Trent walked down the chilly, dimly lit street of his hometown, his breath visible in the cold air. He had just left the strip club with his group of friends, though the experience had left him unmoved.

He never had much interest in women dancing on a pole—it unsettled him more than anything. As he made his way through a narrow alley, he flicked his lighter, igniting his cigar, and the brief warmth of the flame crept into his fingers.

Then he heard it: footsteps behind him, accompanied by soft breathing and faint giggles. The sound grew closer until hands slid around him, tracing his chest and stomach. Trent didn’t flinch; he didn’t need to look. He knew it was Layne.