yoga mentor?”
“No. Well, yes. But no.” Ben rolled his eyes, and Oliver knew he was exasperated with himself. “Coming to the academy has been a big adjustment for me.”
“A big adjustment for the academy as well, according to Mr. Falk.” Her lips quirked, just enough to indicate that her dry statement passed for humor.
“Er…yes. Sorry about that.” The blush that colored Ben’s cheeks was adorable.
No, wait. Not adorable. Shit.
“So, um, Oliver—Mr. Zuraw—has been instrumental in helping me settle in and focus on my classes. Our talks every morning get me prepared for the day and I just…really appreciate his time.”
“Your daily talks—and developing relationship—are exactly why we’re here,” she said.
Developing relationship? There wasn’t. Unless…the walks. He should never have instituted their walks. Damn it. He’d known it was overstepping—he was supposed to be the yoga instructor, for god’s sake, not a poor excuse for a counselor. And now he’d gone and gotten them both into trouble, because someone had probably seen them and jumped to conclusions and… Crap.
“Ma’am—” Oliver started.
Alyce raised her hand. “I think I should perhaps speak now.”
Oliver pressed his lips together and subsided.
“You were asked to tutor Mr. Beaufort in yoga and flexibility. By all reports I’ve received, you’ve been doing so, but your interactions have progressed beyond that.”
“I—”
“That was not a question, Mr. Zuraw.” Alyce pressed her fingertips together. “Mr. Beaufort, your marks in all of your classes—with the exception of physical fitness—have been outstanding. All of your instructors have nothing but excellent things to say about you, which bodes well for your future career.”
“I…uh, thank you.” The bouncing of Ben’s knee slowed considerably.
“Yes. The two of you will do nicely.” Alyce sat back with a satisfied smile and retrieved a folder from one of the drawers of her desk. “Gentlemen, I have a job for you.”
6
The thumping bass reverberated past the club’s doors, growing louder every time the door opened to let someone in or out. Ben didn’t recognize the music, but he supposed that wasn’t the point—all it needed was a beat. He paid his cover and stepped into the cacophony.
The club was an assault on all of his senses. Beyond the music, there were flashing lights, white, red, green, yellow blue, strobing across the stage and into the audience. He narrowed his eyes to filter out the worst of it. The air throbbed with scents—alcohol and sweat, but arousal, too. It took everything in him not to wrinkle his nose.
This was not his scene. But it had been Barrett DuBois’s, and for a few hours, that’s who Ben was.
When the Director had proposed her plan, Ben had thought Oliver was going to have a stroke. He’d protested—politely but firmly—and had been just as firmly overruled. FUC was in a bind and they needed help. A criminal informant who was supposed to make contact with an up-and-coming mob boss had overdosed and died, leaving FUC in the lurch. They needed the in with the boss so they could set up an undercover agent later. The catch? The CI had been a bison shifter, and finding a stand-in from the active FUC members was all but impossible. Until someone realized they had a bison bull in training at the academy.
So here he was, pretending to be a small-time but especially trustworthy drug mule looking for work from this new criminal on the scene. Over the past two days, he’d gotten a crash course in undercover work, a rundown on what he needed to do, and the assurance he wouldn’t be alone in the club. He looked around surreptitiously for his backup, but everyone was focused on the stage and the dancer performing. Ben glanced that way…and nearly swallowed his tongue.
The dancer was Oliver. Totally glammed up and almost unrecognizable, but definitely Oliver. Ben had spent enough time watching his yoga instructor’s body over the past few weeks to spot it even under all of the glittery paint, heavy makeup, loose, long hair, and, uh, lack of clothes.
He felt a throb low in his gut that had nothing to do with the overpowering music as Oliver gyrated around the pole near the front of the stage, smiling coyly at the audience and pulling at the straps of his g-string. A few men held out bills and Oliver crawled toward them so they could tuck them under the elastic. The round globes of his ass glittered, sparkling under the strobe lights, and Ben suddenly wanted to bite one of them.
“Hey!” Ben jerked his gaze away from the