A wrinkle formed in Damon’s brow, and Micah fought the urge to groan in annoyance. “I told you; I’m twenty-three. If you can’t trust me, how am I supposed to trust you?”

It took a beat, but after a moment, Damon’s frown lessened, and he sighed as if conceding Micah’s point. “I don’t have any beer, but there’s champagne.”

“Sounds great.”

Pulling two glasses out of another hidden compartment (because why not?), Damon poured Micah a glass first and then one for himself.

Micah forced his brain to power off as he sipped on the bubbly drink. It tingled going down, and left his throat pleasantly warm, and Micah felt the tension in his shoulders slowly ease.

The silence that filled the car was slightly more comfortable with a drink in his hand, and Micah tried to relax as Damon fiddled with his phone beside him.

True to Damon’s word, it wasn’t more than half an hour later that the vehicle came to a stop, and the divider was rolling down. The huge, musclebound man behind the wheel, with his shaved head and impressive array of colorful tattoos crawling up his neck, was not exactly what Micah had pictured when Damon had told him he had a chauffeur named Geoffrey.

For some reason, he’d imagined a weathered, old man with a huge gray mustache and a top hat.

“We’ve arrived, boss.”

Geoffrey didn’t so much as glance at Micah, but he wasn’t offended. He was too busy gaping at the high-rise the man had parked in front of.

“You have a standing reservation at The fucking Mark?”

Damon opened his door. “Is that a problem?”

If Micah didn’t know better, he would say the man sounded amused.

Micah tried his best to compose himself. “Nope,” he muttered to himself. “No problem at all.” He downed what remained of his champagne before hurrying out of his own door, ignoring the fact that Damon was holding his open for him.

Micah did his best not to gawk at his surroundings as he followed Damon inside the hotel lobby. He was worried the pair of security officers at the front doors would approach – Micah felt more than a little out of place wearing a skirt in The Mark, for Christ’s sake – but Damon must have been well-known there because neither of them glanced their way twice once they caught sight of him.

The pretty blonde behind the front desk perked up as soon as she spotted Damon. “Mr. Romano, sir!” she greeted brightly. Micah spotted a plated nametag attached to her blouse – “Jennifer” it read. “We weren’t expecting you.”

“Is that a problem?” he asked coolly.

“Of course not,” she rushed to assure him, “you know we’re always happy to serve you. Anything you want, I’ll personally make sure you get it.”

Micah couldn’t help but notice how she smooshed her breasts together at that last part, accentuating how perky they were. He was struck by the thought that she made a more convincing prostitute than he did, and an amused snort escaped without his permission.