Double Indemnity (4 page)

“Flynn, you're a freak.”

“Thanks.” He finished the rest of the drink and gently slammed the glass back on the bar, feeling better already.

“So what're you working on?”

“Feldman obit. It's due tomorrow. Same old, same old.”

Rachel sighed. “Poor dude. Poor Patricia.”

“You know her?” Sam's eyebrows shot up.

“We go to the same synagogue. Well, when I go to synagogue.”

In high school, Rachel had become a devout Zionist, a phase which lasted about six months. She used to brag about being the only African-American lesbian Jew in Stonebridge. Since then her zeal had faded and she only attended services on the High Holidays.

“Oh?” Sam asked casually. “What's she like?”

“Quiet, keeps to herself. Sweet, though. Alex used to babysit the kids when they were really little.”

Alex was Rachel's girlfriend. They'd met during college but had only recently become serious. They seemed happy, but Sam was keeping his eye out. He hadn't allowed himself to get attached to Alex.

“They're still little.”

“Yeah, they are, huh.” She gave him a thoughtful look. “So, I take it you're having a hard time with it?”

“Did you know he was into pills?”

“It's not a surprise. So are half the people in this town. Everyone's got their poison.” Sam looked down at his empty glass. Yeah. He'd probably been drunk three times in the past week, and tonight wasn't shaping up to be much different. A sting of something like shame wormed into his gut, but he tamped it down. It wasn't like he was an alcoholic or anything. He pushed the glass forward.

“I'll take another.”

“I thought you were supposed to be working.”

“Don't give me any shit, Rach. I've had a helluva day.” Her eyes grew concerned again, but Sam didn't feel like talking about the letter he'd received from his insurance company. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away. Yeah.

“So where's Yuri tonight?” Rachel asked. She poured him another pint of Guinness, but this time left out the shot. Sam didn't argue.

“How should I know?”

“You two seem to be spending a lot of time together lately—off the clock. I thought—”

“We're just friends.”

“Yeah, and I'm your monkey's uncle.”

“Nice to meet you.” Sam raised his glass. “I didn't know my monkey had an uncle.”

“Don't be a jackass.” More customers entering the bar cut their conversation short. The Star was a popular after-work hangout for people in the neighborhood, but shit always got more interesting on gay night. As one of the only options in town, it drew men from a thirty-mile radius. One of the new arrivals was Sam's type—dark hair, long legs, cowboy boots, and lips that looked like they knew their way around a cock. His dark eyes flashed when they met Sam's, and Sam smiled over his pint.

Another server brought Sam's burger. He ate it carefully, every so often letting his eyes drift to Cowboy Boots to maintain the connection. He didn't want to think about Feldman and his kids anymore. And he certainly didn't want to think about the possibility Rachel was right about Yuri.

They'd seen each other at work since the last time they'd fucked, and it had been fine. They hadn't talked about it, of course, but they never did. It wasn't that Yuri didn't mean anything to Sam. They'd been friends for years and then business partners when Sam had bought into the company. He thought Yuri knew where they stood, but you could never be sure. After all, he didn't want to fuck up their friendship or working relationship if things got weird. That might be one of the reasons he felt a little guilty making eyes at Cowboy Boots. The guy returned his look with a subtle nod that asked “your place or mine?”

Shit. He needed to get back and finish up before his deadline, but he couldn't face the photograph again. Not yet. He grabbed his wallet to pay the tab. A familiar voice said his name.

Sam swiveled in his bar stool as Yuri slid into the seat next to him. He gave Sam a sunny grin, but the circles under his eyes told another story.

“I thought I might find you here,” Yuri said. His Greek accent had faded over the years, but it was still damn sexy, and the smell of his fresh aftershave provided added enticement.

Sam cleared his throat and looked away. “What's up, man?”

“I've been meaning to talk to you, but you ran off today and you never answer your phone.”

“Sorry. I have a thing due tomorrow.”

“Finish it?”

“Nope.” Sam emptied his pint. “Working on it.”

“Seems that way.” There was a pause in the conversation as Rachel noticed Yuri and came over.

“Hey, stranger. What can I get you?”

“Whiskey, neat.”

“All right, baby.”

“You might as well bring me another too,” Sam said.

Rachel took Sam's empty plate away as she went, but not before mouthing something along the lines of “play nice.”

The bar, which wasn't large to begin with, had begun to fill up with a sizeable crowd. He liked the lively atmosphere, but not when the mass of bodies interfered with his eye fucking. He couldn't see Cowboy Boots or his friends at their table anymore, and with Yuri sitting here….

Yuri nudged his arm as their drinks arrived. “What's with the Guinness? You going full Irish?”

“I think it's Rachel's attempt to throw me on the wagon.”

“Good luck to her.”

“So,” Sam said casually. “How're we shaping up for the flatwork tomorrow?”

“I didn't come here to talk about that.” Yuri sipped his drink, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“All right. Well, if you can handle it on your own with Pete and Juan—”

“How long have we been friends, Flynn?”

It didn't take Sam long to think about. They'd met during a time when Yuri's own life was at a low point, watching over his father dying from lymphoma at the same hospital where Tim was a patient. They'd bonded over shitty hospital cafeteria food one day, and the rest was history. And then, once Yuri's dad died and he took over the family business, he offered Sam a job.

Sam had taken it gladly. After the accident that had killed his parents and stolen his brother, his childish dream of becoming a journalist didn't seem to matter anymore.

Now, with Yuri looking at him like a stranger, Sam wanted to lean forward and rest his head on his friend's shoulder.

“A while. Dammit, Yuri, listen—” He slid a hand onto Yuri's thigh and squeezed.

Yuri pushed Sam's hand away. “Hey, it's all right. We've been over this before. But after last week, I think it'll be better for both of us if we stick to the plan this time.”

Sam stared. “What?”

“I'm saying it's better if we don't sleep together again.”

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “That's fine with me.”

Yuri's smile looked more like a grimace. “You think I don't know you? A few drinks and you're looking to score. And when I'm around, it's convenient. I don't really feel like being a convenience anymore, especially when you pass out as soon as it's over.”

“It's not like that.” His protest sounded feeble to his own ears. He'd barely been able to remember the last time. Not a good sign.

“What's it like, then?”

The question wasn't asked with malice, but with genuine curiosity. Sam flailed for an answer that didn't make him look like a major dick and came up with nada.

“Are you saying you didn't want—Come on, there're two of us.” Yeah. He was totally full of shit.

“I'm not saying that at all.” Yuri sighed and sipped his whiskey. “Don't pretend like you don't know how I feel about you.”

The words, so long unspoken, sucked the air out of the room. Rachel caught Sam's eye mid-drink-mix and gestured conspicuously in a way Sam couldn't interpret. It might have been a reprimand or an indication of constipation. He ignored her.

Yuri went on. “I know you don't feel the same way, so please spare me. Let's go back to how it used to be, all right? You keep your hands to yourself, and I will too. We'll both be happier.”

“But we'll still be friends?” It sounded so stupid, but Sam didn't have many people in his life he could designate with the term. Rachel and Yuri were about it. His family. Fuck. He took a long sip of beer and waited for what seemed like forever. Yuri took his time with his drink too, to draw out his suffering—the sadistic bastard.

“What do you think?” Yuri slapped him on the back and finished his drink, then threw a few dollars on the bar. “I've gotta head out.”

“Hot date?”

Yuri winked. “Wouldn't you like to know? See you tomorrow.”

Once he was alone again, Sam stared at the wet rings his beer made on the coaster and traced one with his finger. It could have gone a lot worse, he supposed. So why did he suddenly feel so goddamn lonely? He didn't get a chance to think too long on it. Rachel approached and leaned forward on the bar, not even trying to disguise her nosiness.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

Sam shrugged. “I think I just got dumped.”

“I thought you said—Oh, never mind. Men are so fucking weird.”

“But dicks are awesome.”

“Are they? That hasn't been my experience.” She stuck her tongue out at him and retreated before he could rally a comeback.

Sam nursed his pint for a few more minutes, trying to decide what to do. He had to get back to work, but the thought of his apartment wasn't very appealing. It was only ten, after all—plenty of time to finish the article later on. His eyes drifted back to Cowboy Boots.

The crowd parted as he advanced in the general direction of his mark. There was a good chance the guy had already found another hookup and left while Sam was distracted, but no—there he was, sitting in the same place with his friends. He looked up and raised an eyebrow when Sam approached the table.

Sam mustered his most seductive smile. “Hey. I'm Sam.”

“Xavier,” Cowboy Boots said. “And these are my friends so-and-so and so-and-so.”

Sam nodded at the other guys but kept his eyes focused on Cowboy Boots. Actually, now they'd been introduced, the name seemed too formal. Boots, then.

“You want to join us?” Boots asked.

“Actually, I'm thinking of heading out.” Sam scratched the back of his head.

Boots drew his lips into a knowing smile. He had the kind of handsome, nondescript face that belonged in a menswear ad, Sam mused as they made their way out of the bar. He had an incredible ass, though.

Boots's apartment was on the other side of town in an area that had been recently gentrified, but Sam didn't care about the gigantic flat screen or the saltwater fish tank. Luckily, Boots cut the tour short.

“Bedroom's back here.”

Sam found himself in a room with a bed, which was good enough for him. His cock was already pushing against the seam of his jeans. They didn't waste time on preliminaries. Boots backed Sam up against the bed until his knees buckled, then crawled on top of him and kissed him. His stubble scraped Sam's chin. He was a good kisser, and Sam was only hazily aware of the guy kicking off his boots. Sam had forgotten his name—something unusual. Didn't matter.

When the guy pushed Sam's hands overhead and held him down as they kissed, Sam groaned his approval.

“So, what do you want to do?” the guy asked. “I don't fuck on the first date.”

Sam nodded, oddly relieved. “I wanna suck your cock.” He grabbed the guy's ass and urged him forward to straddle his chest.

The guy smirked and reached for his zipper. His erection sprang out and grazed Sam's bottom lip. Sam licked the slit with the tip of his tongue, testing the waters before finally opening his mouth to take it in. The guy fed his meat deeper until it hit the back of Sam's throat, and still Sam wanted more. He moaned as the guy withdrew and started to slide in and out, his salty precome coating Sam's tongue. Sam wanted to suck out every last drop.

It was a good thing they had all night.

 

T
HE
FOLLOWING
week when Sam visited the Walkers' place, only Emma's car was in the driveway. Sam mowed the lawn and did an upkeep of the gardens, once in a while glancing over his shoulder at the inviting, empty pool. It was probably for the best Nathan wasn't around to distract him. It meant he could get on with his work and stop in sooner to see Tim. The increased summer workload of his day job meant he hadn't been able to stop by Shady Brook the previous Saturday. Sam didn't like to think about leaving Tim for so long, with no visitors save the nurses who attended him. At one point, Tim's high school friends had dropped in on holidays and special occasions, but they didn't come anymore. Of course Sam couldn't blame them. They'd grown up, gone to college, met new friends—and in their minds, Timmy was already dead, forever fifteen.