Sinful Pleasure (MFM)

An Old Friend's Favour

CHAPTER 3 – An Old Friend’s Favour

POV: Damien

Marcus arrived at seven-thirty, preceded—as always—by the sound of his own voice. He was halfway through the door and already shedding his jacket, waving at my bartenders like he was the one signing their paychecks. He wasn't, but he’d been making himself at home here for so long that the staff didn't know the difference anymore.

"You look like hell," he said, dropping into the leather chair across from me with a heavy sigh.

"You say that every week, Marcus."

"And every week, I’m right. You spend too much time in this basement, Damien. You’re starting to look like a Victorian ghost." He picked up the menu, squinted at it for two seconds, and slapped it back down. He’s ordered the same thing for five years, but he still insists on checking if the prices changed. "Scotch. Neat. And tell them not to drown it this time."

"Nobody watered it down last time. You just drank it too fast."

"Someone definitely watered it down."

I caught the bartender’s eye and gave a small nod. Marcus leaned back, his eyes roaming the room with that easy, sprawling comfort he brought everywhere. It had taken him exactly three visits to stop being "surprised" by the club’s atmosphere. Now, he sat in Sinful Pleasures the same way he sat in his own den—feet out, guard down, taking up space.

"Place looks good," he admitted.

"It always looks good."

"Take the damn compliment, Damien. It won't kill you."

"Thank you, Marcus."

He grinned, that sharp, infectious look that had gotten us both into—and out of—too much trouble back in the day. When the drinks arrived, he tapped his glass against mine. "You remember that dive on Clement? The one with the floors that sounded like Velcro when you walked?"

"Donovan’s." I couldn't help the ghost of a smile.

"Donovan’s." He shook his head, looking into his scotch like it was a crystal ball. "We thought we were kings in that place. Two-dollar drafts and a dartboard that was missing the twenty-ring."

"You put a dart through the front window."

"My hand slipped."

"You were trying to impress a girl in a leather jacket. You missed by four feet."

He laughed—that big, barrel-chested sound that seemed to vibrate the ice in my glass. I’d known him since we were twenty-three, broke, and dangerously convinced we were the smartest people in every room. The tragedy was that we’d been right, a fact that still seemed to surprise both of us. "Long way from Donovan’s," he murmured, his voice softening.

"A lifetime," I agreed.

We sat in the quiet for a few minutes. It was the kind of silence only old friends can manage—no pressure to perform, no need to fill the air. But I could feel something humming under his skin. Marcus is a loud man, but he has a very specific way of becoming "still" when he’s worried.

"Alright," I said, setting my glass down. "What is it?"

He didn't play dumb. "What?"

"You’ve checked your watch three times, and you’re drinking scotch instead of the bourbon you’ve been obsessed with all winter. Something’s eating you."

Marcus rubbed the back of his neck, his shoulders dropping an inch. "It’s Kai."

I felt the shift in my gut. I knew where this was headed. "He’s still floating?"

"Worse. He dropped out of the second semester, like I told you. But now... he’s just drifting. Picking up odd bar shifts, hanging out with people I don't recognize, coming home at four in the morning with that look in his eyes. He’s not a bad kid, Damien. He’s just... unanchored."

"He’s twenty-one. Most twenty-one-year-olds are unanchored."

"Not like this. He’s too smart for his own good, and he’s bored. Boredom is a poison for a kid like him." Marcus leaned forward, his face dead serious. "I need him somewhere this summer. Somewhere with walls. Someone I trust to keep an eye on him without him realizing he’s being watched."

The air in the booth felt suddenly cramped. "No," I said.

Marcus blinked. "I haven't even asked yet."

"You want me to give him a job here. The answer is no."

"He’s a good worker. Fast, handles people well—"

"Marcus, look around you." I gestured to the room, to the low lights and the specific, charged atmosphere of the lounge. "This isn't a summer camp. It’s an adult environment with a very particular set of rules. I am not putting your son behind my bar and asking him to pretend he doesn't see what goes on here."

"He isn't a child, Damien."

"He’s your child. That makes it different."

Marcus went quiet. He looked at me with an expression that was raw and uncharacteristically tired. "I’m asking you because I trust you. I don't want him in some random bar downtown where the bouncers sell more than they stop. I want him somewhere. I know the man in charge."

"The answer is still no."

"It’ll be bar work only. He doesn't have to see the private rooms. You can keep him in the front—"

"I said no, Marcus."

We sat there, locked in a silent staring match. I knew his tells, but he knew mine, too. He’d seen me survive boardrooms and breakups; he knew exactly where the armour was thin.

"You didn't say 'get out,'" Marcus noted quietly.

"I said no."

"You said it in that 'I’m trying to be logical' voice. Not your 'we’re done here' voice." He tilted his head, a small, annoying smirk tugging at his mouth. "You’re already thinking about where to put him on the schedule."

"Marcus, I swear—"

"One summer. Just the bar. You don't even have to talk to him if you don't want to. Let Lena manage him. You won’t even know he’s there." He reached across the table, his hand heavy on my arm. "I’m asking as your friend, Damien. I don't trade on that often."

He was right. He didn't. Which made it impossible to walk away.

I finished my scotch, the burn of it hitting my throat. I looked out at the club—the controlled, perfect world I’d built—and then back at the man who knew exactly how messy my life had been before I built it.

"I’ll think about it," I muttered.

Marcus’s smile was slow, knowing, and utterly insufferable. "I know that face. That’s a 'yes' that hasn't finished loading yet."

"Don't push it."

"I wouldn't dream of it." He waved the waiter down for another round, his mood pivoting instantly. "You want to eat? I’m starving."

"You’re always starving."

"And you always pay, so it’s a perfect system." He picked up the menu again, looked at it for the third time, and put it back down.

After he left, I stayed in the booth. The ice in my glass melted into a lukewarm puddle. On paper, it was a simple favour. A job for a friend’s son. A summer shift. Nothing I hadn't handled a dozen times for people I liked a lot less than Marcus.

But as I looked at the empty seat across from me, I couldn't shake the feeling that I’d just let a crack form in my foundation. And in a place like Sinful Pleasures, a crack is all it takes for the whole thing to start coming apart.

I didn't have an answer for why my gut was twisting. I just finished the watery scotch and went upstairs.