Double Blind (29 page)

Randy ignored that and reached out to stroke his shoulder. “Slick, don’t be a dipshit. You can need somebody.”

“I don’t need somebody.” Ethan looked right at Randy, suddenly fierce again. “I need you.”

And it slammed into Randy, wrapping around him, lifting him up, making his heart rise ridiculously high in his chest.

Ethan gentled, relaxing his grip and turning his hand over in Randy’s. “For now.”

Another slam—this one into the wall, with a spike in it.

It must have shown on Randy’s face,
goddamn it,
because Ethan flushed, then captured Randy’s hand tight again, even though Randy had been too stung to pull away. “I meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Randy said, trying to be magnanimous, but it came out awkward and stupid. Those words kept ringing in his head.
For now.
He reached for his champagne, then downed it in one go, not really tasting it.

“No.” Ethan sank back. “I meant that I don’t want to burden you.”

“It’s okay,” Randy lied. It came out a little better this time.

Ethan didn’t look like he bought it, but he didn’t say anything else. Which, actually, felt like another knife. Randy poured himself some more champagne, and soon he’d done some decent damage on the bottle, nursing his stupid inner drama as he sat awkwardly beside Ethan, watching Sam and Mitch enjoying each other at the other end of the car. It didn’t matter, he tried to tell himself.
You knew this. You knew it was temporary. You’ve been thinking this the whole time. There’s no cause to act like a fucking drama queen.

Except that I didn’t want it to be for now. I was hoping it was different, with him.

In short, betting on fucking black. He grunted, picked up the bottle, and finished it off.

When the car stopped, they were in the Fruit Loop on Paradise Boulevard, outside Firefly, which Randy knew right away was Sam’s doing. They’d gone here the last time Sam and Mitch had been here. Of course, they always went everywhere when Sam and Mitch were here.

He’d been waiting so long for them to come, and he’d been all ready for it to be just a few months, just until after Christmas. He’d made his peace with that, that he’d just get them in shifts, once or twice a year, and that would be fine. He’d lost Mitch completely for years. Wasn’t this better, having him even just a little? And now Sam too? And now they were here early, and Ethan was here. His life was so fucking full it was overflowing, and it was nothing but one crisis after another, and sheer chaos. And he loved it. He knew what Slick meant about being alive. He felt alive when Sam and Mitch were here. And now Slick, in two days, had opened up a whole new definition of living, somehow.

For now.

He pushed past the three of them, ignored the hostess, and headed straight for the bar where he peeled off a twenty and ordered two shots of whiskey. He downed one right away, then glared at the second, pouring all his crazy into it before he tipped it back too. When he slammed the glass back down, the world was spinning nicely, and Mitch was standing next to him.

“Skeet, what the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m getting drunk, Old Man,” he said, and ordered another.

Mitch put a hand on his arm to keep him from picking up the shot once it was sitting before him. “What happened in the car, Randy?”

Randy laughed. “Nothing.”

I love him. I love him.

You. Stupid. Fuck.

He turned to Mitch, his throat thick, his rage climbing over his sorrow to save him. “Let go of my fucking drink.”

Mitch moved his hand, but he was getting pissed.
Good,
Randy thought. He certainly didn’t want to have this pity party by himself.

For now.

“You two are quite a fucking pair, you know that?” Mitch jerked his head back toward the door. “Sam’s back there with Ethan, who, by the way, looks worse than he did when he came home from the casino.”

“I don’t care.” Except that he did. Randy swore, then waved at the bartender for another.

“
What the fuck happened?
” Mitch said again.

Randy smiled a drunken, sarcastic smile. “He told me that he needed me. For now.”

Mitch blinked. Then he shut his eyes and swore under his breath.

Then he threw another twenty on the bar, grabbed the back of Randy’s collar and hauled him bodily out of the restaurant, ignoring Randy’s drunken cries of outrage. When he came to Sam, speaking earnestly to Ethan whom he’d backed up against a wall, Mitch gently brushed his husband aside and grabbed Ethan with his other hand.

He dragged them both outside then stuffed them back into the limo, Ethan first, Randy second, then leaned into the doorway and glared at them both.

“You will both fucking stay in here until you sort this out.” He aimed a finger at Ethan. “You, get your head out of your ass.” He turned the finger on Randy. “You, quit being clever and fucking let him see who you really are.”

“I
did
,” Randy snarled, “That’s the problem—”

Then the door slammed shut, and the two of them were left alone.

How
, Randy wondered, as he sat there awkwardly with Ethan, had it come to this? It had been so good, and then Slick had said “for now,” and it had been over. And for Randy the worst part was realizing how fucked up his thinking had become. It wasn’t about Slick. It was about him and what he wanted. He felt the lump in his throat come back. It was starting to feel permanent. He’d wanted this thing with Ethan to be something real. Like Sam and Mitch. He wanted what they had, and he hadn’t even admitted it to himself until Slick showed up. Somehow he’d gotten his heart set on his something like Mitch and Sam’s relationship being a something with Slick. And he didn’t know how to turn that feeling off.

He tried to push it away, but despite the seating for eight, there wasn’t that much room in the limo, not for this. Not for the loneliness he had tried so hard not to feel, either, which he’d just started to manage again, and then this, and now—

And now—

Ethan didn’t want him, not like that. Randy had played the wrong game, gone on tilt, taken his mind off the odds and the pot. He’d imagined, like Ethan had with the roulette wheel, that being with Ethan would make things okay.

God, the fucking irony. Everyone was always on him to stop being such an ass—here’s Mitch, too, saying, show him who you are—and he already had, really, and look how it had turned out.
That’s why I’m fucking alone,
he wanted to shout.

But he didn’t want to be, not anymore. Even right now, in the middle of this.

He was so fucked.

And then Ethan shifted again, both physically on the seat, and emotionally, and Randy watched him fall, ace moving from high to low, looking ten times more miserable and lonely than Randy felt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough, like there was gravel in his throat. “I—” Ethan was breathing hard, and looking around, almost panicked. Every word was hurting him, and it showed. “I meant—I wanted—to have a night with you—” He looked dizzy. It was hell, just looking at him. “I just wanted—I didn’t mean—” The tower of Ethan started to crumble. “I’m sorry, Randy, so sorry—”

“Just shut up, Slick,” Randy said, wearily, rolling his heart back over and handing Ethan the knife, because what the hell else was he supposed to do? Drive it in himself? “Just stop talking and get over here.”

But now Ethan was on to self-loathing. “This is what I meant,” he whispered. “I don’t want to need you, don’t want to—but I can’t—”

Randy moved over to the seat beside Ethan and took him in his arms. “I know, Slick. I know.”

“I didn’t mean—I don’t—I don’t—”

Randy shut him up by taking his mouth in a hard kiss, pushing him back onto the seat, then onto the floor. He kissed him deep, and he held him, and that was all. They just lay there, mouths pressed together, alternating between kissing and breathing. Randy could smell the cleaner they’d used on the carpet, the richness of the leather, and gin, and Slick. Mostly Slick.

If you put all your chips in, you might win it all.

He didn’t want to. But he was starting to think he’d already put himself all-in. He had to see it through to the river now. He’d been committed since the blind, which in hindsight had been too fucking huge. Bad odds.

But fucking hell, what a sweet pot.

Ethan pressed his forehead against Randy’s. “I just wanted to take you out. I wanted to have a night out with you, a good one where I was strong.” He snorted. “And I didn’t want to break down.”

Just lay down the cards. Get it over with.
“Ethan, I haven’t been fucking you and putting you up in my house and making myself sick with worry over how I’ve fucked you over by getting you involved with my stupid gangster friends because I was hoping at some point you’d stop breaking down.” He paused, then corrected himself. “Okay, I didn’t mean that I want you to be upset. I mean that you just do that, Slick. Being with you is a little like riding a tiger, but hey.”

Ethan had pulled back and was looking at Randy, frustrated, and oddly enough, he looked scared, as if they’d finally come to something that had been bothering him but he’d also hoped to avoid.

Ha,
Randy thought, feeling a little better.
This game does have a double blind, after all.

Ethan didn’t look any happier about it than he was. “Why
are
you doing this, Randy? Is it—” He grimaced. “—pity?”

“No,” Randy said.
Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Stop talking, right now.

“Why?” Ethan whispered.

Make a joke. Make a smart remark. Distract him. Kiss him. Fuck him. Just do not answer that question, do not fucking answer that question. Because that is so fucking all-in, and this is not the time for that, you idiot.

But Randy was tired. And he’d had two glasses of good champagne and enough whiskey to loosen his tongue. So as a compromise, he shut his eyes and said the stupid, stupid, stupid, beautiful, deadly words, shoved it all-in, feeling like he was falling back inside a hole, feeling sick and light and beautifully free, all at once, like he was jumping off the top of the Stratosphere.

“Because I love you.”

He went sailing over the edge, and the world expanded before him, and he embraced the fleeting moment, then prepared himself for the fall—

A cool, shaking hand grabbed his chin, and when he didn’t open his eyes, a finger pulled his eyelid back forcibly, and Ethan was looking down at him, shocked and wild.

“If you’re making a joke,” he whispered, then said no more.

Randy snorted, and pulled his head down to try to free himself. But Ethan held him fast, his voice stronger as he spoke again, though he did let Randy’s eye close.

“Randy, we’ve known each other
two days,
” Ethan whispered.

“I think it took about two minutes,” Randy said, jumping again. This actually wasn’t so bad. Once you did it, you could just keep going over the edge, no problem.

“Randy,” Ethan said, demanding, but in a whisper again.

Randy gave up and opened his eyes. “Look, Slick,” he said, but his voice was smooth and easy, and quiet. “You don’t have the corner on the market for feeling wounded.”

Ethan’s hand tightened on Randy’s chin. “But I am
so fucked up.
”

Randy didn’t even dignify that one with a response. He just waited as Slick caught up.

“You don’t pity me,” Ethan said, slowly, as if waiting for the rug to be pulled out from under him. “You—you….”

He couldn’t finish. Randy sighed. Jesus, this bitch was work. “Love you,” he finished. Then decided to take another trip over the edge, to see if he still had the bungee cord on. “And, incidentally, with the way I do that, it’s probably for more than just now.”

Ethan went pale. “Shit.” He went paler. “
Shit.
” And Randy was sadistic enough to enjoy that, but not for too long.

“It’s okay,” he said, and this time he meant it.

But it was still nice to have Slick falling over himself. “Randy, I didn’t mean—I didn’t know—”

“I know,” Randy said, and smiled as he touched Ethan’s face. “Just shut up, Slick. You fuck it up when you talk.”

“What do we do, then?” Ethan asked.

Randy gestured at the door. “Go eat dinner. Go clubbing. Go gambling. Go make you cry at the fountains again. Go home and fuck like rabbits. Then tomorrow, I guess, you go work for Billy Herod, and we wait for our shot to break Crabtree’s kneecaps.”

Ethan stroked Randy’s cheek. It was a tender gesture, but Randy could tell he was looking for a loophole, a catch, something to prove this to be the farce he knew it had to be.
Can’t pull back the blind, baby,
he thought, ruefully, not sure if he was talking to Ethan or himself.

Randy smiled to himself. Then he grabbed Ethan’s fingers and kissed them. “Come on, Slick. Let’s go party.”

Then Randy took the hand of the man he loved, the fucked-up, disbelieving man he loved, and led him off gently toward the restaurant.

Ethan
spent the better part of dinner trying to decide if what he thought had happened in the limo on the floor with Randy actually had happened, or if he’d imagined it.

He’d gone back inside the restaurant in a sort of shock, feeling like he had that first night when Randy had led him to the bar at Herod’s. He couldn’t find his footing, and in lieu of any other real option, he followed the others along. Mitch and Sam had already claimed a table and were working their way through appetizers and a pitcher of sangria, and they greeted Ethan and Randy warmly, as if Mitch hadn’t hauled them both bodily out to the limo just half an hour before. Mitch poured a glass of sangria for Randy and water for Ethan, and Sam chatted animatedly about the appetizers.

Ethan had no real idea what he ordered—there was shrimp, he thought, but he remembered chicken too. He spent most of the time reeling quietly. He had to have heard wrong. Randy could not be in love with him. Not only did it not make any sense, it didn’t fit. Randy would never admit that he loved him, not after the idiot he’d been so many damn times—

But Ethan kept seeing Randy’s face, his eyes shut as he said the words, a man laying down his sword. Except with Randy that wouldn’t be the metaphor. He was laying down his cards.

Ethan just didn’t know what he was supposed to
do
with them.

Most annoying was that Randy didn’t seem nervous anymore. He was relaxed at dinner, leaning back in his chair and going over some trouble with Mitch from the distribution center in detail and asking Sam about the tour of the hospital he was due to have on Wednesday. Sam tried to include Ethan, but every conversation was a land mine for him, and between this and
I love you
still ringing in his head, he kept faltering. And Randy kept rescuing him, deflecting with a joke and change of subject, giving Ethan space.

“It’s really bugging you, isn’t it?” Randy remarked, sounding almost pleased as they headed back to the car. “God, I’m glad I said it, then. It’s about damn time you had the angst over it.”