Double Blind (34 page)

“No,” Ethan said, scooping her up. “I’m taking her with me.”

Randy was going to make all kinds of noise about the kitten in the casino, and then he realized that with Crabtree’s history, nobody would blink. He sighed. “Just hold on a minute.” He pulled a travel mug from the cupboard, poured Ethan’s coffee into it, and passed it to him. “For you. And—” He grabbed a rubbermaid container, put some of the kitten’s food inside, and tucked it into Ethan’s pocket. “For her.”

That earned him one more kiss, and a smile, and he watched them go feeling all jumbled up inside, and he didn’t know why. He turned to Sam to vent some of his agitation, saw the look on his face, and gave up. He sighed and sat back down.

“Tell you what, sweetheart,” he said. “You finish eating, and we’ll take a bike ride before your appointment.”

Sam perked up despite himself. “Where to? Zion?”

“Don’t have time enough to get there and back before your appointment. But”—Randy glanced at his watch—“if we hustle, we could swing around on 147 past Lake Las Vegas and come back in on the 564. What about that?”

Sam grinned, pushed aside his bowl and stood in one motion before leaning over to kiss Randy squarely on the cheek. Randy grunted and headed to the garage, calling, “Rinse your damn bowl out,” over his shoulder as he departed.

They both needed the ride, he realized as they headed out down Carey Avenue and into the desert. The sun was bright and hot, and the land opened up before them. Randy needed the speed, the wind, and the peace, and he needed, too, the strange comfort that was Sam’s arms around him. He didn’t often have anyone riding with him, and now he’d had both Ethan and Sam in the same week. It was funny how different it was to drive them: with Sam behind him, he felt like a shelter, the man who blocked the wind and Sam held onto, the protector. With Ethan he felt… different. Like an equal, even when Slick was weird and quiet. Maybe even especially then. Like an anchor. With Ethan on the bike, he felt like an anchor.

But the drive was beautiful. Sam always grumbled about how ugly the desert was, how he missed trees, but Randy loved it. It wasn’t barren—it was full of life, most of it rough and wicked and tough as shit. And Las Vegas was an oasis, too, and always had been. Vegas meant “meadow” in Spanish. Vegas had lakes and little creeks and rivers. Even Sam, who was always missing his green grass and rolling fields, had to admit those parts were beautiful.

Randy took them down Montelago Boulevard, past the luxury condos and hotels and golf courses, past the marina, and as they drove on, Randy felt something inside him ease. It was so much better to take this ride with someone along with him. He thought of how full the house had been this morning, of everyone wandering in and out for breakfast, and of how tomorrow there would be one less, with Mitch leaving. The thought was like a cloud passing overhead.

He frowned and gunned the engine, willing speed to slough off the pang of loss.

Sam’s counselor was on Paradise Road, almost literally in the shadow of the Stratosphere Tower, which seemed a good omen to Randy. He parked the bike and smiled up at the tower, wondering if it would at all be possible to sneak over there and have a look-see off the observation deck when Sam’s hand grabbed his and held on. Tight.

“Randy,” he whispered, “I want you to come with me.”

Sam looked pale, almost like he was going to be sick. Randy took Sam’s hand. “Sure, Peaches. I’ll be right there in the waiting room.” He could go up the tower anytime.

But Sam’s hand tightened. “
No.
I want you to come in
with
me. To the therapist. Into her office with me.”

Whoa
. Randy started to pull back. “Sam, listen—”

“Mitch said he would,” Sam shot back, sounding panicky. “He said he’d go back with me the first time, and now he’s not here. He said he was sorry, and I understand, but I still don’t want to go back alone. I want you to go back with me, Randy.” He shut his eyes. “Please.”

Oh, fuck. Mitch, you fucking bastard.
But he didn’t let any of this show to Sam. Randy wiped his mouth with his free hand, then nodded. “Sure, Peaches. Sure.”

Sam relaxed visibly, but he kept his hand in Randy’s all the way until the door. They checked Sam in and settled into a pair of chairs along the far wall, and as they waited, Randy indulged, quietly, in some internal panic.

Randy did not like therapists. They were fine for other people, but he did not care for them himself. He had seen exactly one, once, when he was ten, and while he would admit the woman had been nice, even kind, he had left swearing he would never, ever go back again, and he had managed to keep that vow all the way up until this moment. It didn’t matter that this was for Sam, not him. It didn’t matter a damn bit. He was in the fucking office. He was going to go
sit in the fucking room.

Jesus God, but the woman had better not fucking try to talk to him.

He would have hung back when the therapist came out, but Sam dragged him forward, clinging to his elbow and introducing him as “my good friend,” and the woman, petite and pretty in a quiet, non-threatening way, reached out and took his hand.

“Hello,” she said, still smiling, still non-threatening, “I’m Laura. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sam. Randy.”

Randy nodded curtly, and if Sam had not been gripping his elbow so tightly, he was fairly sure he would have bolted.

They meandered through an office hallway, and Randy kept quiet as Laura gently chatted Sam up about the weather, which was a real feat in a city that got over three hundred days of sun a year. But she managed it, and Sam, native Iowan, fell right in step. Randy thought, maybe, that since he seemed so relaxed Sam would let him go once they got to the office, but Sam, as if sensing his reticence, kept tight hold of him all the way. When Laura welcomed them into her cozy, plant-and-book-filled office, he steered them to the love seat and plunked them both down in it. He wouldn’t even let go once they were sitting. Randy was taking it personally until he realized that Sam’s Midwest Nice act was just that, and that despite his friendly exterior he was, frankly, terrified.

Randy wanted to know who was going to hold
his
fucking hand.

Randy
leaned back in the corner of the sofa, letting Sam’s hand slide down to his, and he ran his thumb over Sam’s knuckles, a gesture that soothed him as well as Sam. He watched the therapist to see what she made of this, but she didn’t seem fazed by it in the slightest, which was interesting.

“So,” she said, still smiling as she crossed her leg and leaned closer. “What is it you’d like to talk about with me, Sam?”

It was weird how on anybody else the smile would seem fake, but on her it really worked somehow. It was even making Randy feel a little relaxed. Apparently, though, it wasn’t working on Sam, because the next thing Randy knew, he was losing the circulation in his fingers. And that was when he realized Sam wasn’t talking. He turned, took one look at Sam’s face, and sat bolt upright.

“Peaches.
Sammy
.” He pried his hand out of Sam’s, replaced it with his right and reached the formerly captive one around him to rub his shoulders. Fuck, he’d never seen anybody go so white. He looked weirder than Slick. “
Sam.
” When Sam stayed quiet, Randy turned to the therapist for help.

But she was just sitting there, quiet, patient, smiling still, but it had faded in wattage, like a bulb politely dimming for someone with a migraine. “Take your time, Sam,” she said, and continued to wait.

Because he couldn’t figure out what else to do, so did Randy. Except Randy kept stroking Sam’s back with his hand and squeezing his fingers.

Finally, Sam drew a slow, deep breath and spoke.

“I got upset last week, and I scared my husband.” His chin came up, and he looked at the therapist directly as he added, “I’m married. To a man. And it’s legal, because I’m from Iowa.”

Laura’s smile burned bright and warm. “What’s his name, Sam? How long have you been married?”

Sam relaxed a little. “His name is Mitch, and we’ve been married for a little under two years now. Our anniversary is February 14.” He smiled, reluctantly. “That was Mitch’s idea.” But then his smile faded. “He was supposed to be here today, but he got called in to work.”

“Peaches, he was really upset about that,” Randy said, then realized that he shouldn’t have, and drew back, looking at the therapist. “Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

But Sam was shaking his head. “No. He’s right. I know he wanted to be here. But I’m still mad. I’m mad that he has to go at all.” His eyes looked wild for a moment, and when he said the rest the words were jagged, like the typeset was off, and Randy knew Sam was trying not to cry. “That is why I’m here.”

He took a breath to steady himself.

“Where is he going, Sam?” Laura asked.

“He—he’s a trucker. He has a run to—and I—” His eyes went glossy, and his grip on Randy’s hand became painful. Sam shut his eyes and turned his head slightly toward Randy and whispered, “Please, tell her—so I don’t have to.”

God, it was almost a relief.

“Mitch is a long-distance trucker,” Randy said, the words spilling out of him. “Independent operator. He caught work around the Midwest while Sam was in school, and they’ve just taken a long tour around everywhere as a sort of delayed working honeymoon. But now Sam’s starting work at Valley Hospital here in Vegas—he’s a nurse—and he’s signed up for an eight week stint there, on contract. But Mitch got a good deal to run a special order from LA to Kentucky. So they came out early, to kind of hang out at my place, and Sam would stay with me while Mitch was gone and—” He paused, feeling awkward, because this wasn’t his story, but Sam was still clinging to him. He shifted uncomfortably, then pressed on. “Well, and I guess there was a bad accident on the way here. A tractor-trailer. And they saw it, and it stirred up something in Sam. He had—” He wanted to say “some sort of fit,” but that seemed rude. He considered a minute. “He got upset, really bad, in the mountains, and Mitch had to admit him for the night to the hospital. They let him go, said he had anxiety, but he hasn’t gotten better. He’s been edgy since, and now Mitch is leaving tomorrow.” He looked at Sam and folded, because tears were running down Sam’s cheeks, and he was shaking. “Oh, Peaches, don’t,” he said, and pulled him up against him.

“Sorry,” Sam whispered, and then he began to sob.

Randy just held him, feeling very uncomfortable and helpless and frustrated, and he really did not like the way the woman was just sitting there, nice smile or not. Shouldn’t she be doing something? Saying something? But she was just waiting and watching, looking empathetic but quiet. Weirdest, though, was how the longer she sat there, the longer Randy looked at her, the calmer he felt, and eventually, it seemed to bleed into Sam too.

Sam straightened. “Sorry,” he said again, wiping at his eyes.

Laura passed him the box of tissues in front of her. “You don’t need to apologize, Sam. It’s okay to be upset, especially in here.” She waited as he dried his tears, and then said, “Is what Randy says accurate, or would you like to add or change anything?”

Sam nodded. Then paused. “Well—there’s stuff you should know. The doctor at Vail said this was about my mom.”

Randy watched the flicker across the therapist’s face. “Did you see a psychiatrist in Vail? Or was this a medical doctor?”