The Game

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Nick Casey leaned back in his chair and sipped his bourbon. The club wasn't very busy for a Friday night, and the pickings were rather slim. He sat near a speaker where music thumped its low bass, almost in time to his heartbeat.

His one night off this week, and so far it didn't seem he'd find anyone to spend some quality time with before he headed home. He worked for the city's transportation department, running big machinery, working nights mostly, when the roads under construction weren't so heavily congested.

The alcohol burned a sweet path down his throat as he sipped. He'd worked ten days straight and needed tonight.

But his discouragement grew as he watched the comings and goings of Inferno patrons. Some he knew. Most he didn't. But he had one particular type in mind tonight, someone to get a little wild with, but so far he saw no one who fit the bill.

Then he walked in.

Nick's mouth went a little dry, and he sat up in his chair, tracking the man's movements across the club. He was at least six foot three and built like a brick house with skin the color of dark chocolate. Nick was as white as they came, but he loved him some chocolate now and then.

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