Bad Things (8 page)

He poured two glasses of tequila and handed one to Carson, who sipped at it as if he was being forced to eat Brussels sprouts.

Xavier couldn’t help laughing again. “I didn’t mean to force you. I thought you said no to be polite.” He dumped the contents of Carson’s glass into his own. “So, Brian’s a total dick, eh?”

Carson kind of smiled. “He’s definitely a hardass.”

“
How long have you been working there?”

A heavy sigh. “Almost two years.”

“Not where you wanted to be?”

Carson shrugged. “It’s fine. I always knew photography would have to be a side thing. I’d much rather be a bartender than stuck doing wedding photography or some shit like that.”

“I’ll set you up with some bedding so you can get to sleep. But tomorrow you have to show me some of your photos.”

The nicer he was, the more nervous Carson seemed to get. Normally, that would mean the game was on. Not that Xavier was into hunting straight guys. But it was fun as hell, sometimes, watching them try not to pee themselves when they thought he was trying to get them to let him fuck them.

Maybe Carson was doing it out of sincere gratitude for Xavier’s generosity, going to the store and stocking up on groceries for the next few days. Or maybe it was guilt. Or maybe it was just another scene in Brian’s crazy spy versus spy soap opera. When he got back, Carson put everything away, except the ingredients for the chicken stir-fry.

The door to the stairs was wide open, and down in the basement he could hear Xavier working out. Gloved fists slamming into the heavy bag hanging from the beam. Regular, huffing breaths.

For some reason, it surprised him, how well-stocked Xavier’s kitchen was. Racks of spices. Good array of utensils. Nice variety of pots and pans. He got the rice boiling while he sliced up the onion, red peppers and chicken, and quickly chopped up a few green onions and a bunch of cilantro, intermittently stirring the meat and veggies.

Xavier was still down in the basement. Maybe Carson should have waited to start cooking. Who knew how much longer he’d be at it?

Not sure why he felt so awkward about it, as if he were intruding on him in the shower, Carson went downstairs, deliberately clomping noisily down the steps so Xavier would know he was coming.

“
Hey, Xavier.”

Back to the door, hanging from a vertical bar mounted between two beams, arms flexed, biceps and triceps startlingly defined, he was doing hanging crunches. Fuck, his back. Carson had a sudden urge to run upstairs and get his camera. Those muscles knotting into relief each time Xavier raised his knees to his chest were put into perfect contours of light and shade by the sunshine slanting in through the narrow windows near the ceiling. An enormous tattoo, one of the most vividly rendered and thoughtfully composed he’d ever seen. Biomorphic armor, a metal-plated beast draped over his shoulder, a writhing serpent as Xavier’s body contracted, extended, contracted, shielding almost the entire left side of his back and partially hidden by his shorts.

And fucking hell, that ass.

“
What’s up?” Xavier huffed, not pausing or slowing his reps.

Carson walked past so he wouldn’t be talking to his back.

“I made lunch. Chicken stir fry with brown rice.”

Fucking fuck, he should have stayed by the door. Behind him, where Xavier wouldn’t notice if Carson couldn’t keep his eyes from roaming over his gleaming, muscled back and the flex of his ass, his shorts clinging to his sweaty skin.

“Sounds great. I’ve got ten minutes to go, here. Don’t worry about waiting for me.”

Arms bulging. Pecs taut. Belly long and lean when his legs hung down, then surging into incredible definition as his muscles contracted to bring his knees up to his chest, and still as he slowly unfolded, whole body trembling faintly as his legs straightened through their controlled descent. The other half of the armored creature writhing over his body in its exertions, its head, like its tail, hidden somewhere beneath those red shorts.

“You work out every day?”

Even straining through his reps; that amused grin.

“Sorry. I’ll let you finish.”

“
This, down here, every day.”

Against his sweat-damp shorts, a pair of red sweats cut off just above the knee, the outline of Xavier’s cock stood out in startling relief, down to exactly where the ridge of crown flared out from the shaft.

“Twice a week I spar at the gym.”

Except in porn, he’d never seen such a big cock. The memory of seeing it in the men’s room at work, not covered even by the flimsy fabric of those shorts, surfaced from his memory, and he hoped he wasn’t turning red.

“And twice a week I go for martial arts training.”

What the fuck was he doing here? Spying on a man who could kill him in ten seconds with his bare hands? He went upstairs and set the table, and when Xavier finished working out and had rinsed off in the shower, they ate.

“You’re not going to the tattoo shop today?” Carson asked. It was weird, how blurred the lines were: gathering information so he could get the job done for Brian, and just making small talk, getting to know Xavier a little.

“
The shop’s closed Mondays and Tuesdays. Tomorrow I’ll go in at eleven, and stay until I have to leave for the club. But if you need a ride, I can swing by here and pick you up.”

Asking questions was easier than lying. Even if the lie was basically true, because Brian had orchestrated things that way. “I’m not working tomorrow. Brian cut my shifts back. I think he wants to put a girl behind the bar. I should probably be looking for another job.”

“Maybe Brian has other plans for you.”

“
Other plans? Like what?”

“
Management, maybe? I don’t know. Seems like he trusts you with a lot of special jobs.”

Xavier speared a chunk of chicken and a couple pieces of pepper with his fork and pulled them off the tines with his teeth, then fixed his eyes on Carson’s.

Fuck. Did he know something? Suspect something, at least? Because it sounded, felt like Xavier was probing him. He was fucking terrible at this—one comment, and his heart was pounding. Trying his best to keep his voice normal, not to dodge Xavier’s intense gaze, Carson said, “It doesn’t feel like I’m getting promoted to manager. Feels more like I’m getting demoted to errand boy. I’m surprised he hasn’t sent me to the corner for a carton of cigarettes.”

On the way to the club, they barely talked. For some reason, he’d assumed Xavier would be a reckless driver. An aggressive speeder. But he was mellow on the surface streets, and when he pulled onto the freeway he just got in the fast lane and went with the flow.

As soon as Xavier took his post outside, Brian cornered Carson behind the bar.

“
So?”

“
Use your words,” didn’t seem like a wise reply, so Carson said, “I think everything’s fine. We had lunch together. He gave me a ride to work tonight.”

“
Find out anything?”

“
He works out a lot.”

“
No shit.”

“
He works at a tattoo place during the day sometimes. He’ll be there tomorrow.”

“
So you’ll have lots of time, between that and his shift here tomorrow night. Does he have an office? A desk? Files?”

“
No. I don’t think so. I haven’t seen his bedroom.”

That horrible grin.

“There’s a basement. Mostly it’s set up like a home gym. But there are some shelves. Boxes.”

“
Yeah, okay. Look there. Obviously, have a look around his bedroom. And get into his computer.”

“
What if he takes it with him?”

“
Did he bring it with him tonight?”

“
No.”

“
So you’ll probably get a crack at it tomorrow.”

“
I just—”

“
Just what?”

“
Fuck, Brian. If he figures out I’m fucking around with his stuff he’s going to fucking kill me. I mean, literally.”

Brian laughed. “Don’t be a pussy. Guys like Xavier are all the same. They go to the gym every day and turn themselves into these walking muscle sculptures for one reason. Because they’re weak. Because they’re so afraid of having to stand up and be a man, they work out three hours a day so they’ll never have to, because most guys will be too intimated to fuck with anyone that big. And I’ll tell you something else. Know what it is?”

Fuck, Carson wished Brian would stop grinning. “No. What?”

“
If you think you should be more afraid of Xavier than me, you’re wrong. And if you think you should be more afraid of Xavier than Max, you’re dead fucking wrong. You got me?”

“
Yeah.”

Looking him up and down then, the way he looked at the girls, and still with that shitty smirk, Brian said, “And if you think Xavier can be a better friend to you than me and Max, you’re wrong, too.”

Even by the time he was back in Xavier’s car for the ride home, the queasy feeling that had been rolling around in his gut ever since his chat with Brian still hadn’t gone away. Because he felt threatened? Because he felt guilty?

The second they got in the door, Xavier went to his room and changed into jeans and a T-shirt, as if the slacks and dress shirt he’d worn to the club were wearing his skin raw and he couldn’t bear them another second. He didn’t shut his door while he changed, and Carson wondered if it was a test, if Xavier was wondering if he was gay. Maybe because he’d gotten flustered in the basement while he’d been working out. Hoping to make it clear that he wasn’t inviting any kind of sexual attention, Carson went to the bathroom so Xavier wouldn’t have any excuse to imagine he’d been furtively watching.

When he re-emerged, he found Xavier in the living room, standing at the retro bar, a metal cylinder painted that particular reddish orange that only existed in the sixties, pouring a glass of tequila.

“
Do you smoke?” Carson asked.

“
No.”

“
I mean weed.”

Startlingly wide, warm smile. “Yeah, I figured.”

“Do you mind if I go out to the patio and smoke?”

“
You can smoke in here.”

“
I’ll go outside. I don’t want to stink up your place if you don’t smoke.”

“
Sit down. Light up.”

He’d said it genially. Warmly. But somehow, something in his tone felt like a hand pushing Carson down onto the couch. Like the choice wasn’t his.

Xavier raised his glass. “I’m guessing you still don’t want any tequila.”

“
Nah, I’ll stick with the pot. Alcohol doesn’t really agree with me.”

Carson pulled the baggie out of his pocket, rooted around with the tip of his index finger, plucked out a decent bud and nestled it into the bowl of his pipe. Anxious, he wondered where Xavier was going to sit, and he was stupidly relieved as he sank into the low armchair on the other side of the coffee table, and not next to him on the couch. Xavier set the bottle on the table, and rested the glass, a finger of amber liquid lazily sloshing in the bottom, on his thigh.

“And pot just puts me to sleep,” Xavier said.

They were quiet for a while, Xavier sipping his tequila, Carson smoking, but taking it slow, taking it easy, afraid of letting his guard down.

“So. Did Brian give you any errand boy jobs for your day off?”

Carson let out an awkward laugh. “No.”

Xavier grinned. The ridiculous impression that it was a flirtatious grin fluttered through Carson’s mind. “Not even a request for a carton of cigarettes?”

Maybe because Xavier’s joke had him feeling stupidly nervous, three tokes in, Carson asked, “Can I ask you a kind of personal question?”

Xavier grinned, like his interest was genuinely piqued. “Go ahead.”