The kid was black. Dark ebony flesh packaged in a pleasing package.

When the kid lit his electronic cigarette, he saw Mark and recognized the man’s attraction. Turning toward Mark, he nodded.

As their eyes met, a subtle understanding passed between them. The young man, Lance, seemed uninterested in the women at the bar, his gaze fixed on the men. Now, his stare locked on Mark.

Even separated by thirty feet, Lance didn’t hide what he was. What he wanted, or that he was a professional. Mark motioned for the younger man to join him.

Lance slid off the chair and gracefully moved toward him. Slow and deliberate, he moved not unlike a cat toward prey. Sucking the fumes of his smoke, he sauntered casually but seductively until, at last, he slinked into a chair next to Mark.

“Hey, I’m Lance,” he said, holding his hand, palm down, fingers slightly curled, his wrist limp, like a woman waiting on a light handshake or for her knuckles to be kissed.

Mark took his hand and released it, but Lance curled his fingers into Mark’s fingers and held his hand for a moment. Mark’s cheeks reddened, glanced around. Lance let go of his hand.