Rowan mentally slaps himself for already thinking of these men in terms of the names Malcolm has called them, but really, without names, what else is he going to call them? He’d be thinking much the same things, but probably a little less insulting in most cases.

He thinks briefly of the woman who had choked her scene partner a few days ago. I don’t even know his real name, she’d said. Rowan suppresses a shudder. There are positives and negatives to being anonymous in places like this, but for Malcolm that anonymity only goes one way. Because everyone sure as hell knows who he is, but he doesn’t seem interested in learning about anyone else.

There’s only room for one more person, if Malcolm sticks to ten people. And with at least a dozen people still milling around between the two of them, Rowan’s chances are suddenly a lot slimmer than they were a few minutes ago.

Miraculously, Malcolm passes by all of them and stops in front of Rowan. He gives him an obvious once-over from his shoes up to his hair, then quirks his eyebrows at him.

“Never been with a redhead before. Carpet match the drapes?”

Rowan almost rolls his eyes at him, barely stopping himself. He really hates that question, but he does actually want to get picked, so he’s thankful he manages to steel his face.

“Gonna have to see for yourself.”

“Oh yeah? Not gonna pull it out like everyone else?”

“Don’t need to. Either you’re into me or you’re not. My dick’s not gonna change your mind no matter how good it is.”

“You think you’re hot shit, huh.” It’s not a question.

“All the people I’ve made cry seemed to think so.”

Douchey, but true. Rowan knows he’s good in bed. Though he doubts he’d be able to make Malcolm cry in a group full of other people, he’s filled with the sudden hope that he’ll get a chance to try.

He’d love to see those golden eyes filled with tears.

The corners of Malcolm’s lips dip into a quick frown as his eyebrows raise, looking impressed, and he nods. “’Kay. You’re in, then. Better not disappoint me, Red.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Despite the confidence in his words, Rowan’s heart is pounding in his chest. Red. He’d been expecting Carrot Top, Chucky, Bozo, Firecrotch… anything along those lines. Red is a significantly better name than the rest of them, but he doesn’t let himself read into it.

“All right, the rest of ya, get out.”

The size of the crowd had already diminished as Malcolm passed over each person, and the rest file out, the last man closing the doors behind him.

Holy shit.

This is happening.

This is happening.

“Been trying to get in on one of these things for years,” the guy next to Rowan—Van Damme—whispers.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Guy’s supposed to be super fuckin’ hard to please.”

“Says who?”