exactly what I was trying to do now. And then the door clicked open behind me.
“Just a minute, man,” I managed through gritted teeth. But when I looked in the mirror, I saw the glint of hunger in my client’s eyes. He closed the door and locked it, trapping me in the bathroom with him. My heart leapt into high gear, racing like a rabbit’s. A rolling nausea built in my gut.
“Don’t play hard to get,” Roger said. “This will feel good for both of us.” He approached me quickly, crossing the small space in two steps. His arms braced me in on either side, the hardness of his erection pressed into the seam of my ass.
My stomach threatened to revolt, and I had to work to twist around so that I was facing him and would hopefully have more leverage. He leaned into me and bit my collarbone; I hissed against the pain. I put my hands to his chest and tried to push him off, but he grabbed my wrists and brought one of my palms to his cock, rubbing himself into me.
“S-s-stop,” I stuttered, panic spiking. My breaths were quick bursts and my muscles so tensed I thought they might snap.
“You don’t want me to stop. You like it. You’re a pretty little fuck boy—don’t think I can’t see it,” he said into my neck, nuzzling into me and continuing to rock his hardness into me, dry-humping my hand. “I’ve seen you at the club before. You’re always leaving with someone. This isn’t any different.”
In my early teens, my anger had a tendency of manifesting itself in brawls, and one of those fights had gone too far. The other kid had been hurt bad—and combined with other offenses on my record, I’d been sent away. If there was one thing they’d drilled into me during my time there, it was how important it was to stay out of trouble. When you looked like me and had the record I had, a single punch could turn into an assault charge and time in jail in a second.
But what Roger was doing to me was assault, and he wasn’t listening to me. And if there was one lesson that had stuck with me even longer than staying out of trouble, it was this: When words no longer worked, fists did.
I managed to free my hands in a vicious jerk, and as he reared back in surprise, I sucker punched his eye, making sure my knuckles grazed the cartilage of his nose on the follow through. Roger’s nose didn’t break, but I knew it hurt him like a son of a bitch. He’d be sporting a shiner for at least a week.
“You piece of shit!” he screamed, words muffled by the hands he had pressed to his nose.
But he didn’t fight back. No, the man’s swagger was wrapped up entirely in trying to make others submit. He was a manipulator. I had grown up a fighter.
I pushed past him to unlock the door. It swung open and Reagan was there, keys in his hand—that motherfucker had locked me in—and his face stormy. He pointed to the client with a finger that shook with rage. “You don’t touch my staff. Ever.”
“He’s the one who punched me!” There was blood dripping through the fingers he had pressed to his nose. Maybe I had broken it after all. “I’m going to sue you assholes!”
“I don’t think so,” Reagan said. “You think I didn’t hear Javi tell you no? You think I don’t have you following him into the bathroom on camera? You’re banned from the shop. If I ever see you around again, I’m calling the fucking cops.”
The client left without paying, but I didn’t care. I’d begun shaking, small tremors that rippled out after a spike of adrenaline. Each time I let myself be still, I could feel his body crushed into me, and I wanted to puke.
Reagan ran his hands through his wild red hair, his pale skin flushed deep pink. He paced around, the bulk of his body managing to make me feel both safe and nervous. He was like a father to me, and I couldn’t stand the thought of harming him in a fit of anxiety.
“I s-s-shouldn’t have p-p-punched him,” I said, each word a mountain of effort to produce.
Reagan stopped pacing and looked at me. “Did he touch you?” He yelled and signed at the same time. I nodded. “Then I’m glad you punched him. Are you