“You sure?” Royce asks carefully. “I mean, he’s young and has already spoken about her on numerous occasions. He’d be like a dog in heat with all that.”

I stifle a laugh. “She’s getting married, I’ve just got to make sure it’s my dick she’s thinking about when he’s inside her.”

“Damn. Would really love to be a part of this.”

I spend the next two days with Royce, casing out the new L’artisaniant in Chicago. I think deep down, Royce just doesn’t want to leave. I flat-out don’t want him to. Having another L’artisaniant isn’t hard to open or operate. We have been in this business for a long time and have people lining up to be employed here. Some come from home, others we gauge from here. Having it on the upper level of my hotel helps. The hotel my parents left along with the trust fund. The trust fund I couldn’t touch until everything came out.

Pushing open the doors that lead into the club, I stop at the threshold, seeing the dark marble walls and mirrored ceiling.

“Looks good,” Royce says from beside me, and we both make our way to the bar where Orson and Storm are. Storm is now some hot-shot coding genius and Orson plays professional basketball.

“This might be better than the one in San Fran…” Orson looks at me from over his glass, staring down the girl behind the bar.

“Agreed.” The theme of L’artisaniant isn’t for the weak-hearted. Every level, the kink intensifies. Level one is usually where people hover, level three is where Royce stays, but then… he has a limit. They all know I’ve never been lower than four.

“Opening tonight.” Storm sinks the rest of his drink, his eyes shifting between Royce and me. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” I answer before Royce can interfere. “But I need your help with something. I’ll send you over his name, and I want to know everything there is to know.”

“He has a kid,” Royce smirks from behind his glass.

I glare at him. “Asshole.”

“What!” He raises his hands up. “It hasn’t opened yet. We can still talk about our lives for”—he looks down at his watch—“about forty minutes.”

“Damn,” Storm answers, shaking his head. “I don’t wish I was you.”

“Yeah, you do.” Royce chuckles under his breath.

“Both of you shut the fuck up.”

Pushing up from the chair, I head to the escalators behind the bar that take you up to the second level. Each side of the escalator is encased by glass display rooms. In every room, people will be inside, performing. Fucking. Whatever.