Double Blind (49 page)

Ethan’s heart was pounding as he took the joint. He thought about asking what he should do, but didn’t want to look stupid. He brought it—carefully—to his lips, wondering with every inch if he should just give this up and fold.

No,
he told himself, put it between his lips, shut his eyes, and sucked in.

It tasted acrid and sweet, both at once. And strong. Like a tree was burning, and he was sucking it inside his body. Why the hell was he doing this again?

“Hold it in, Slick,” Randy said. “Five seconds or so.”

Ethan tried, but he let it out early because he felt the buzzy feeling start almost right away. Just a little jolt, humming through him.
I don’t want to pass out,
he thought, and huffed the smoke back out of his body. But once he did, the buzzy feeling began to slide away a little.

Randy took the joint back with a wry smile, took a toke, and settled back into the couch.

Ethan, trying not to shake from nerves, picked up the cards and began to shuffle them. “Shall we play?”

“Yes,” Sam said.

Randy blew out another drag. “Why the fuck not?”

So Ethan dealt out, Sam leaned over to the stereo and fiddled with some music. As a male singer began to croon softly, Randy took another hit, and Ethan looked at his cards: J
q
5
q
. He glanced at the board: 4
r
Q
r
4
q
8
w
8
e
. He had two pair, but then, so did everyone else.

Randy passed the joint to Ethan as he laid down his cards, face up: 9
w
K
e
. “Turn ’em over boys. If there’s no bidding and no folding, there’s no point in hiding. Let’s see what you’re packing.”

Sam flipped his cards over while Ethan took another hit, this time holding the smoke in longer. This time he felt the buzz continue as he exhaled and looked down at Sam’s cards: A
w
9
e
. Sam had won.

Randy, tired of waiting for Ethan to wake up and turn over his own cards, reached over and did it for him. “Three fucking chances for a full house and we all blew it. And goddamn, but that would have been a sweet bluff.” He sighed, picked up the cup and jangled it before holding it up to Sam. “Pick your loser, Peaches.”

Sam dug in, clinked the chips around for a few seconds, then withdrew a red one and grinned at Randy.

“Let me see some skin,” he said, and tossed the chip back in.

Randy set it down with a snort, then reached for the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it up over his head.

Ethan stared at the tanned, sculpted planes of Randy’s chest for a moment, then absently took another drag from the joint.

Randy shuffled, dealt, then reached for the joint before sitting back and peeking at his cards. The board read 3
e
7
q
6
e
6
w
J
e
. Ethan had 3
q
10
q
; in other words, one low pair and a kicker that might roll over and groan, but that was it.

Randy had 3
w
7
r
: two pair.

Sam had 5
r
4
e
.

“And Peaches wins again, this time with a straight,” Randy said around the butt of the joint.

“I love this game!” Sam said, and chose another chip. This time he chose a green chip: himself. “Hmm.” He flicked it back and forth between his fingers and grinned. “‘What is your favorite food, Sam?’ ‘Ah. That’s a hard one, Sam, but rules are the rules. My favorite food is Mitch’s tamales’.” He tossed the chip back in and beamed. “My deal?”

Sam laid down 9
w
9
r
9
q
6
r
Q
r
. Nobody made anything off the board at all, which meant it came down to high card, which Ethan won, with the jack of diamonds.

He drew a red chip.

“Fucking hell!” Randy complained, but he’d been smoking heavily, and so he laughed too. And took another hit before he held out his hands and sank back into the couch, giving Ethan a leer. “You want my pants, baby? Because I’ll give them to you.”

Ethan didn’t want the pants. He wanted a question. But it was like someone demanding you say something in your second language: the minute you were called to do it, your mind was blank. And Ethan would never, ever be able to explain why he asked the question that finally floated to the surface.

“Is the gun still under the seat of my car?” The question felt heavy, even with the marijuana, but it was funny how lightly it came out of his mouth.

Randy’s leer faded, replaced with an open display of shock, then sorrow, then fear, then pain. He had, Ethan realized, no poker face at all when he was high.

“Sorry,” Ethan said. His voice was shaking. He wanted a drink. He reached for the joint instead.

Randy leaned forward and picked it up, keeping it from him. He looked into Ethan’s eyes as he answered. “No,” he said, and passed the joint over, turning it carefully in his hand and pressing it up against Ethan’s lips, waiting as he inhaled. “The gun is gone. I gave it to a friend to get rid of. No one will find it, and if they do, they’ll never know it had anything to do with you.”

Unexpected tears pricked the back of Ethan’s eyes, and he blinked them away as he exhaled. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Randy said gently, took a hit himself, and sat back down.

It took Ethan a little while to gather the cards and deal them, but no one rushed him.

Sam won again, with a pair of 6s. He drew himself again, and Randy snorted and got up to go to the fridge. He came back with two beers, one which he tossed to Ethan, who was glad to have it because he found he was quite thirsty. And a little hungry. They watched Sam, who was clearly considering his options.

Then he grinned, reached down, and pulled off a sock.

But he won the next hand, too, with a pair of queens. When he drew himself a third time in a row, he shook his head.

“This doesn’t work. I say we make a rule change.”

Randy was smoking again, but he lifted his eyebrows at this. “Let’s hear it, Peaches.”

“I say,” Sam went on, “that if the winner draws himself, it’s a wild card. He can call on himself, or the others.”

“Fine by me,” Randy said, and passed the joint over to Ethan. It was nearly half gone.

“Okay,” Ethan agreed, feeling very lightheaded and very agreeable.

“Great.” Sam dropped the chip back into the cup and turned to Ethan. “What’s your biggest fantasy, Ethan? A sexual one. And one you haven’t done.”

Ethan sipped at his beer, thinking. “I don’t know,” he said after a few minutes. “I mean—I have to think.” He tapped his finger on the side of the bottle.
Fantasy. Fantasy. Sexual fantasy.
He began to panic, because he had no idea. For years his greatest longing was to have Nick for a long weekend. Now he had sex every night and an orgy on call. He was living the fantasy he hadn’t even known he’d wanted. But that wasn’t an answer. He wanted to have an answer. He frowned.

And then, for no reason at all, he started to giggle. He giggled like a little girl, and the next thing he knew, Randy was too.

“You embarrassed, baby?” Randy asked, and they both started in again.

“No!” Ethan said, and wiped his eyes, because he was giggling so hard he was crying. “No, I just—I don’t know. But I’m thinking.
Shh.
”

They giggled again, but this time he was looking right at Randy, watching his body shake as he laughed, and hilarity turned on a dime and became a deep, consuming arousal. He breathed out, made himself focus, and then he had it.

“I want to fuck you,” he said carefully, looking right at Randy, “in front of people. Total strangers. A lot of them.”

Randy’s eyes went very dark, and he stopped giggling. He was still smiling, though, as he reached for the joint from the ashtray. “We’ll put it on the to-do list,” he said, took another hit, then scooped up the cards.

The next board was 5
r
K
q
2
w
7
r
J
e
, and Ethan grinned, because he had 7
q
J
r
, Sam had 2
r
3
q
, and Randy had 9
e
4
w
. But when he started to reach for the cup of chips, Randy quickly scooped them out of his hand.

“Oh,
no you don’t,
” he said. He was almost leering, he was so victorious. “I have just won your stupid game. This hand, anyway. Fucking finally.”

“But you don’t have anything!” Ethan complained. Then he giggled again.

Randy giggled too, but he also shook his head. “The fuck I don’t! You see what I’ve got? You see it, Peaches? See it, Slick? I’ve got skeet
.
Fucking Skeet has
skeet!
” He laughed so hard he had to slap his leg several times.

“What the hell?” Ethan said, openly laughing now, but Sam was leaning forward, suddenly interested.

“Oh!” he said, and beamed. “I get it—you have the 9, the 5, and 2 on the board, and you fill in with a 7 and 4 from your hand.” He looked up, still smiling, and spoke to Ethan who was still openly confused. “Skeet. A 9, a 5, and a 2, and something in-between.”

“That’s a fucking weird hand,” Ethan said, and laughed again.

Randy, beaming, and still giggling a little, reached in and drew his own chip. He leered at Ethan. “Give me your fucking shirt, lover.”

Ethan tried to be serious. “I get to decide what article of clothing,” he said, then giggled as he stood up. He kept his eyes on Randy as he undid the buckle of his belt, watching Randy’s face, lust plainly written there as Ethan freed the catch. Then Ethan watched his lover’s face fall as Ethan pulled the belt out completely and tossed it aside.