Chapter Text
Josh should have looked up what he was getting into. What The Ivory was.
Because standing outside the unmarked building, taking in its barely flickering neon sign and the blacked-out windows, he was getting a feeling. The kind of feeling that made the hairs on his arms prickle. It didn’t look shady, exactly—no busted-out lights, no sketchy figures lurking in the alley—but it was definitely something. Something his gut was already warning him about.
His cop instinct kicked in before he could stop it. Months off the force, and he still woke up at odd hours, still glanced over his shoulder, still assessed every space for exits and threats. It was tiring. He’d quit for a reason. He didn’t miss the stress, the danger, the constant second-guessing.
He just wanted a damn job. A normal, boring, down-low job.
But "normal" was apparently hard to come by when you had a cop background. Businesses didn’t like hiring someone who used to carry a badge—it made them nervous. So Josh had been sending out résumés to anywhere that wasn’t explicitly illegal. He’d stopped caring where, just as long as someone would pay him before his rent was due.
Which was how he ended up standing in front of The Ivory, ringing the doorbell and silently praying he was wrong.
The door cracked open just enough for a woman to peek out. Dark eyes swept over him, wary.
"Yes? Can I help you?"
"Uh—hi. Hello," he started, his voice catching awkwardly in his throat. "I’m Josh Dun. I—uh, I have an interview? With, uh… Tyler Joseph?"
Her eyebrows flicked up in surprise. The door edged open a little more, and for the first time, he saw what she was wearing. Not overtly revealing, but… suggestive. A satin robe, a fitted corset, sky-high heels.
His stomach dropped.
There was a very high probability that this place was exactly what he thought.
She studied him for another beat before stepping aside. "Didn’t know Tyler was hiring another male worker," she muttered, holding the door open.
Josh hesitated before stepping in, like he was crossing some invisible threshold. The inside was warm, dimly lit. Rich red velvet on the walls and carpet, deep green plants hanging from golden fixtures, a grand staircase sweeping upward. Elegant. Almost tasteful. But definitely not an office building.
The hostess stand in front of him confirmed it.
She walked behind it and tapped something into a system. "So," she asked casually, "do you have experience in this line of work?"
Josh stared.
"Uh. Well. I was a cop, so…?"
Silence.
She stopped typing, looked up sharply. "What did you just say?"
Josh cleared his throat. "I was a cop. Resigned a few months ago."
She stared at him for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then she let out a slow breath and shook her head. "That’s one hell of a career change."
Josh shrugged, unsure how to respond. "Not really."
Now she looked at him like he was the idiot in this situation.
She folded her arms. "What exactly did you apply for?"
Josh shifted uncomfortably. "Head of security," he answered, suddenly feeling like that was the wrong answer.
Her eyebrows shot up. "Oh."
That was it. Just oh.
No explanation. No elaboration. Just a single syllable that sent a slow, sinking feeling through his stomach.
Before he could demand clarification, she turned on her heel, leading him toward a door half-hidden behind a thick curtain of leaves.
The boss’s office.
Tyler Joseph.
His potential new employer—if he played his cards right.
But as he followed her, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just walked into a trap.
His bank account told him he had no choice. His morals were screaming otherwise.
The woman knocked briskly, announcing his name.
A voice called back, muffled through the door: "Yeah, send him in."
Josh braced himself.
He expected an old man. Some sleazy asshole in a high-end suit, cigar smoke curling through the air, feet kicked up on an expensive desk. Someone who preyed on his workers, laughed with rich clients, turned a blind eye to bad business.
Instead, he stepped into a mess of paperwork, moving boxes, shelves lined with books and thick files.
And in the middle of it all—
A guy in sweatpants, slouched on the couch, arguing over the phone while aggressively clicking a pen.
"Look, I just want a refund. The damn thing broke after two uses," he snapped, rolling his eyes.
Josh blinked.
The man—Tyler Joseph, presumably—was younger than he expected. Short hair, dark circles under his eyes. Normal. Unassuming. Completely out of place in the setting.
"Don’t pin this on my workers," he groaned into the phone, rubbing his face. "They know what they’re doing. You just sold us a bad product."
He gestured for Josh to sit down without looking at him. The woman silently slipped out, closing the door behind her.
Josh hesitated, his instincts still sharp. Still waiting for the catch.
Tyler let out a frustrated sigh and finally ended the call, tossing his phone onto the table.
"Sorry ‘bout that," he muttered, then crossed the room to shake Josh’s hand, his grip firm, warm. "Happy you could make it. Been trying to get a security guy for months."
Josh nodded curtly while Tyler launched into a rant about how impossible it had been to find good security.
"I swear, it's a nightmare. The last guy? Completely useless. The one before that? Made most of my workers uncomfortable—opposite of the damn job," he huffed.
Josh listened in silence, barely reacting, and it took a few beats before Tyler noticed. He scratched his chin, chuckling half-heartedly.
"Sorry, not exactly a great first impression, huh?"
Josh shrugged. "It's fine."
Tyler exhaled and settled in the chair across from him, studying him openly.
"Gotta say, I was surprised when I saw your résumé. An ex-cop, huh?" He leaned back. "What happened?"
Josh hadn’t expected to be asked so bluntly. It wasn’t a secret, but it still felt strange how it was the first thing everyone asked.
"It got to be too much—the pressure, the danger," he admitted, his voice tight. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I needed to get out."
Tyler crossed his arms, tilting his head. "And you thought a brothel would be less stressful and dangerous?"
There it was. Confirmation. No more dancing around what The Ivory was.
Josh pressed his lips together. He didn’t want to lie. Not that it mattered—Tyler had already figured it out.
Then, to his surprise, Tyler burst out laughing, running a hand over his face.
"Jesus," he wheezed. "One correct résumé in a month, and the guy doesn't even know what he's applying for!"
Josh bristled. Okay—yeah, he hadn’t done his research. Fine. But that didn’t mean Tyler had to rub it in his face.
"I still need the job," he said firmly, squaring his shoulders.
Tyler dropped his hands, watching him. "Yeah? Think you can handle it?"
Josh nodded. "I’ve got the perfect background for security. I’m thorough, serious. I—"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Tyler cut him off, waving a hand. "What about seeing workers walking around half-naked all the time? Seeing things you might not want to see? Monitoring some rooms when needed?"
Josh hesitated.
"Huh, well—"
Tyler leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp.
"What about when there's an argument? How will you tell what's part of the game and what's an actual threat?"
Josh shut his mouth.
Because, yeah. That was a real problem. This wasn’t some grocery store gig where the biggest headache was a drunk guy trying to swipe a bottle of vodka. The workers here were at risk all the time, and it would be his job to throw out anyone who stepped out of line.
While being in a setting that was… definitely not what he was used to.
Tyler’s smirk faded, his expression turning serious.
"Would you be security for the workers, or just another threat they have to be wary of?"
The weight of the question sat heavy between them.
Josh had no answer.
Fifteen minutes ago, he hadn’t even known what he was walking into.
Tyler scoffed, cracking open a can of Red Bull and taking a long sip before nodding toward the door.
"Exit’s that way," he said simply. "Thanks for coming by."
Josh didn’t move.
"I really need this job."
Tyler held his gaze, assessing him like he was trying to peel back every layer Josh had.
Tyler exhaled sharply, tapping his fingers against the arm of the couch before nodding to himself.
"Alright. You really want the job? Then listen up, because this isn't your average security gig. You follow the rules, no exceptions, or you’re out. Clear?"
Josh nodded.
"Good. Rule number one—if the bell chimes, you clear the hell out of the hallway and lobby. Everyone does. That means a client is coming or going, and they’re not supposed to be seen by anyone. Anonymity is king here."
Josh frowned slightly. "Even security?"
"Especially security. They don’t want to know us, and we sure as hell don’t want to know them. Next—no asking personal details from workers. Not even their real names. If they tell you, fine, that’s their call. But you don’t ask. Ever."
Josh nodded again, absorbing the weight of that one.
"Every service is agreed upon ahead of time between the worker and the client. If a worker says no, that’s final. You get a guy who doesn’t like that? You throw his ass out. No warnings. No refunds. You with me so far?"
"Yeah."
"Next—cameras. You’re in charge of monitoring the common areas. Bedrooms have cameras too, but those aren’t live feeds. They only get checked if there’s an issue."
Josh raised an eyebrow. "What kind of issues?"
"The kind that get people thrown out. Or arrested. If there’s ever a dispute, the footage decides who’s full of shit. That said, most clients behave—because if they don’t, they don’t come back."
Josh pressed his lips together. He hadn’t really thought about how much of his job would be preventing things from escalating in the first place.
"Last big one—you see this?" Tyler leaned forward, reaching for something under the desk and tossing it to Josh.
A small, smooth button, no bigger than a quarter.
"Every worker has one in their room. If they press it, you go. No hesitation, no questions, no ‘maybe it’s nothing.’ If a worker calls for help, you drop whatever you’re doing and get there."
Josh turned the button over in his hand. Simple. Immediate.
"And finally," Tyler continued, leaning back. "Before you officially take this job, you sign an NDA. That means no talking about anything that happens here. You slip up, you get sued into oblivion. Understand?"
Josh looked up at him, the weight of everything settling in.
"Yeah. I understand."
Tyler studied him for a moment, as if waiting for hesitation, doubt, anything.
He exhaled sharply. “One last thing—are you gay?”
"What?!" Josh sputtered, blinking at him. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"
Tyler didn’t even flinch. “Look, we have a lot of female workers walking these halls in high heels and not much else. And even if they do wear more, it doesn’t mean you get to ogle them.” His voice was serious—if a little tired, like he’d had this conversation too many times before.
Josh thought back to what Tyler had said earlier about security being a safe presence, not another threat. How one of the past guards had made the workers uncomfortable. Yeah, he could guess exactly what had happened.
"It’s fine," Josh said after a beat. "I’ve seen—" he caught himself, "hookers before. I’m not—"
"No. Not that word," Tyler interrupted, his voice firm. "Never that word. They’re sex workers. No other terms. They deserve respect."
His tone left zero room for argument.
Josh nodded. "I got it. I’ll treat them with the respect they deserve."
Tyler studied him for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. "Good."
A beat of silence.
Then Tyler exhaled dramatically. "God, I hate being all business like that." His smirk returned, looser now. "Can’t wait to work with you, Josh—I can call you Josh, right?"
Josh opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, Tyler was already standing.
"Come on, I’ll show you around."
Josh followed Tyler through the lobby, trying to take in his surroundings. The dim lighting, the deep reds and golds, the quiet hum of conversation from somewhere deeper inside—it was all a little surreal.
The woman from earlier was still on one of the sofas, a large book open in front of her, highlighter in hand. She barely glanced up as they passed.
"You already met Ivy," Tyler said, gesturing toward her. "One of our top workers. You'll see her around a lot."
Josh hesitated. "Is there a lot of turnover?"
He had no idea how someone even ended up in this kind of work, let alone if they stayed.
"Not really. We’ve got six who’ve been here almost since the beginning. Sometimes we get extras, but they don’t always stick around." Tyler led him up the stairs, moving easily through the space like he owned it—which, Josh supposed, he did. "Right now, it’s mostly Ivy, Colette, Pepper, Ryker, Chanel, and Bee. I’ve got two more still in training." He made air quotes.
Josh decided not to ask what “training” meant in this context.
Tyler smirked, like he knew exactly what Josh was thinking. Then, suddenly, he stopped in his tracks, turning to face him.
"Look, Josh. If you’re gonna work here," he gestured at the hallway, lined with doors concealing who-knew-what behind them, "you need to get comfortable talking about sex. Openly. No getting flustered, no awkward silences, no weird judginess. This is a job like any other, got it?"
Josh swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. Got it."
Tyler studied him for a second, then nodded back, satisfied. "Good." The smirk never fully left his face as he started walking again.
The rooms themselves weren’t as extravagant as Josh had imagined. Cozy, even. The lighting was soft, the décor tasteful. Some had unmistakable elements—a swing, paddles, things he didn’t understand and wasn’t about to ask about—but it was all pretty tame.
"Most of the tools get taken from the stockroom before a session or brought in by the runner," Tyler explained, opening a door at the end of the hall.
Josh stepped inside and immediately blanked.
Shelves lined the walls, stocked with… well, a lot. Some things were familiar—bottles of massage oil, stacks of fresh towels—but the rest? A blur of leather, buckles, and shapes he definitely didn’t have a name for.
Tyler kept talking like this was a supply closet in any other workplace. "Camelia usually handles running gear to the rooms. Workers can’t leave a client alone once a session starts. She’s also in charge of deliveries—materials, alcohol. You’ll see her around a lot."
Josh barely nodded, still trying to get his bearings.
Tyler clapped him on the shoulder, steering him down another hallway toward an unassuming door. He pushed it open, revealing a small but functional room—a desk, a monitor, stacks of binders, a walkie sitting in its charger.
"Your realm," Tyler announced with a flourish. Then, with a wink, "If you work well."
Josh took a slow breath.
"Feel up to it?"
All of the workers were looking at him.
Not with curiosity. Not with welcome.
Just cold, flat stares.
Josh could feel the tension pressing in on him, the subtle furrows in their brows, the way no one so much as pretended to be polite. He wasn’t wanted here. He was the enemy. And he didn’t understand why.
"He's a fucking cop?!"
The voice came from a woman near the front—Colette, if he remembered right. Her arms were crossed, eyes narrowed in pure disbelief.
Tyler sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. "Ex-cop. He’s an ex-cop. Everything’s fine."
Josh wasn’t sure who Tyler was trying to convince.
Tyler clapped his hands together. "It’s his first shift, so don’t mess with him. He’s getting his bearings, and I expect everyone to be on their best behavior, right?”
Silence.
Then a quiet, amused snicker—from Ryker, the only other man in the room.
Tyler pressed on. "Right?"
A few half-hearted grunts followed. Not exactly reassuring.
Josh swallowed the urge to sigh. He got it. Security had been a problem before. Cops had definitely been a problem before. None of them had a reason to trust him, and he wasn’t about to argue. But it still stung—to be standing here, already judged, already dismissed, before he even had a chance to prove himself.
Fine.
He’d just have to change their minds.
Tyler, apparently done wrangling the room, clapped his hands again. "Right. Everyone, get ready. First client’s coming in half an hour.”
The room moved—a seamless, oiled-up machine. No hesitation, no second-guessing. Just action.
Josh stood there, feeling utterly useless.
"You can head to monitoring," Tyler said with a nod. "If you need anything, either come to my office or use the talkie—channel four.”
Josh nodded, pressing his lips together. He still felt out of his depth. The whole operation ran so smoothly that he wasn’t even sure they needed him.
Which should be a good thing. A low-key job. No real risks.
So why did it feel so wrong?
Why did he have that gnawing feeling in his gut—the one that whispered, you’re on your own here?
At the station, at least, he’d had colleagues. People to unload on after a long shift. Here?
Here, he was an outsider.
And he had no idea how to change that.
Josh settled into the monitoring room, adjusting in his chair as he focused on the screens.
The hallways and lobby flickered in black and white, captured in crisp, perfect order. No chaos. No uncertainty. Just a well-oiled system moving exactly as it should.
He could see the workers gathered in a corner, talking amongst themselves, laughing easily. Inside jokes, playful teasing—tight-knit. Of course, they were. They had their own world here, their own rules, their own trust.
And he wasn’t part of it.
Josh sighed, leaning back, stretching his legs under the desk. It’s fine. You’re just here to do your job. It was going to be a long first night. Hopefully, nothing would go sideways.
The hours crawled by. The bell chimed softly, marking arrivals and departures. Clients came and went, sleek and expensive, their faces always just out of reach of the cameras. A flash of a suit. The glint of a watch. Shadows moving in and out like ghosts.
Josh watched as workers slipped from rooms, scrolling their phones, adjusting their robes, their expressions unreadable. No theatrics, no seduction—just another Tuesday night.
Everything was so clean-cut. Efficient. Not at all what he expected.
He wasn’t sure what he expected—something seedier? Darker? But there was no fumbling, no awkwardness, no sense of shame. The workers were comfortable here, moving through the space with practiced ease.
And yet, Josh found himself watching them with a strange detachment. He could appreciate the performance—the deliberate sway of hips, the carefully crafted smiles when a client was led away—but there was nothing enticing about the aftermath. He saw them leave rooms looking spent, shoulders loose with exhaustion, and it was... disorienting.
Like watching actors step offstage, peeling off their characters.
And then there was Tyler.
Josh’s eyes flicked to one of the screens, catching sight of him walking down the hall, hands in his pockets, looking nothing like the kind of man who would run a place like this.
Maybe that’s why it worked.
He was unassuming. He wasn’t cruel. From what Josh had seen so far, he wasn’t the type to breathe down anyone’s neck, barking orders. He just... existed here. Running things in the shadows.
And that made no sense to Josh.
Where did Tyler even come from? How the hell did he end up running this place? Was it a choice?
A family business?
Josh scrunched his nose. God, that’d be the weirdest inheritance ever.
Shaking his head, he forced himself to refocus.
First night. Just do your job. Do it well. Earn their trust.
…Or actually, who cares about their trust?
He just needed to get paid.
That’s why he was here.
No need to make friends.
Right?
Josh had been working at The Ivory for a week. A slow routine had settled in—watch, listen, stay out of the way.
And then, something finally happened.
The call came through. A panic button. Room three. Ryker’s room.
Josh was out of his chair before he had time to think, moving fast down the hall. His pulse pounded in his ears. Stay calm. Assess. React.
He didn’t knock. Just pushed in.
And froze.
Ryker was on the floor, barely clothed, lip split, eyes glassy with unshed tears. A man loomed over him, fingers twisted in Ryker’s hair, voice thick with rage.
Josh recognized him instantly.
A politician. A good one, supposedly. The kind that went on TV and smiled warmly while talking about the future of the city. The kind who shook hands, kissed babies, promised change.
And yet, here he was. A monster.
"You’re a whore,” the man spat in Ryker’s face. “You’ll do what I want.”
Josh’s training kicked in, muscles tensing, ready to move—but he didn’t.
A voice echoed in his head, one he hadn’t thought about in a long time.
"There’s no need to get in trouble with politicians. Keeping your job is more important."
His old chief. Years of drilled-in caution. Of knowing when to look the other way.
It was only a second. A tiny second of hesitation—
And then someone else moved. Tyler.
He ripped the man away from Ryker with a force that was shocking in its speed.
"Josh," Tyler said, voice like a razor’s edge, "get him out."
Josh snapped into action. No more hesitation. He grabbed the man before he could protest, barely giving him time to clutch at his discarded clothes.
"Do you know who I am?!" the politician bellowed, face flushed, body flailing against Josh’s grip.
"I don’t care," Tyler said flatly, crouching beside Ryker, already checking him over.
Josh shoved the man toward the exit, hauling him through the lobby, past the others. No one reacted. No one even looked surprised.
Colette stood behind the hostess stand, arms crossed, unimpressed.
This was normal for her.
This kind of man was normal for her.
Josh’s stomach turned.
The politician thrashed in his grip. "You—"
"Don’t come back," Josh said, cutting him off as he shoved him out the front door.
The man stumbled onto the pavement, still sputtering threats, but Josh was already slamming the door in his face.
Silence.
Josh exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. He turned back toward the lobby.
Should he go upstairs? Was he even needed?
He felt like absolute shit.
He should have acted faster.
Before he could dwell on it, footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Tyler.
He looked furious. His shoulders were tight, his jaw clenched like he was holding back the urge to punch something.
Or someone.
He stopped on the last step, staring Josh down.
"My office," he said. "Now."
Josh’s stomach dropped. He was done for.
Tyler barely waited for the door to close before he spun on his heel.
"You have one job," he said, voice sharp. "Protect them."
Josh swallowed hard. His first instinct was to apologize—but he knew that wasn’t the right answer.
So he said nothing.
Tyler ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard, trying to keep himself from snapping. "Why didn’t you throw him out the second you walked in?"
Josh shifted on his feet. "I—he’s... powerful. He could’ve hurt The Ivory. I thought—"
"I don’t give a shit what power he holds," Tyler cut him off, voice deadly quiet. "No one comes in here thinking they own my people. No one. And if you’re going to work here, you better understand that."
Josh’s jaw tightened. "I get it."
"Do you?" Tyler’s eyes burned into him. "Do you? Because I saw you hesitate. A second that could’ve gotten Ryker hurt worse."
Josh didn’t know what to say to that.
No one here trusted him. Not the workers. Not even Tyler.
His voice came out quieter than he intended. "Is Ryker okay?"
Tyler’s anger dimmed, just a fraction. He looked away, exhaled. "He’ll be okay," he admitted. "But that was a close call."
A heavy silence stretched between them.
Then Tyler looked back at him, something unshakable in his expression.
"Don’t ever hesitate again."
Josh met his gaze, steady this time. "I won’t."
Josh found Ryker before the end of his shift.
He was in the bathroom, dabbing ointment onto his split lip, squinting at himself in the mirror. The harsh fluorescent lighting cast sharp shadows across his cheekbones. When he noticed Josh in the reflection, he grinned.
"Hey, Mr. Puppy Eyes," Ryker said, his voice light, teasing—despite the raw hoarseness in it.
Josh exhaled. "Look, I’m really sorry—"
"Oh, it’s fine," Ryker cut him off, rolling his eyes. He turned around, leaning back against the sink, lips quirking into an amused smirk. "Let me guess—Tyler got all dramatic on you? Yeah. Obviously."
Josh hesitated. "Ryker—"
Ryker waved a dismissive hand. "Seriously, man. I’m okay. It’s not the first time I’ve been called names."
Josh’s jaw tightened. "It should be."
Ryker’s smirk twitched. For a fraction of a second, something unreadable flickered behind his eyes—but then it was gone. He sighed, tilting his head.
"Look," he said, "I get it. You’re beating yourself up about not having the perfect reaction, but dude. It was your first call. Your first week. No shit you didn’t handle it perfectly."
Josh opened his mouth, but Ryker steamrolled right over him.
"And Tyler knows that. Believe me, he does. But he’s, like, ridiculously overprotective. No discernment whatsoever when it comes to us." His lips twitched. "Probably should’ve seen him when Colette broke a heel once—he nearly declared war on the shoe industry."
Josh huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.
But still.
It wasn’t okay. It shouldn’t be okay. And the way Ryker talked about it—like this was just part of the job, part of life—that made Josh’s stomach twist.
"I’m sorry, Ryker," he said again, quieter this time.
Ryker pouted exaggeratedly. "Ugh, you are a puppy."
Josh huffed. "I’m not—"
"The only thing that actually pisses me off," Ryker interrupted, gesturing at his face, "is having my perfect features marred like this. Look at me. An artist’s masterpiece, ruined."
He turned back toward the mirror, tilting his head this way and that, studying the faint swelling of his lower lip. Then, after a moment, he smirked again.
"Although… kinda gives me an edge, don’t you think?"
Josh stared at him, at the easy, lighthearted way he brushed it all off.
Like he had no other choice.
He swallowed, then forced a small smile. "Yeah. It kinda does."
Ryker beamed, satisfied.
For now, it would have to be enough.