"Ethan!"

The excited voice gets to me through the loud music, and then someone's hand grabs my arm. I jerk away instinctively and bump into an unfamiliar guy, causing him to spill some of his beer. I mutter an apology and stumble back, where the hand grabs me again, this time clearly to prevent me from running into more people.

"Boy, you sure have had enough tonight!"

I finally regain my balance and turn to meet Mike's smiling gaze.

My heart sinks. It did cross my mind that I could meet him here but somehow, I assumed that in such a crowd it was unlikely. After all, he said he only came here a couple times a month.

"Sorry! The boy just can't drink!" he yells over the music to the guy with the beer who's still frowning at us. "Ethan, holy crap!" He focuses on me, grinning as if he's just won a lottery. "I didn't believe you'd ever dare to come!"

I shouldn't have, that much is clear. I swallow hard, racking my brain as to how to make him understand why I'm here, that it has nothing to do with what he's thinking about, that it was just the combination of a free ticket, a lonely evening and the desire to –

"Came to see the princess?" he yells in my ear. He's let go of my hand, but now his face is uncomfortably close to mine. "Isn't he gorgeous?"

My eyes drift back to the stage and fix once again on the figure under the spotlights in the middle of it. There are musicians in the background, but the figure with the mic draws all the attention of the sparse but enthusiastic crowd. Clad in black and sparkling material, he's like a singing, dancing piece of starry night shaped like a human, and his voice... Well, the voice was the reason I haven't left the moment I walked in, seeing all the men by the tables and on the dance floor. I heard the voice and I had to see.

The posters by the entrance promised disco night on Fridays and trance parties on Saturdays, but today is Tuesday, and the live performance of their home star, Joshua Hill. So, there's not much dancing going on, most people just standing and nodding to the music. Some of them hug, some of them drink, others sit by the tables or by the bar farther away, trying to eat and talk despite the noise. Yet most of them watch, and all of them listen.

He has the crowd in his grip, and the effortless grace with which he moves only adds to the power of the music. His made-up face is like that of a porcelain doll, his eyes outlined with dark shadows shaped like birds' feathers. There's something about the way he holds himself that says—I own this place, and while you're here, I own you, too.

The crowd seems only too glad to obey the unspoken message, judging by the staring eyes and the upturned faces and the tapping feet and the cheers at the end of each song.

"Gorgeous," repeats Mike, his lips close to my ear, his chin almost touching my shoulder. I move away, this time careful not to step on anyone, and turn to him.

"Look, I'm not...I didn't intend to come," I say.

"Want to have a drink?" he says.

"No."

He frowns a bit, then reaches out and puts his hand on my cheek.

"Are you okay?"

"Stop touching me," I say, batting his hand away. This comes out ruder than I intended, and he seems taken aback for a moment, before raising both hands in a pacifying gesture.

"Look, we work together, okay? I'm not hitting on you or anything." He pauses. "You just look like...like you're about to faint or something."

I force myself to take a deep breath. He might not be wrong.

"Listen, I..." I look at the people around us. "I'm sorry. Can we talk somewhere else?"

"Sure." He grabs my arm, but then lets go of it quickly and gestures for me to come.

We exit the crowd and head to the far end of the bar, where two high stools have just been vacated. Mike climbs on one of them and waits for me to take the other.

"Please don't tell me you still don't drink," he says.

"I don't drink," I say.

He rolls his eyes. "That's why you're not enjoying yourself. Places like this, you need to be in a certain mood, you know?" He nods at the approaching bartender and mouths at him, "As usual," before returning his attention to me.

"I'm not gay." I have to raise my voice to overcome the music, and a couple of patrons sitting farther by the bar glance in my direction.

"Sure about that?" says Mike.

"Yes," I say. "I did the fire inspection with Kendra today, and that Brooks guy gave me tickets, one for me and one for you. He said today would be the live show, nothing particularly, you know—gay—so I figured I'd drop by. Didn't expect the crowd to be like this."

"Like what?" He grins. "Too many guys hit on you?"

"Nobody did, but...they looked."

"Well." He shrugs. "People do that."

I shake my head. He's wrong. It wasn't the usual looking, not someone's eyes slipping over you mindlessly as you walk along the street or pick stuff from a supermarket shelf. There was evaluation in those looks, their eyes lingering for perhaps a second too long, the occasional friendly smiles from people I didn't know.

Mike shrugs again. "Okay, you're not into it. I get it."

"Why're you smiling?" I say.

"Just happy to meet a friend." He spreads his hands, palms out, before wrapping them around the glass the bartender placed in front of him. "I don't meet my coworkers here often."

"Look, regarding the coworkers --"

"It's fine," he says. "If you don't want anyone to know, nobody will. Oh, the princess is leaving!" He looks up as a wave of applause washes over the place. I follow his gaze and see the musicians leave the stage, waving at the crowd, the black starry outfit of Joshua having already disappeared behind the curtains.

"Nice," says Mike, returning to his drink.

The noise around us subsides to a more tolerant level as people talk and move around us. A pop song begins to play out of the hidden speakers.

"Nice," I echo.

"It's okay to be gay, you know."

Startled, I look up. He watches me, his smile gone.

"Yeah." I force myself to nod. "I'm not judging or anything."

That's just another learned reaction, because I am judging, I judge them all like crazy. Yet that's not something one could say nowadays and keep his job or his friends. In this sin city, the wrong is acceptable, and truth is frowned upon.

It's not that I want to say the truth right now, not to Mike, who is a good guy. That's the part that's bugging me, how such a good guy could choose such a bad path in life. Maybe I could still help him. It's for the people like him that I'm here—the ones worth saving.

"Look, I know where you come from," he says, looking at his drink. As much as his smile bothered me, I wish for it to reappear now, for this seriousness is worse. "I mean, I read about that place and all. Saw the documentary they aired last week." He gives me a quick glance. "You do know that not everything they teach is correct, right?" He pauses. "Some even say they're a–"

"I don't want to talk about it," I say, sliding off the stool.

"Wait." He raises a hand. "I meant no offence."

"None taken," I say, backing away. "Just need to..." My eyes fall on the restrooms sign. "I just need to pee, sorry."

I turn away and start walking. I'm half expecting for him to grab my arm again, but I make it to the stairs unobstructed.

Cold water that I throw in my face brings a welcome relief. I stare at my reflection, listening to the quiet beat of muffled music coming from behind the closed door. Despite the stories I heard about the gay clubs—and the things Uncle Zachary had told me before I left—the bathrooms here are clean and, at least for the moment, vacant. No suspicious sounds coming from the stalls, no couples kissing, everything neat and innocent.

It's just a façade, though. This whole place is masquerading, trying to pass for normal when it's anything but. Trying to lull to sleep the consciousness of those visiting it, to fool them into thinking that giving in to their darkest desires is acceptable.

I wipe my face with a paper towel and drop it into the bin. That's enough exploration for one night. I should go home.

Outside, the music is louder, but the corridor leading to the restrooms is still empty. I get to the stairs and pause next to the 'Personnel Only' sign. Perhaps a sound draws my attention, or my eyes catch a movement—whatever the reason, I look to my right, and then I see, and then I wish I didn't.

The corridor leading to the three storage rooms and the fourth one, in which Joshua Hill does or doesn't live, is even less illuminated than the rest of the club, perhaps to discourage the patrons from wandering down the stairs—although given the nature of the establishment, some of them might actually seek dark and isolated corners. Yet there's at least one lamp somewhere farther down the corridor, and in its weak light I see a figure in a black and starry outfit leaning with his back on the wall, and another person kneeling in front of him. The kneeling man's face is obscured by his long greying hair, and his hands are on the belt of the man before him, apparently undoing it. My eyes catch all that in a single glance, imprinting the scene in my brain, and then, slowly, the standing man turns his head, and I meet the eyes of Joshua Hill.

He eyes me for a moment, and then he winks at me, and then I turn away and run.