Double Blind (47 page)

But he was holding Sam while he did it, and Sam really was like a sun. He was warm and full of life—and he was here. He was alive.

Ethan. He didn’t know what to do with Slick yet, didn’t know how to think about him.

He’s here right now. And he loves you right now. You have to count it, for now.

Randy shut his eyes, let the hurt come, and then let the sun burn it away with warmth and love.

Then he gave it right back.

“He’s going to come home, Peaches,” Randy whispered, but with conviction, because he meant it. “Mitch is going to come home, this time, and a lot of other times.”

“You can’t promise that,” Sam whispered, brokenly.

“No,” Randy agreed. “I can’t promise that. I can’t guarantee you that no more stupid shit is going to happen to your life. I can’t even tell you that you’ve had your quota, and it should be good from here on out.” He pulled back so he could look at Sam, and when Sam kept his head down, Randy pulled his chin up so he had no choice but to look at Randy before he went on. “But I can tell you that you have the best of it, kid, and you know that I always have a corner on the odds. Mitch is more likely to come home than he isn’t. And even if you get a bad beat and something happens”—he pushed his thumb against Sam’s lips when his eyes filled with tears—“even if it does, you have me. And I think Ethan, probably, at least for now. And you have Crabtree, weird as he is. You have lots of people, and you’re going to meet more at work. You never get one-hundred percent odds, Sam. But your cards are fucking aces. You have fucking great odds, baby. I swear to fucking God.” He chucked his chin gently. “Okay?”

Sam’s tears spilled out, but he was smiling. “I love you, Randy,” he said.

Out of the corner of his eye, Randy saw the therapist move, and he turned toward her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to take over like that.”

“That’s quite all right.” She smiled, a kind, understanding smile, not at all unlike, he realized, his uncle’s.

Which was probably just his imagination, him making it up or wanting to see it. But in that moment, in that very nice, delicate little bird-egg moment? He didn’t really fucking care what it was. He was taking it.

Sam
and Randy took their time getting home after the appointment.

Randy wanted to go up to the top of the Stratosphere again, but Sam asked if they could take another ride, so they did that instead. They rode all the way out to Lake Mead, and then stopped for dinner on the way back.

“I want to learn to ride a motorcycle,” Sam said as they left the restaurant.

“Your husband,” Randy said, “would gut me if he found out I taught you how to ride a motorcycle.” When Sam gave him an angry look, he held up his hands. “Hey. I’m not saying he’s right or he’s wrong. I’m just telling you the truth. You should have him teach you.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “That would never work. He’d be too scared.” Sam kicked at the bike’s front tire. “That’s the thing, Randy. What we were talking about, back at the therapist. I didn’t want to admit it because I hate it when people point out the age difference, but you know, sometimes it
is
like he’s my dad. Which seriously messes with my head, I’ll tell you. I don’t like it. But I don’t know how to stop it.”

Randy leaned on the bike. “He’s just scared, Peaches. Don’t you get it? He’s as scared of losing you as you are of losing him. He hates that he has to be gone. Don’t think he didn’t try six different ways to make this work without his having to leave. Hell, he took a job for Crabtree so you could go see this therapy lady.”

“I know,” Sam said, but he was still irritated. “But I want… I want….” He glared at the ground for a few minutes, then all of a sudden he looked up at Randy, his jaw set in determination. “I want to learn how to ride a motorcycle. Because I want to know how, and because I don’t need his permission to do it. Because he’s not my dad.
I’m
my dad, like you said. And I say I get to learn.”

Me and my goddamned fucking mouth.
Randy thought frantically for a few minutes, trying to figure out how to get out of this one. Then he decided there wasn’t any way out but through.

“Okay,” he said, “but you’re telling him. And trust me, I’ll know that you’ve done it. But you have to tell him. Not ask—tell. If you’re not man enough for that, you’re not man enough to ride.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed, but his tone told Randy he had at least a few days’ reprieve before he had to give Sam a lesson.

He still spent the whole ride back into town trying to decide how and when and under what conditions he could do this lesson, or whether he should hire some sort of professional to do it. He could see the argument both ways, and he could tell he was going to go back and forth on it for a while.

He wondered if it would be worth asking Slick what he thought. Actually, that wasn’t a bad idea. He hurried home a little faster, both to ask him and because after the big raw day of digging up the past, he was looking forward to sparring with him.

But when they got home, Randy found a note on the kitchen table.

For a moment his heart stopped, and then he stopped too.
He’s gone,
he thought,
he left,
and the world tipped sideways for a screaming half a second. Then his eyes fell on the actual words.

Meet me at the casino.

Sam, who was not recovering from near heart failure, picked up the notepad and frowned at it. “Meet him at the casino? Okay, sure, but why didn’t he call? Or text?”

“Probably for dramatic affect,” Randy replied, his heart still pounding.
It worked.
“He must be planning something.”

Sam brightened. “Oh, I hope it’s something for Butterfly!”

Randy resisted the urge to roll his eyes or wince. The fact that he was still shaken helped.
He didn’t leave, you dumbass. Where’s he going to go? The mob will kill him if he goes. Or Crabtree, or something. He’s here for a while yet. Calm the fuck down.

“I still don’t like that name,” Randy said, grouchier than he meant to sound.

“That’s because you have no taste,” Sam replied, though he was mostly engrossed in punching in a text. Then he paused and pursed his lips. “He won’t tell me anything. He just says to get there because he’s been waiting for two hours.”

“He’s definitely planning something,” Randy said, feeling a little better at the thought. Plans were good.

They took the truck over to the casino, and continuing in the theme of the day, Sam drove. Randy couldn’t say he minded; it gave him the space to think.

Slick had really been getting into this casino thing, and he’d been pretty good at it, actually. Well, not the casino itself so much. But Randy had seen some of Ethan’s spreadsheets, and yeah, he was a good hand with investments and money organization. The books were looking fairly decent, probably for the first time since the early nineties. And even though Randy still thought it was a disappointment waiting to happen, he and Sam were having a heyday planning their Butterfly Whatever. They and their talent agent-turned-party-planner and her chest of sequined outfits. Nothing had happened yet, mind you—they didn’t even have a single event planned. Just the first three days of November booked for “Butterfly Nights: Let your soul fly free!” Or whatever the tagline was. Randy hoped to hell they got a better one before the flyers went to press.

But they were having a good time. A great time. Slick was lit up. And happy.

And here.

Randy wasn’t going to complain—too much.

They came around to the front, because Sam said Ethan had been adamant about that in his text, and Randy could tell from the way the staff jumped as they approached that Ethan had given orders to watch for them. Which was another funny thing. Ethan really was running the place, all from his little office on the seventh floor.

He wasn’t on the seventh floor now. When Sam and Randy came in the door, the first thing they saw—or that Randy did anyway—was Ethan. Ethan in his black suit, which had become his signature: black suit and black tie, but tonight he had on a purple paisley shirt, one of Randy’s favorites. He looked like a fucking king. He looked like the highest of high rollers, so sleek and smooth he didn’t have to advertise. He was cool. He was fucking sex on a fucking set of sticks. He was glowing, gorgeous, and so fuckable Randy wanted to do him right there.

He was also standing in front of a goddamned fountain. The fountain was in the place where Billy’s craps table had been.

With the goddamned fucking demon statue in the middle of it.

“You did it!” Sam cried, and rushed forward to high-five Ethan. Ethan didn’t look at him, though. He was watching Randy.

He was going to have to keep watching, too, because Randy could not stop looking at the damn statue. He had never seen it, just heard about it, and now here it was. All ten feet of it. He just looked at it, watched the water come out of his nostrils, and stared.

Finally Randy shook his head and said, “Holy. Shit.”

“Isn’t it
great
?” Sam said, hands on his hips as he looked up at the golden face. “We found it in a secret room inside a closet. Sarah said it got built in there, but she had the workmen take it out. I knew this was going to happen, and I knew it was a secret, but wow! I didn’t know you were getting it done so fast, Ethan! You had all the way until the end of the month before Butterfly!”

“No,” Ethan said, still looking right at Randy. There was some heat in his gaze too. “I only had two weeks.”

The bet.
Fuck, Randy had forgotten about it. He looked at the fountain again, and because Sam had moved, this time he could see the whole thing—including the part where the fig leaf decidedly wasn’t.

Hello, demon.

Randy rubbed his chin for a minute and kept his eyes on the leafless aspect of the statue. “So,” he said, carefully. “It seems I’m now dancing for Billy
and
for you.”

“Oh, you aren’t dancing for Billy,” Ethan said with a conviction that made Randy glance at him.

“I’m not, you say? Because I remember losing a bet—over you, I might add—to be his floozy-rent-boy-ad campaign for the night.”

“Yes. We’ve rethought the strategy behind ‘Gay Nite’ and don’t think it’s quite the image we want. Billy’s agreed to accept instead that you’ll work that night, probably as a dealer. Or you’ll perform. And I promised him that your costume would be at least slightly embarrassing for you.” Ethan was looking at the fountain now, too, and nodded at it. “It’s not marble, by the way. It’s gold. Though technically I think it’s brass.”

“I can see I was misinformed,” Randy agreed, looking at Slick, the statue forgotten.

Ethan smiled a wry little smile. “You lose a lot of bets to me, Ace.”

“Yeah, about that. You’ve been a little busy with your casino projects, Slick—we haven’t played poker in awhile.”

“I was thinking that too. Actually, there was one game I know you didn’t teach me.” Ethan tilted his head to the side. “What about strip poker, Randy?”