Clint let out a gasp, dragging his covers back and stumbling off the couch before his eyes were half open. The claws of his nightmare clung deep, every marred piece of flesh tingling in memory and agony. His brain was so fucked that he could feel the suffering of his dreams.

His body flashed hot as he clutched the arm of the couch, his legs trembling under his own weight. Fire was tricky. What used to give him the greatest pleasure had also ripped his nerves apart, leaving him numb along the ravaged parts of his flesh.

The accident. He shuddered, pulling his shirt over his head before tossing it onto the floor. The air conditioning was cranked despite the cool night, but it still wasn’t enough to destroy the memory of smoke that clogged his nostrils. Sweat poured from his body, streaking down his back to the waistband of his track pants.

He ripped them off next, tossing them next to his shirt. Too hot. Too hot. They landed in a heap next to a similar pair that was riddled with just as many holes.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed the heels of his hands to them, trying to squash the phantom flickering of lights and the pounding headache.

It didn’t seem to matter how much time had passed or how many times the nightmares woke him. It never got any easier.

The same face still haunted him, so clear that he could feel himself touching Ross’ lips, his mouth open and slack and his sightless eyes staring. No more words. No more songs.

“Fuck.” Reaching for his blankets, he ripped them from the couch, tossing them among the rest of the clothes. They were damp to the touch, reeking of sweat and that sour tang of fear that coated his tongue and made his mouth run dry. No amount of alcohol or water would quench his thirst enough to remove that taste—not when most of it was in his mind.

It had been better when he’d been sleeping on the small waterproof cot in the old club with little for blankets and a sore back so he rarely slept deep enough to dream. But in the virtual lap of luxury and the comfortable couch, his mind had taken to wandering at night.

The king-sized bed was out of the question.

All it would take was one faulty wire in the walls, and it would all go up in flames. He knew the builders and trusted them enough to sink a few million dollars into the construction, but everyone made mistakes. A slip from an electrician or a bad day at work and poof.

“Fuck. Stop thinking about it.” He bit his lip, growling under his breath as he stalked to the bathroom. The plush carpet was soft against his bare feet, but just as warm as the rest of him. He needed ice, or ceramic tile cold enough to suck the fire right out of him.

Flicking the bathroom light on, he started the shower, adjusting the water as cold as it could possibly go. There had been a time in his life when cold showers had had an actual purpose, but now they barely helped him cope.

But how could he avoid them when Ross’ memory had been all but erased in the new build? Everything they had grown together from the ugly ass curtains he’d picked out, to the bar top that was hard to keep clean on the best of days. Even the fucking rat trap Clint had kept under the bar after Ross had seen one of the buggers scoping out the place—gone.

The only thing left were the dreams.

His skin prickled as he ducked under the water, a shiver running over him. In the dead of winter, it would be cold enough that it would feel like dunking under ice and trapping himself beneath a surface, where frost would be a blessing.

His jaw trembled and his teeth chattered of their own accord, his body fighting the brutal temperature. I can last. I can do this.

Finally, the fire started to simmer from its inferno, tapering to the numbness that was a part of his life now. The phantoms wisped away, his head clearing until he could see the beige tile of the bathroom and the black countertop through the sheer glass shower stall.

I’m awake. This isn’t a dream.

The numbness was easy to deal with compared to the rest. If someone got frisky in the bar and tried to land a punch, he hardly felt the bruise if it landed anywhere on his chest or stomach. He was lucky that he still had most of the feeling in his hands and could still mix a drink. Yeah…lucky.

He’d had to take care of fights more often than not since he’d owned the kink club Unkinked. Even after he’d moved the club from a bar to a more private setting, there had still been a few incidents. There was always drama in his life and people coming and going. It was the ones who stayed that made the lifestyle worth living.

Maddy, Trick, Derreck, Malone, Keady… He couldn’t list all the ones who had become the closest to his heart, even if they didn’t quite fill the gaping hole.

The truth was, he loved people, but they were assholes. Even his best friends were assholes when the mood struck them.

Trick, whom he’d known for years and had mentored, had still violated the community’s rules. And Derreck, his virtual fucking rock, had cracked before his eyes over a man who had weaseled his way into Clint’s employment, not to mention the stunt Keady had pulled—and Nikita, the secretive bastard.

Grabbing his body wash, Clint squirted some onto a cloth, running it over his skin as he tilted his head into the spray. The scent of citrus cut the last of the lingering smoke, soothing the ache in his chest.

Without them, he was nothing but a nurse turned kinky bastard. At the same time, sometimes he wondered where they would be without him. It was the selfish thoughts that had kept him from locking the doors and wandering off.

Why couldn’t I have been there for them sooner? Where did I go wrong? How the hell am I going to stop the next crash? He hadn’t found a cure for the drama yet.

He stayed in the shower as long as he could take it, roughly scrubbing his hair just before he stepped out. There wasn’t a spot of steam in the room, but his eyes were still cloudy, barely able to focus on the mirror that hung above the vanity. It wasn’t doing him any justice this morning.

Layers of black and gray were smeared beneath his eyes in a shadow that was so permanent he wondered if he’d ever looked any different. His eyes were bloodshot from what he could tell, with a touch too much scruff on his chin, as usual. Handsome devil.

Ross had called him that every day, no matter what role they had been in. Two switches, living in a twenty-four-seven, should have been a fucking disaster, but for them, it had worked. There had never been another man like Ross. There never will be.

He’d had his show, his high, and he’d lived that part of his life. Sure, he dabbled with his Dominant side sometimes, especially when he was figuring other people’s shit out, or looking after the godforsaken bills, but his submissive side was buried so deep that he was never letting it out again.

Cutler had tried…

Clint shivered, sliding his hand up his chest to the hardness of his sternum. His heart beat slow and steady, a simple thump beneath his hand that gave no indication as to how important it was. The last time it had raced had been with Cutler, but he hadn’t let go. There was no way he could with Ross’ memory just as fresh as it had been the day he’d passed.

He moved his hand lower, settling his fingers by his belly button. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was someone else wrapping their hand around his waist, ready to tug him back into their chest. The embrace would be warm and strong, their scent calming his racing nerves as his mouth went dry.

But no.

Those days were over.

Not bothering with a towel, he made his way to the closet, rifling through the drawers until he found something comfortable. Most of his things had holes in them now from too many washes in the crappy machine he’d had at the club. His new washer was a highly efficient beast that only used a tablespoon of soap.

Sticking his fingers through one of the holes in a shirt, he grumbled under his breath. His pointer finger went straight through without much fuss, and that was the smallest of the few spots. His pants were in a similar state, but he couldn’t exactly go without those.

Before seven in the morning rolled around, he headed out of his part of the house into the area where his real home was. When he’d hired Shelvin to build him a kink haven, he hadn’t really expected it to turn out so well. And Elliot, Shelvin’s sub, had kept Shelvin’s feet on the ground through the project so it hadn’t gone too far out of scope.

They’d been so worried about the money.

Clint scoffed, running his hand along one of the gray walls as he headed to the open play area. He didn’t give a shit about the money. When someone got enough zeros to their name, the value of those zeros truly stopped mattering.

He used to be the kind of person who would do anything for an extra shot of cash. Funnily enough, it had been the reason he’d approached Ross in the first place. The man had been a known playboy, with a bank account that was the talk of the town. If only they had known.

Clint had hoped that maybe he could be a sugar baby for Ross, back when he’d had a look that had been closer to that of a twink than the muscle mass he had now. That hope had lasted until the first time he’d dominated Ross, and the real rush had begun. He hadn’t exactly known he was a switch—just that he wasn’t exactly a sub. Ross hadn’t known either, but fuck, it had been magical.

Until it hadn’t been anymore.

Scrubbing at his face, Clint flicked the lights on for the open play area, pausing for a moment to take in the sight. It would never get old—the room, the implements or the memories of screams and moans. To some, it probably looked like a torture chamber, but it was a playground for kinksters of every kind.

Some preferred the cross as the perfect tool of restraint, while others steered closer to the impact tools on the wall. The couches had been an excellent idea that Maddy had thrown in during the build. What better way is there to watch someone get their ass beaten than reclined on a La-Z-Boy?

They’d settled on a waterproof material that didn’t recline, but it was close enough. The lack of a bar was the only thing that unsettled him about the place. But the bar had been Ross’. It hadn’t been right to just move on and replace it.

Ross had built the bar top at the old club, spending days sanding and staining it until it had been perfect. Clint had never expected someone like him to be so good with a hammer, but maybe it had made sense. Those same fingers could wield a whip, knife or flame with equal determination.

Fuck. Staggering, he grasped the edge of the nearest couch as his eyes prickled. Strength drained from his limbs in an instant, and his knees hit the floor, bile burning in his throat as his chest went tight. Fuck. Fuck.

He couldn’t do it. Not on his own. The walls were empty, the heat an echo of what he’d built with Ross.

“Clint!”

He turned to the sound, flinching when he saw Maddy standing at the entrance of the room. His eyes were wide as he rushed across the room, his feet pattering on the floor.

Double fuck. He had all of two seconds before Maddy knelt next to him, his eyes searching for some kind of wound. The way he settled on Clint’s scars with longing, even if only for a moment, made it so much worse.

“S’okay, kid. I just tripped and banged my knee is all. I was just feeling sorry for myself,” said Clint. His words were slow before he forced in a deep breath. The smile was harder, barely touching his lips before it slipped away again. It seemed to fool Maddy, though, who instantly relaxed.

He was a sweet kid, but naïve as all hell. As far as Clint knew, he’d been a forty-year-old virgin before he’d met Derreck and that ship had sailed in a burst of pure sadistic drama.

“Don’t call me kid,” said Maddy, a pout touching his lips before he stood, fiddling with his hands. “I’m probably older than you, you know.”

Nope. “Only in your looks,” said Clint. The grin came easier as Maddy sent him a glare. Tugging at the couch, he tested out his legs, only making it halfway before his knees started to tremble.

“Do you need help or something?” asked Maddy, taking a step back, despite his words. A snuggly guy, he was not. And although he did get close to Derreck, his touches were often more exploratory than affectionate. Almost like a cat’s.

“I think I pinched a nerve,” said Clint, screwing up his face as he managed to heave himself the rest of the way onto the couch. Every limb trembled, and he clenched his jaw as his teeth threatened to chatter. His side ached, his skin tingling as it flared pink under his gaze. Sometimes it felt like he was still in the past—still on fire.

“Uh-huh.” Maddy crossed his arms as he took a seat of his own.

There were a few inches between them, and Clint had the strangest urge to close the gap. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the fleeting thought. Maddy was not his type in the least, and Derreck would probably murder him if Clint made a move on his sub. Just a hug?

“What are you doing here so early?” asked Clint, once his voice was finally a bit steadier. “I’m not paying you overtime.” That was a joke. Maddy wrote his own damn paychecks after Clint had maybe forgotten a few times. He paid himself what he wanted, and Clint signed on the dotted line. When it wasn’t enough, Clint made sure to add an extra zero.

“Derreck was just getting back home, and he woke me up with cold hands,” said Maddy, shrugging as he continued to flick his gaze up and down Clint’s body. “I blew him, but I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I thought I would work on cleaning up the Feel room after that fiasco last night.”

Oh man. Clint let out a groan, letting his head fall into his hands. “I forgot about that.”

Maddy widened his eyes, raising one eyebrow. “How? I mean, that was a literal shit show.”

Yep. That was one membership that Clint was terminating with extreme prejudice. There was a reason he had themed rooms for certain kinks. Just another asshole stomping on the rules.

“I’ll take care of it. Let me set out the impact stuff first. Keady pulled a cleaning shift last night, and they are spotless, sanitized and ready for the next ass.” Whenever I can get my ass off the couch, that is. If he stood now, he would just go down again, even if he was feeling a hell of a lot better.

Maddy’s presence always did that somehow.

“Your mind has been wandering a lot lately,” said Maddy, making no move to stand. “It was worse in the old bar when you were trying to do things on your own. I thought you were doing better here, but now you just seem…different.”

Clint let out a whistle, trying to lighten the mood. “That’s heavy coming from you.”

He wasn’t even trying to be insulting. Maddy was just one of those guys who failed to see optimism sometimes. I’m fine…really.

“Well, you don’t listen to anyone else who says anything.” Maddy scratched his chin where a small flake of dirt came away. He looked at it, a fond smile on his face. “And I used to get like that way before I found Derreck. Maybe you need a scene.”

A choke caught in his throat that he tried to turn into a cough, covering his mouth with his hand. “A scene is the last thing I need. I get to be a part of a dozen of those every day.”

“No, you don’t,” said Maddy, sending him a fierce look that was probably the sole reason people didn’t mess with him, even when Derreck wasn’t around. “You watch…that’s it. I spent my whole life watching people and wondering why nothing made sense. I didn’t actually become a person until I met Derreck.”

Heavy. Clint grimaced, shaking out his hand when his fingers started to tingle again. His hands hadn’t even been burned that badly, and they didn’t have scars, but the nerves were still fucked. “That’s different.”

Maddy let out a humorless laugh before he stood from the couch. “You keep telling yourself that, boss, and someday you might start to believe it.” As he walked away, he paused at the entryway, shooting a look over his shoulder. “Go back to sleep. I’ve got this.”