RELEASE DATE: June 8, 2023. Preorder here: https://geni.us/atlasmb
Audio being recorded later this month for a July release.

CHAPTER ONE SNEAK PEEK

Nothing makes my skin crawl like being ogled while only a string separates my ass cheeks. This job is objectifying, seedy, and downright degrading. I shouldn’t even be here. When I was given the option to pass on this undercover mission—working as a bartender at a strip club—I should’ve taken the out. 

The reason I chose to do this is because I know a secret. One that affects everyone’s future at Mike Bravo Ops. If I want to show Trav that I’m future leader material, I need to prove I’m not a one-trick pony. However, the longer I’m here, working in only a thong and bow tie, I’m failing to see exactly how Trav will be impressed.

As I deliver a drink to a rowdy bachelor party group, my bare ass is groped for the millionth time. The black thong I wear is tiny, and it barely covers my junk. It takes all my effort not to grab this guy’s wrist and snap it. I’m a genuinely sweet guy, or so everyone says, but I have my limits. Disrespecting someone’s body and consent is one of them. What someone is wearing isn’t an invitation, and I’d really love to teach these assholes that lesson. But blowing my cover at this point of my assignment will not only make me a failure, but it’ll show Trav I can’t run my own op, let alone lead a team.

My objective sounded simple at first: Pose as a bartender at Peaches and figure out if one of the co-owners is embezzling money from the other. They can’t hire a forensic accountant when the strip club is tied up in a money laundering scheme for one of the biggest drug rings in California.

Lyle Ivanov hired Mike Bravo to get to the bottom of the missing money, but I’ve been here for two months and have earned the trust of exactly zero employees. I’ve managed to get information on their side business of running drugs, who their supplier is, and where one of their cook houses is located, and Trav’s on a mission to shut their drug business down, but that’s not supposed to be my objective here. It’s a bonus, becoming an inconvenience to the organized crime lords that run this place, but not my objective. 

The job here is one of those borderline situations where Trav probably wouldn’t have accepted it, but he was busy saving his boyfriend’s life at the time, and Domino was in charge. We’d debated it, went back and forth, because while Mike Bravo isn’t exactly on the right side of the law all the time, Trav does try to do good in the world.

He’s also not delusional, and shutting down the drug operation will only be temporary, but it’s something.

My focus is on the money, but when I’ve managed to sneak into the offices out the back, all I could find were the fake book logs and records they’ve cooked up for the IRS if they come knocking. I need access to Lyle’s business partner, David Smith, his money flow and finances, but the money he’s taking is all in cash. His electronic financial records—or what Saint can find of them—are all legit. Or appear legit, at least.

I need more intel, but I don’t even have the cooperation of the man who hired us. Lyle is never here, and I’m supposed to pretend I don’t know him if he does come in because if his business partner finds out he’s investigating him, someone is going to get killed. 

Hell, with their already untrusting dynamic, no matter what I find, if anything at all, it’s most likely going to end with someone disappearing for good. With the connections they each have separately and together, it’s almost inevitable.

When it comes to that, I hope neither of them hires Mike Bravo to protect them. Providing that service for people I can’t respect would be another hard line for me. 

The sex industry as a whole is exploitative. The actual act of exchanging services for money, the sex workers, and nudity in general doesn’t get to me, but the way workers are treated angers me.

Because of my size, my six-five ex-navy SEAL frame, most guys see me as a walking sex doll, and I hate it. I want to be seen as more than my physical appearance, so working here, where I’m not only objectified but being assaulted by groping hands every five seconds … it doesn’t sit right with me.

I go back behind the bar to start making the next order. I slump when the point-of-sale system shows it was made from the same table. 

“Did one of them seriously make another order as soon as I walked away?” I ask Roland, the other waiter-slash-bartender on tonight. 

“Yep. They do it so you have to go back over there to cop another feel.” He shudders. “I’ve only been here a month, and I’m already over it. I thought working behind the bar would be safer than up there.” He nods toward the stage, where there’s a man—more like a boy—slowly pulling off his thong.

I’ve noticed some of the dancers do full nudity, some don’t. I try to be respectful by turning away when it gets to that point.

Roland doesn’t have the same hesitance. He watches as the dancer I only know as Frenchie does his routine. 

Another thing I’ve noticed is the ones who do go full-frontal nudity are more inclined to hang back a bit on the stage, and considering how many hands have been on my ass in the last two months, I can see why.

It’s assault just waiting to happen if they get any closer.

It’s disgusting how some people think that because they’re dancers, they can be treated less than human.

That’s not how this works. 

I finish putting the ingredients in a shaker for yet another cocktail to be sent table eight’s way and lift my arms above my right shoulder to mix it well. The hoots and hollers break out a couple of seconds later from the exact table this is going to. 

“You should charge extra for the arm porn you’re giving them,” Roland says.

I force a smile through gritted teeth. “These guns better bring in tips.” Not that I need the money; Mike Bravo pays amazingly well. But I need to play the part of broke bartender.

“Sadly, the only way to get great tips is by being onstage, it seems.” He continues to watch Frenchie, and that’s when I see something else in his eyes. It’s not anything sexual. It’s … fear. 

“You need more money?” I ask because that’s the impression I’m getting.

“More shifts would be good, but I’m not at ‘shaking my ass on a stage’ levels of desperation yet.”

I feel bad for him because the number one reason I hate the sex industry is that a lot of people in it don’t have any other choice. Not everyone, but a lot.

“From what I’ve seen in only the two months I’ve been here, there’s very high staff turnover. More shifts will be available soon.”

I’ve been run off my feet, and I’m here under fake circumstances.

I deliver the drink and somehow manage to avoid wandering hands on me this time, but I walk away, expecting them to immediately scan the QR code on the table and order again.

The strobe lights flash, the smoke machine works overtime, but even through the thick fog and blinding lights, I can see Roland check the POS and shake his head. I’m not even back at the bar yet, for fuck’s sake.

Tonight is going to be a long night.

And as if on cue, the only thing that could make tonight worse walks through the doors. My Mike Bravo teammates, Iris, Saint, Alphabet, Decaf, and worst of all: Zeus. 

It’s their favorite pastime lately—endlessly mocking me for my new work uniform. They at least respect that I have a job to do here and pretend they don’t know me as they approach and shove dollar bills into my thong with matching smirks on their faces. 

They’re lucky I don’t shove them right out of this building. Assholes. 

I forget why I love them. 

Zeus pretends to fix my bow tie around my neck. “If you need me to take over, say the word.” 

Oh, right. That’s why I love them. They’re my teammates first, tormenting brother types second. 

“With your track record, you’d think you’d know you’re not allowed to touch in an establishment like this.” I swat his hand away from my neck. “Find a seat anywhere and order drinks from the QR codes, gentlemen.” I walk away from Zeus asking me to flex my ass.

“You know them?” Roland asks when I get back behind the bar.

“They’ve been here a couple of times. They’re another group of table eights.”

“Fun for us, then.”

Unsurprisingly, my team of unruly, overgrown frat boys is rowdier than everyone else, including the incels at table eight, which I’m thankful for because it somehow makes the drink orders from that direction slow right down.

Frenchie finishes his set, and because he’s completely naked, a bouncer gets up to collect the tips onstage for him. I’m finding that each dancer has different quirks or ways they do things, which is interesting. Frenchie is okay with full nudity, but he protects himself in ways others don’t.

One dancer in particular isn’t so careful, which is probably why he gets the most tips. He’s flirty, lets clients touch him way more than any other dancer, and as he takes the stage as he always does after Frenchie, the crowd—including my brothers in arms—goes wild for him.

I can understand it in the most basic ways. He has bleach-blond hair, is fucking gorgeous, and he has that sweet, innocent face with a sinful body. From what everyone has told me about him, he’s a lifer. He’s worked here since he was eighteen, and even though he’s older now, he still looks like a typical mouthwatering twink.

The attraction to him, I’ll freely admit to myself, is purely physical—and I try not to objectify him, but it’s hard. Yeah, I’m a hypocrite. I can’t help judging his profession while at the same time admiring it. Admiring him.

I love watching the way he moves. I might not understand his choices or why he’s been here for so long, but there’s something about him that seems so … perfect.

It has to be the thousands of dollars’ worth of fillers in his face and pouty lips … and probably his ass too. Surely, no one’s natural ass is that round and—

A hand slams down on the bar in front of me, and I flinch because I didn’t even sense someone standing there. Luckily—or not so luckily—it’s not a real customer but my boss, Trav, and his DEA agent boyfriend, Rogue.

Trav no doubt wants an update, and I’ve got nothing. The most I’ve given him in the last two months has been where the club’s main source of drugs comes from—and that’s not even in my job description here.

“What can I get you?” I ask and side-eye Roland. 

Trav wiggles his finger for me to come closer, so I lean in, and he whispers just loud enough for me to hear over the music, “How are you holding up?”

I straighten. “Martini straight up? No problem.”

He understands without me having to spell it out, and sure, I don’t have any news for him, but there really is no problem here. Yet.

“I’m impatient. How long will my drink take?”

“As long as it takes,” I say back.

“I changed my mind, then. Have you heard of a drink called a back alley?”

“I’ll get right on that. What table will you be sitting at?”

He points to the other Mike Bravo guys.

When he walks away, I make him a bullshit drink and add the worst ingredients possible. If he’s too busy dying, he won’t ream me for not getting any answers yet. I add Sambuca, Fireball, and peppermint schnapps to orange juice and add grenadine to a glass.

“People actually drink that?” Roland asks when he sees.

“Apparently. Are you able to take it over to him? I’m going to take my break while there’s a lull.”

“Sure.” He adds Trav’s drink to a tray with two other single orders, and I head out back, where the dancers’ break room-slash dressing room-slash locker rooms are.

I go to my locker, grab some jeans and a jacket, and head to the back alley to meet Trav.

The warm LA night means I leave the jacket undone. I wouldn’t wear anything up top at all if it weren’t for being self-conscious. That, and if Trav and I are caught out here, I don’t want anyone to think we were fucking around.

There’s a strict no fucking the clients rule, but I’ve seen dancers take guys into back rooms, and when they come back out, the patrons are way too happy to have only received a lap dance. In my experience, having some stranger grinding up on my dick for a couple of minutes doesn’t put that kind of smile on my face. That only comes after getting off.

Trav joins me in the back alley a couple of minutes later, giving me enough time to suck in some air and compose myself and figure out what I’m going to say.

“The meth house you sent me to?” are his first words. “Got interrupted by DEA before I could get any good information.”

I snort. “Got interrupted by your boyfriend?”

“Yep. He was not happy to see me there. Pretended to arrest me and everything.”

“Unlike the other time where he actually arrested you?”

He waves me off. “We’ve only got a few minutes. Why don’t you tell me everything I need to know instead of mocking me and my boyfriend’s relationship?”

“I’ve still got nothing,” I admit. “And it sucks. I don’t know how much more sneaking around I can do without getting caught. Someone’s here during the day cleaning, security comes in before the dancers, and there’s way too many people at night. They should have suggested we go in as cleaners. Other than that, David Smith is hardly ever in, so I can’t figure out when he could be taking the cash seeing as his digital financials are clean so far.”

Trav rubs his stubbled chin. “Okay, tell me who the biggest gossip queen working here is? You need to get in with them.”

There’s an easy answer for that, but I don’t want to give it because I have mixed feelings on the guy. Attractive, yes. An amazing dancer? Can’t take my eyes off him. But personally? He’s an over-the-top, flamboyant queen who takes more guys to the back room than any other. He might catch my eye, but he’s too easy. In a non-slut-shaming kind of way. I want to work for attention. Earn it.

And maybe I’m hesitating to say his name because I do have that instant attraction to him that I never trust.

“What’s wrong with him?” Trav asks before I can even answer. “You have someone in your head already. It’s obvious.”

“Are we really going to get to the bottom of this case by trusting rumors?”

“Investigating them, at least. So, who is he?”

I relent. “One of the dancers. He’s been here the longest, so he knows everyone and everything, but he’s … confusing.”

“Confusing how?”

“I just … haven’t vibed with him.” Haven’t wanted to.

“You’re going to have to get close to him. If anyone would know anything about the dealings of this place, it would be him. What’s his name?”

“His stage name is Lemon. I don’t know his real name.”

“Then find out. We need to start producing results, and he’s the key. This stealthy backdoor dealings and sneaking around isn’t working anymore. You need a new objective.”

Now I really don’t want to do this mission because doing it means I need to get close to … him.

“How do you propose I even start up a conversation with this guy who I’ve worked with for months but have barely uttered a word to?”

Trav cracks one of his rare smiles that only come out when he has a plan. A dangerous, shitty, or ridiculous one. “Leave that up to me. See you back in there.”

That scares me more than talking to Lemon.

*************

RELEASE DATE: June 8, 2023. Preorder here: https://geni.us/atlasmb