Double Blind (13 page)

“What the fuck did he do to you, Slick?” Randy asked.

Ethan shook his head. “Not now.”

Randy sighed. “I wish he were here right now. I’d throw him over this goddamned rail and cheer when he hit the street.”

Ethan smiled sadly and turned to kiss Randy’s temple. The gesture caught Ethan on the edge of his heart, and he held himself there a second, shutting his eyes and taking in a deep draught of Randy. “What the hell are we doing?” he whispered.

“Damned if I know,” Randy replied. He reached up and threaded his fingers into Ethan’s hair, keeping his eyes out on the Strip. “But I hope to God we’re fucking eventually.”

Ethan slid a hand around the back of Randy’s waist. “How about we go to your place and do that now?”

They went back down the elevator quickly, hiding in the back of a crowd of Korean tourists and running their hands discreetly over one another as the elevator shot down like a bullet, and then they were back on the street and heading into a cab, where Randy gave the driver an address. He drew Ethan against him and made maddening love to his ear as they slogged through the traffic again, heading onto a more open boulevard, moving deeper and deeper into the city.

“I’m leaving my truck at Herod’s,” Randy whispered between nibbles. “Don’t want to fuck with it, and I’m probably too drunk to drive anyway.”

“Sure,” Ethan whispered, shutting his eyes and leaning back as Randy’s mouth slid to his neck and his hand to Ethan’s thigh. He felt himself spinning again, like that moment at the fountain but safer, more contained. He let himself hang there, suspended, until the cab pulled into a driveway, and after he tossed money at the driver, Randy led him past a sagging cactus to a front door. Then they were inside, and before the door even closed they were in each other’s arms.

They stumbled through their kisses toward a hallway and then farther back toward a bedroom—Ethan caught glimpses of a sparse but very neat living room and a peek at a bathroom before he was falling into the mattress of a soft, fragrant bed that smelled like fabric softener and Randy Jansen.

And then Randy pressed his body against Ethan’s, grinding his hips against Ethan’s own, and Ethan shut his eyes and opened for him, his mouth, his legs, and his soul.

They came out of their clothes in a surreal sort of symphony that reminded Ethan of the swell of the Bellagio fountains, the slide of a shirt sleeve perfectly timed against a lingering, open-mouthed kiss, jeans sliding from hips at the exact moment that fingers found a nipple and took possession, tugging a gasp out of Ethan’s mouth just as the last of his clothes fell away. They pushed and pulled and danced between kisses and touches and disrobing, and then they were skin to skin, mouth to mouth, and for one close, precious second, everything was okay.

“I’m a little afraid,” Randy whispered against Ethan’s collarbone when his mouth began to travel again, “that I’m going to wake up in the morning and find out that you were just a really fantastic dream.”

“I’d better not wake up back in Provo,” Ethan replied. Then he arched his back and gasped as Randy took his nipple into his mouth.

“How do you want it?” Randy whispered, when he had Ethan writhing. “I don’t give a damn how it happens, so long as one of us is in the other somehow.”

Ethan wanted badly to be inside Randy, wanted to touch and feel Randy’s cock while he took him, but he didn’t think he could gather himself together right now to lead. But as Randy’s hand stroked him, as his mouth drifted down, ready to have a taste, Ethan knew what he wanted, and he sat up enough to reach for Randy’s hip, trying to drag it up and over toward him.

Randy laughed darkly. “Oh, yes, that’s a good compromise,” he said, and he slid his body up alongside Ethan backward. The perfume of Randy’s cock hit Ethan before he saw the thick, straining shaft rising out of the dark curls, swelling against his foreskin, and Ethan closed his hand around it just as Randy took his own sex in hand. Ethan shut his eyes, shuddering against the wet wonder of his lover’s mouth before he leaned forward and offered him the same pleasure in kind.

They lay there in the safety of the dark, sucking one another, each taking the other’s cock deep into their throats, touching balls and thighs and quivering bellies, giving in to the wild madness of the night and to each other. Ethan let the fountain of his own emotions rise within him, and he came with a gasp of relief into Randy’s eager mouth, then lay back and helped him find his own release, drinking down the salty offering until Randy, too, was spent.

When they were able, they crawled to the head of the bed, and Ethan settled against the pillow as Randy tugged the blanket over them before taking Ethan back into his arms. They held each other close, shutting out everything now, not thinking anymore, not questioning, just being grateful for this moment, this night, this strange miracle they had somehow found.

Ethan
woke with a heavy head as someone gently stroked a hand against his hair.

“Ethan,” Randy whispered. “Baby—I’m going to run out and get some breakfast for us. What can I get you?”

Ethan’s head was spinning. It was also heavy, and it was pounding. “Coffee,” he croaked. Then his stomach chimed in and added, “Maybe some yogurt and granola too.”

He felt a kiss against his forehead. “Done. Go back to sleep, Slick.”

Ethan nodded and shut his eyes. He did try to sleep. But fifteen minutes after he’d heard the front door close, he was lying on his back, sprawled across Randy’s bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He’d slept like the dead all night long, sleeping without dreaming, his spirit for those hours as blissfully sated as his body. He’d gone to sleep with Randy’s forehead pressed against his own, with their hands and legs and depleted cocks nestled and tangled with one another, and he didn’t think he’d so much as moved until Randy nudged him awake to ask what he wanted at the store. It had felt good. It had
been
good.

But now that he was awake, doubt was creeping back in, and he lay there and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

He wasn’t going to do much moving—that much he decided as soon as he tried to sit up. He lay right back down and went back to studying the ceiling. He felt heavy, and he hurt, and he doubted he’d be able to eat or drink anything Randy brought back, because he was feeling a little sick, come to think of it. How much had he had to drink? Just those two G&Ts, and then a Diet Pepsi. Oh, yes, and the monster daiquiri or whatever that had been. “A fruity, stupid drink,” Randy had called it. Yes. It had been. But it hadn’t been enough to make him too hungover, just enough to unravel him.

He remembered the press of mouths and bodies, the feel of teeth and tongue against his flesh, and the nausea threatening him subsided, replaced by something much more pleasant.

But seriously, he asked himself, sliding his hand absently over his penis, teasing the erection into half-life, what was he going to do now? Have breakfast with Randy, and then what? He had nothing but his poker winnings, which wasn’t much at all. He could sell his car, he supposed, for a few thousand dollars. He had no idea what he was going to do with the gun.

The thought that he hadn’t planned to live long enough for this moment danced once again across his mind, dragging the nausea in its wake. Suddenly cold, Ethan rolled over on his side, then in a moment of vulnerability, drew the pillow around the sides of his head, wrapping himself inside its cocoon.

He must have fallen asleep again, because the next thing he knew, he heard footsteps coming into the room, which meant that Randy was back. Ethan panicked and held still, thinking Randy would leave to let him sleep if he just kept quiet, and he could put off this most awkward of morning afters just a little longer. The bed sank behind him, but he held fast, willing Randy to go away and give him just ten more minutes to get his head on straight.

A hand skimmed beneath the sheet and up across his back in a caress so gentle that it startled him.

Ethan’s eyes opened, still sheltered by the pillow, but his eyes widened as the hand slid down, skimming his hip, sliding over his ass. His cock stirred as the hand, butterfly-soft, curled its way over his pelvis and toward his erection before taking it gently but firmly in hand. Ethan’s eyes fell closed again, and he shifted unconsciously toward that hand. Something jumped inside his chest, like a loose ball bearing bouncing around, because this wasn’t a touch that he associated with Randy, so light and tender and yet wickedly erotic at once. It unnerved him as much as it aroused him, and he kept still, afraid to turn over and let Randy know how much his tenderness affected him.

The hand left his cock and slapped lightly against his backside.

“Wake up, you lazy ass,” a light, cheerful voice called.

A voice that absolutely was not Randy’s.

Ethan’s eyes flew open, and he tossed back the pillow and rolled over in one motion. He looked up into the very handsome, youthful face of a sandy-haired man whose smile faded and whose color drained as he looked down at Ethan.

“Oh—” The young man faltered, then almost fell off the bed in his haste to get off of it. “
Oh!
”

Ethan sat up, confused and uncertain as he watched the stranger stumble for the door, only to be blocked in his escape by another man. This one was as tall as the door and almost as broad, and he caught Ethan’s assailant in one hand while waving at Ethan with the other.

“Hey, Skeet—” The big man stopped, his bushy blond eyebrows rising up into the mass of his untidy blond hair. “Shit, Sunshine, that ain’t Skeet.”

“I
know!
” the younger man moaned, and buried his face in the larger man’s chest.

The blond man blinked at Ethan, then laughed, a good-natured sound that put Ethan unexpectedly at ease, even before the big man lifted his free hand to his hairline and tipped back an imaginary hat.

“Hey there.” He nodded at the empty space beside Ethan. “Randy here?”

“He went out,” Ethan said weakly. “To get breakfast.”

“Hope he got extra,” the man said, and he grinned. “I’m Mitch, by the way. I’m going to leave you alone now while I go soak my husband’s head in the sink so he doesn’t burn up from blushing. But you go ahead and get dressed, and we’ll meet up in the kitchen. Sound good?”

Ethan nodded, not knowing what else he was supposed to do, and then he watched in a daze as Mitch led the younger man out. The pair of them went down the hall, the younger whispering and the older laughing.

When he was able, Ethan climbed out of bed and tried to hunt down his pants. He found them laid out neatly over a chair with his shirt draped over the top of it, and he was halfway into the latter before Mitch’s words fully penetrated his brain. He paused with one button partly through its hole.

Husband?

Randy
had to ride his motorcycle all the way to Herod’s before he could go and get groceries, because his truck was still at the casino. But as soon as he got to the parking lot, he saw the plain silver Mazda with Utah plates parked just three cars over from his truck. He stowed the bike, pulled the keys Ethan had given him at the fountains out of his pocket, and tried them in the door. They worked.

And as Slick had confessed, there was a gun and a pack of bullets beneath the driver’s seat. Randy stared at them a moment, feeling sick and slightly disconnected.

“New car, Jansen?”

Randy dropped the gun and kicked it back under the seat, then turned toward the door, which he’d stupidly left ajar. He scanned the lot but tried to look casual. The guy speaking to him was standing three spaces over. He was a new dealer, one Randy didn’t really know.

“Hey.” Randy flashed a wide smile and leaned against the steering wheel as he turned toward the man. “Nah, this belongs to a friend of mine. Just checking something out.”

“This wouldn’t be your new friend from the bar, would it?” The dealer grinned. “I just got off my shift, and everybody’s talking about your bet with Scully. You really bet against yourself, Jansen?”

What was this guy talking about? Bet against himself? Then Randy remembered that he’d offered to spot Ethan his one-fifty against Scully. Which, technically, he’d lost. Randy grimaced, then ran his hand through his hair to try and cover it, but he didn’t think it worked.

“So you
did
,” the dealer said, really enjoying this. “Hot damn! So—come on, Jansen, spill. Did he kiss you? Because I got in on the side-bet action. I said he did. I could totally see you betting against yourself just to get a kiss.”

He could?
You don’t even know me, you prick,
Randy thought. But he supposed that was his legacy, wasn’t it? Randy the fearless. Randy the big asshole. Randy the fun guy. Randy the quirky little bastard. Randy, Crabtree’s little piece on the side.

Randy rubbed his hand over his face, not liking any of this. Then he looked up at the dealer, searching for a denial—any denial—that he wasn’t that bad, or that he was deeper than what the dealer had insinuated. But none of that was there in this man’s eyes, in his leer, in his eagerness to have Randy prove that yes, Randy Jansen really lived like that.

And that, more than anything else, made Randy’s decision for him.

He sighed, gave a rueful smile, and shook his head. “I’m afraid you lost your bet, buddy.”

The dealer’s smile vanished, and his eyes went wide. “No way!” He sputtered a moment, and then his shock became anger. “You’re shitting me. You threw it, then! You bastard, I didn’t even
have
that hundred I bet!”

Let that be a lesson to you, you little shit.
Randy splayed his hand in half-hearted apology. “Sorry. But this guy was tougher than I thought. Slick has layers nobody bothered to look for. Even me.”

“But you can read everybody!” the dealer protested. “You’re
never
wrong!” He scowled. “You felt sorry for him or something. Because this doesn’t make sense!”

Randy gave him a withering look. “Yeah, that really sounds like me, doesn’t it?”

It sobered Randy to see how well this worked to soothe the dealer’s objection—his objection which had actually been the truth.

This got shittier every second, didn’t it?

“Sorry, buddy,” Randy said. “Tough break. But—tell you what. I’ll make it up to you with a poker lesson. Next time I’m playing prop, come on over, and I’ll give you some tips. You’ll win your money back and then some in no time.”

The young man smiled. “Hey, thanks, Jansen!” He turned to go.

“Hey,” Randy called again. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Phil,” the dealer called.

“Catch you later, Phil,” Randy said, and smiled as he watched him go. When he was sure that Phil was gone, he slipped out of his jacket and wrapped the gun and the bullets inside of it.

Then he headed with the whole mess down the street to Tina’s Pawn and threw it on the counter.

Tina paused mid-draw on her cigarette when she opened the jacket. She raised her eyebrows, then looked up with mild interest at Randy. “Hot, is it?”

“No idea,” Randy said. “I want it gone.”

Tina resumed her draw, held the smoke in for a minute, then blew it out at the ceiling from the corner of her lip. “How much you gonna pay me to take it off your hands?”

Randy gave her a withering look.

Tina didn’t budge. “I ain’t supposed to take guns, Skeet.”

“Oh, for the love of Christ,” Randy murmured, then dug into his pocket. He had a hundred, a fifty, a ten, and a handful of chips. He passed her the chips he had. “I need the rest for groceries, so this is what you get, and you cash it in yourself.”

Tina had caught the denominations on the bills in his hand. “You don’t need that many groceries.”

“Yeah, well I’m making breakfast for the poor bastard who was going to blow his brains out with that gun you’re screwing me over,” he shot back.

Tina’s hard edges softened, just a little. “No shit?” She looked down at the gun and shook her head. “Well, I guess I can rub the serial off and give it to Burt.” She paused, then gave Randy a knowing grin. “Wait a minute. This poor bastard wouldn’t happen to be your new friend from Herod’s last night, is it? The one who won a thousand off you because you read him wrong?”

What the fuck? Randy started to deny it, to explain the bet with Billy, then realized he would expose Ethan, and he realized, too, that it wasn’t something he was willing to do. He faltered, not knowing how to get out of this one.

Tina slapped the counter and looked at him in victory. “There’s no poor bastard at all, is there? You’re just trying to get money out of me because you need to pay him back!”

What?
“Wait,” Randy said, but Tina rode over him, waving the butt of the gun at him with one hand before putting it down to take another drag on her cigarette.

“Just tell me he kissed you by midnight,” she said, “and I’ll take this as it stands. Otherwise you’re giving me that fifty, because that’s what I bet on your slippery little tongue sliding down his throat.”

And Randy could only stand there, lost, confused, and screwed, completely fucking screwed. Because after the little performance in the parking lot, he had fucked himself. And now, apparently, it was time to bend over again.

Randy glared at Tina, peeled off a fifty, and headed back onto the street, Tina’s laughter burning in his ears. But once he got back to the parking lot, he saw Ethan’s car, remembered the gun and that it was gone now, and he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Balling his jacket into his hand, he tossed it in the passenger seat of his truck, climbed inside, and headed to the store.

He felt better once he was browsing the aisles of Albertsons, putting fresh beans for coffee good enough to impress Slick and an array of granola and yogurt choices in his cart as he trolled the aisles for further culinary inspiration. It was a little surreal to be cooking for somebody he’d slept with, because with very few exceptions men he’d sleep with and cook for did not fall into the same category. Slick put a twist on the whole works by being—well, Slick. He seemed so fussy, to the point that Randy had picked out brand name products instead of store, just in case. He was thinking he’d maybe make a quiche or a fancy omelet, but he also suspected a nice cozy casserole would say “home” to the man he also knew to be quietly sentimental.

Then it hit him how seriously he was taking all this, how much he wanted to impress Ethan, and Randy stared down at the bottle of fancy mustard in his hand and shook his head. But he put the mustard in the cart and doubled back to the meat counter, where he picked up some spiced sausage before heading over to the international cheeses. He decided to compromise and make Slick a
gourmet
cozy casserole.

He felt smug as he waited in the checkout line, pleased with his choices and looking forward to Ethan’s guaranteed surprise when he found out that a guy with grease stains on his hands could cook like Julia Child. It pretty much impressed everybody, save the knuckle-draggers he’d left almost fifteen years ago back in Detroit, and good riddance to them anyway. So what, that he liked engines and cards and cooking and cock? So the fuck what? That was what he loved about Vegas. It was like he told Slick: nobody fucking cared. They weren’t as chirpy-friendly as California, not so focused as Colorado. You were civil to one another, but mostly you minded your own business and everybody else was invisible until they got in your way or bellied up to your bar. People came and went, and that was the way life was. You went for the shiny and kept as much as you could, but then you were generous with it too. In Las Vegas Randy had cultivated a life of casual friends and favors and a reputation at the table that got him respect wherever he went. No, he was never going to be a famous poker player like Doyle Brunson, and that was just fine. He’d never write a book about poker or enter the World Series of it, either. He was just going to play prop at Herod’s, dabble at the Nugget and the MGM and Caesars and Bellagio, and when he got tired of playing poker, he’d head over to the Watering Hole and scare up a fuck or two.

He didn’t like so much that everybody thought he was a fucking gigolo, but after today that image ought to have some significant, Ethan-shaped dents in it. Which was fine. They could just keep wondering. And Ethan shouldn’t have to pay for a drink again.

Right now, Randy decided, everything was good. Right now, he was going to go back home, make Slick breakfast, then talk him back into bed for one more fuck before they got to the uncomfortable conversations like “Where are you headed now?” and “Would you want to crash here for a bit?” But those would be fine too. Somehow. Because this was a good day. And because Slick was hot and fun to charm.

Yeah, he thought, his libido rising as he pulled onto his street. Yeah, it was gonna be great.

Then he saw the big, blue semi cab parked bobtail in the middle of his driveway, and he knew surprise, elation, and regret all in one strange go. Mitch and Sam were here.

Oh, now, this was going to make everything interesting, wasn’t it?

Mitch came to the doorway and leaned against the frame as Randy carried the grocery bags up the sidewalk. He smiled as he sipped at a longneck. He looked good, really good, and happy, and despite the fuckery his presence was going to cause regarding Slick, Randy was glad to see him.