential.” His hand brushed the front of North’s jeans, and North grabbed his wrist and twisted. Aside from the flicker of pain in his eyes, though, Brueckmann didn’t react.

“Looking is free. Touching is fifty cents.”

“I’m free,” Shaw said, “but you have to take me out for ice cream after.”

Brueckmann nodded, and North released him. Brueckmann threw another careful, studying glance at North, and then he smiled.

“You like ice cream too, huh?” North asked.

“I know exactly what I’m going to do with you.” Without another word, Brueckmann stepped over to Shaw. He studied Shaw the same way he had studied North. His eyes raked up and down Shaw. And the longer he looked at Shaw, the more he looked at Shaw like that, the hotter the ember in North’s gut flared. He just kept looking. And looking. And looking. And North started thinking he could put Brueckmann’s head through that big, clunky desk like it was papier mache.

With another smile, Brueckmann drew a short leather flogger from his jacket. He thrust it under Shaw’s chin, forcing his head up and back, and something feral inside North snapped and lunged, pulling at the end of its chain, wanting to put Brueckmann through that desk so hard there was a Brueckmann-shaped hole in it, cartoon style.

“Don’t touch him.”

Brueckmann didn’t look at North, but his smile grew. He forced Shaw’s chin up higher. Shaw wasn’t resisting. Shaw wasn’t doing anything. Maybe because he’d swallowed too much hippy bullshit. Maybe because this week Shaw was a pacifist. Maybe because he was processing, his favorite fucking word in the English language. That feral part of North yanked at the chain again, threatening to break loose. But the cold, rational part of North’s mind told him to wait, no matter how hot that ember in his gut burned, because Shaw was just so goddamn smart.