Double Blind (28 page)

Still, Randy felt self-conscious. “I’m going to grab a jacket, and that’ll make it look better. My outfit, I mean.”

“It’s fine now,” Ethan said, and got a good grope of his ass as he slid past him into the bathroom.

Mandy’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s a winner you’ve got there, Jansen.”

Randy grunted and headed back to his bedroom.

He’d be warm in his leather jacket for now, but later he’d be glad for it. With and without it, though, he felt underdressed and slightly naked, and he dug around in the dish on his dresser for the silver choker and the shiny silver hoop earring that went with it. He found both, and then went fishing deeper for his leather-and-silver wristbands. He found them—and also Ethan’s keys, and his ring. He laid the latter on the center of the dresser as he put the jewelry on, and then in a perverse impulse he didn’t understand but couldn’t quell, he slipped it onto his finger. It would only fit on the pinky of his right hand, but it fit.

A knock came on the doorframe, and he turned to see Sam standing there. Randy couldn’t help a wolf whistle.

“Peaches, you look damn fine,” he said, and he meant it.

Sam grinned and turned his profile, letting Randy get a good view of his butt. “I’m wearing your favorite jeans.”

These would be a pair Randy had picked out for him two years ago, which had artful slashes up and down the pant legs, two cut so high they required Sam to wear a thong or nothing at all. It went well with the smoky, tight-fitting gray and white speckled T-shirt he’d put on, along with a leather necklace set with rainbow beads. He looked as good as Ethan, and for a second Randy let himself feel the regret that the playing around with Mitch and Sam was apparently over, at least until Ethan moved on.

That sent his head reeling again, and he gave himself a quick mental shake.
Quit being so fucking morose, you dumbass.

“Shall we go?” Sam asked, holding out his arm, and Randy accepted it, waving goodbye to Mandy as he went with him out the front door.

Ethan was outside already, and so was Mitch, having a quick cigarette in the driveway.

A huge, tricked-out, cream-colored stretch limo was sitting there, too.

It was either a stretch or a mini-stretch. By no means was it a party bus or even a van, but it was decidedly a vehicle that said, “VIPs are inside.” It looked expensive and elegant, but understated all at the same time: in short, the sort of vehicle that high rollers would demand.

“I picked it out,” Sam said, looking devilish and proud at once. “It has a full bar, a phone to the driver, a sunroof, three lighting settings, and seating for eight.” He pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and waved it as he waggled his eyebrows. “And it has a sound system we control from the back.”

It sounded fucking expensive. “And how’s Slick paying for this again?”

“Says he has a million dollars from Billy Herod and that it’s just the first down-payment,” Sam replied.

“Did you point out that if he spends it all in one night, he’s going to have to actually do what Billy wants or find some way to get that much money back?”

“He said he figures at this point he’s screwed no matter what he does, so he might as well have fun.” Sam shook his head. “He was scary after you left, Randy. He just sat there. It was like something was sucking him inside himself, like a black hole.”

“Yeah,” Randy said, watching Ethan walk back and forth along the edge of the driveway, weaving just a little while Mitch chatted with the driver. “He can get that way.”

“And then he just stopped, and stood up, and said he wanted to go out, Las Vegas style. He had me on the Internet looking stuff up—at first I was just glad to see him animated, but then I thought, maybe this isn’t such a good idea. Holy shit, Randy. Then he almost got
mean
.”

Randy turned quickly toward Sam. “He didn’t hurt you?”

“Oh—God no.” Sam blushed. “I didn’t mean like that. He just—he was like—” The blush became intense, and Randy knew where the rest of this was going before Sam found the courage to say it, because there was only one time Sam looked like this. “He was… kind of like you get. When.”

When we’re having sex.
And how fucked up was he, Randy wondered, that the image of Ethan turning dominant, the Ethan from the bike—
I want to fuck you, Randy—
that Ethan turning on Sam, giving him orders—giving both of them orders—

Holy fuck, where did that come from?

Randy ran a hand over his face, pretty sure he was blushing too. “I got it, Peaches.”

“Sorry, Randy,” Sam said, looking guilty. “I should have said no, but it surprised me. I just sort of went into a mode.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Randy put his arm around Sam and drew him close, kissing him briefly on the top of his head. “So, should we go paint the town red?”

“I think we’re gonna paint it a little rainbow, but yeah,” Sam said, and they walked together toward the car.

Ethan lingered in the driveway until the rest of them were in the car. Randy started to approach him, to make sure he was okay, but Ethan waved him away, and Randy caught a flash of what Sam had been talking about. It was a different Ethan, a sharper Ethan.

And yeah, it was a pretty arousing Ethan, even with all things considered.

It was that Ethan, Randy acknowledged as he climbed in after Mitch, who had drawn him from the start. Even in the shell of the man he’d watched on closed-circuit TV, this iron-coated man had been in there too. Crabtree would go on about how this was because Ethan was an ace, and even though Randy only tangentially subscribed to the gangster’s home-brewed philosophy, it was hard to argue against it, at least as it presented in Slick. And, yes, he was drawn to it. Like a fucking moth to a fucking flame.

Sam was exploring the car and carrying on enthusiastically, saying, “Fuck yeah!” as he discovered the mahogany-inlaid bar, the heavy crystal flutes for champagne, the mirrored walls, the fairy-dusted lights on the mirrored ceiling, the buttery leather seats, the thick carpet on the floors, and yes, the state-of-the-art sound system, complete, as the salesperson had promised Sam, with iPod/iPhone attachment. It was all done in varying but elegant shades of brown, reminding Randy a little bit of the Golden Nugget.

Ethan climbed in at last, and as Randy was only halfway into the vehicle, he leaned over his shoulder and spoke quietly into his ear. “What do you think?”

His breath still stank of alcohol, but he smelled of cologne too. The cologne was—just to fuck with Randy’s already fucked up head—Sam’s. So he smelled drunk man, Sam, and the spicy scent that was Ethan all at once, and it scrambled his remaining senses.

“It’s good,” he said lamely.

Ethan chuckled and put his hand on Randy’s hip, urging him onto a seat as Kylie Minogue, Sam’s favorite artist, began to sing “I Should Be So Lucky.”

“Are you okay?” Randy asked him, as Ethan settled down beside him on the long seat across from the bar. He didn’t look okay. He looked pale and wan, and he looked like he was dancing on the head of a pin.

Ethan shook his head as he reached for a pair of glasses and a bottle from the bar. “Don’t,” he said, quietly. “Please. No, I’m not. But I can climb on top of it if you don’t bring it up.”

What are you doing, Slick? What are we doing?
But asking that wouldn’t help either of them. So he went for the nag. “Are you sure you should be drinking?”

A wry smile played at his lips as he handed the glasses to Randy. “I’m sure I shouldn’t.” He unwrapped the foil and removed the wire cage from the cork deftly, revealing he was a man who knew his way around expensive champagne. Randy tried to think of the last time he’d had champagne. He couldn’t remember the occasion, but he’d been fairly sure it had been a five-dollar bottle of André. This wasn’t Ethan’s first time with the good stuff. Which meant he’d probably had it with fucking Nick. Up in some goddamned fancy fucking cabin in the fucking romantic fucking mountains.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

He tipped the champagne flute toward Ethan, his hand shaking. “Hand me that bucket when you’re done, will you? I think I need to stick my head in it.”

“You’re nervous.” Ethan tipped the first flute back up and reached for the second. “Why?”

“I don’t fucking know.” Randy passed the glasses back to Mitch, who was grinning at Sam as he continued to enthuse over every minute detail of the limousine. But when Randy reached for two more glasses, Ethan shook his head and selected only one. He poured it, handed it to Randy, then pulled his bottle of water out of his pocket.

Randy gave him a quelling look. “Oh, so
I
will drink and get hammered, while you sober up?”

“I’m several layovers away from sober.” Ethan worked the cap of the water off and took a careful drink. “I’m actually constantly fighting off the urge to stick my head out the door and vomit. Though it’s difficult to say if it’s nerves or alcohol. I don’t think I was half as drunk before as I was hysterical.” He tightened the lid again, then tightened it again and held his grip against the plastic cap. “Randy, I’m so goddamned scared.”

And it’s my fault.
He put the glass down. “Ethan—”

Ethan shook his head. “No. It’s—” He stopped, shut his eyes, and Randy could see him fighting the nausea. He watched him take a deep breath. “I hate Crabtree. I swear, I could kill him right now, gangster or not. Hell, I think I’m half-mob myself, after this afternoon.” He opened his eyes and stared unseeing into the glittering lights of the bar. “But the thing is, Randy, I’m scared because I think he might be right. I think I might actually need this. It’s… I don’t know. I don’t quite understand it. All I know is that when I came here to Vegas I felt like I was dead already.”

Now Randy was going to throw up. “Don’t, Slick.”

Ethan put a hand on Randy’s, but kept his eyes on the bar. “I felt like that until you showed up. And then Crabtree messed with me, and then Billy—and I was angry. And scared.” His hand tightened on Randy’s. “And alive.”

He looked down at the water bottle, then worked it open with one hand, not even considering taking back the one that was claiming Randy’s. He took a drink, shut the bottle again, then stared down at it.

Randy could admit to himself that he liked the feeling of Ethan’s hand in his. And he liked the spark he saw in him, terrified as it made Ethan. Randy didn’t know that he liked how prominently Billy and Crabtree played in this, but there didn’t seem to be much to do about that now. He would have apologized for his part in it, but Ethan didn’t seem interested in that. He seemed more focused on whether or not he was stupid for wanting, just a little, to play this batshit hand.

It made Randy wonder if he would do the same, were their situations reversed. He didn’t think so. And he didn’t know what to think about that.

He felt like he should say something, but everything that came to mind felt ridiculous and syrupy. He went for the least inane and saccharine comment he could muster. “You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

Ethan’s hand stroked Randy’s. “I think it’s ridiculous when people tell other people that they need them, like it’s some sort of weight they put in someone’s lap. Nick used to tell me that, and it made me angry, though I suppose it’s like you said. He actually did need me. Because he needed me to be able to be himself. But I don’t want to put that on anyone, because—because I don’t. I’ve always been independent. Maybe too much so, I don’t know. I have always taken care of myself. But right now—” He broke off, looking slightly tortured, and gripped Randy’s hand so hard that it hurt.