The Same End (The Lamb and the Lion Book 3)

by Gregory Ashe

  Ammon’s face was expressionless.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be following your boytoy, would you? Because that would be some shady, scary, stalker-level psychopathy, and you’ve already given that poor guy enough mental scars for a lifetime.”

  “Jem, I’ve been civil to you because that’s what Tean wants, but fuck off.”

  “See, I thought it was really strange how none of those guys wanted a second date with Tean. He’s a great guy. He’s actually the best guy. Ever. In the whole universe. And so I started thinking something didn’t add up.”

  Ammon pressed the down button again.

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “I’m going to tell you one more time, nicely, to fuck off.”

  “That’s not very nice, actually. Did you see me when I followed you?”

  The tightening at Ammon’s jaw was the only answer.

  “So, here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going back to one of our rooms—you can decide, yours or mine—and we’re going to watch SportsCenter or BroBang or DoucheNet or whatever you want to watch. And if Tean comes back and we hear him getting pounded like a three-dollar chuck roast, we’ll turn up the volume and smile and pretend we don’t know what’s going on. But what we’re not going to do is go downstairs and continue to fuck up his life. Both of us have done enough of that. Let’s give him a chance to be happy.”

  The elevator door opened; Ammon didn’t step into the car, but he caught the door with one hand to hold it open. “Do you have any idea how seriously I could jam you up?”

  Jem cocked his head. “I remember you wanted to take a drive to Vegas once. Here we are, Ammon. What now?”

  “I wouldn’t have to do anything illegal. That’s the best part. You’re your own worst enemy when it comes to this kind of stuff. An ordinary guy, I can make his life hell with all the bullshit laws out there that nobody knows about. I could make his life hell with a million inconveniences, all of them perfectly legal. But you? Jeez, you make it a walk in the park. All the cons you run, the petty thefts, the shenanigans, the drugs. There’s a million ways I could make your life hell, and you’re such a mess, I’d probably get a commendation for doing it.”

  “Let’s go find somewhere quiet,” Jem said. “If we’re not going to watch TV, let’s have this conversation once and for all.”

  Ammon gave a chilly smile. “I’ve seen your alley-rat toys. Put your hand on one, and it’s assault with a deadly weapon. Come at me, and I’ll put four slugs in your chest. It’ll be self-defense. Justified use of force.”

  Jem put his hand in his pocket, hand closing around the length of paracord.

  Ammon’s cold smile had spread. “Come on, you little pussy faggot,” he whispered. “Are you just going to stand there playing pocket pool?”

  Jem’s knuckles ached around the cord.

  “That’s what I thought,” Ammon said. “You’re not just a thief and a conman and an addict. You’re a coward. And Tean deserves a hell of lot better than you.”

  “He does,” Jem managed, his voice patchy. “But he deserves better than you too.”

  “Maybe. But I’m smart enough not to let him realize that.”

  Shrieking children emerged from a room down the hall, and they raced toward the elevator: a potbellied little black girl in a flamingo swimsuit, and a ropey boy in Transformers swim shorts who must have been her older brother. They pushed past Jem and Ammon onto the elevator, talking excitedly about which pools they were going to try, how long they could hold their breath, who could make the biggest splash. The parents came next, a young couple with approximately a hundred tote bags. They smiled at Jem and Ammon, then hesitated when they must have caught the energy between the two men.

  “Go ahead,” Ammon said with a smile, stepping onto the elevator. “He’ll take the next one.”

  With sidelong glances at Jem, the couple slid past him. The elevator door closed, and Jem let out a shaky breath. He pried stiff fingers from the paracord, tented his hands over his nose, and took a few deep breaths. Then he pressed the Down button.

  When he got to the lobby, the crowds were even worse. He made his way along the wide, brightly lit hallways, moving through the pockets that appeared in the ebb and flow of bodies. He’d lost sight of Ammon, but he knew where the other man was going, and he knew what was going to happen if he didn’t intervene. He passed mosaics and fountains and statues. Tean would have known the names of the originals, Jem guessed. He got turned around in something called the Appian Way; a statue of a twunk with a tiny prong was staring off into the distance, and that didn’t help. Finally Jem asked a girl named Maria at the FedEx store for directions. After that, he made it to the Old Homestead Steakhouse easily.

  It was about what he expected: dark wood, low lighting, leather banquettes tufted with dull brass upholstery nails. Decorative wine displays tempted people into drinking more and, therefore, spending more. The smell of seared meat filled the air. Ammon was sitting at the bar. Jem made a beeline across the restaurant, waved off a hostess who looked like she might want to help, and dropped onto the stool next to Ammon.

  “Oh boy,” Ammon said. He was holding a lowball, and he rocked it side to side, the cocktail slopping against the cut crystal. “You’re really determined to fuck yourself over, aren’t you?”

  “Normally, I prefer to do the fucking.” Jem flagged the bartender, a trim older woman with a mane of silvery hair. “But we’ll see how the night goes.”

  “Yes, sir?” the woman asked. Her name tag said Luz.

  “Do you want to order for me again?” Jem asked. “For old time’s sake?”

  Ammon grunted.

  “Do you have a local whiskey?” Jem said.

  “Several, actually. Nevada whiskey, which is from the Las Vegas Distillery, Seven Troughs bourbon, and Silver Corn from The Depot.”

  “Your choice, neat, with a water back. And another for my friend.” When Luz had moved off, Jem said, “This is like old times, isn’t it?”

  “Jem, this isn’t going to end well for you. Tean cares about you; that means I’m willing to cut you some slack. You’d be smart to use it.”

  “Do you hate me because of how we met? It wasn’t ideal, granted, but we both got what we wanted that night. Doesn’t this remind you of it? A couple of out-of-towners who happen to run into each other at the bar, they drink, they eat, they go upstairs together. We could play it all out again. I remember some of the stuff you like.”

  “You’re really messed up.”

  “Why not? Tean doesn’t want either of us, and you and I both know that sex doesn’t mean anything. You get your rocks off. I get to let off a little steam.”

  “You’re screwed up. You really are.”

  Jem shrugged and accepted the drink from Luz.

  “Was it really such an ego blow that I wasn’t that innocent boy from Montana? Did it really mean that much to you, giving me my sexual awakening with a power fuck?”

  Ammon’s knuckles were white as he clutched the lowball. “Keep talking, Jem.”

  Sipping his whiskey, Jem glanced around the restaurant. He couldn’t see Tean, and he wondered why Ammon had picked this spot. Then he checked the mirror behind the bar. Bingo bongo. Tean looked fabulous, and his date wasn’t too bad either: late thirties, built, a polo that had probably cost a couple hundred bucks for the little alligator on it.

  “Frat boy gone to seed,” Jem said.

  Ammon grunted again. He threw back the rest of his drink; Luz had placed another in front of him, and he slid it closer now.

  “That could be a new porno series.”

  “Who’s going to watch that?”

  “There’s an audience for everything.”

  “Jeez,” Ammon muttered into his drink.

  In the mirror, Tean was smiling, nodding, laughing. Some of the hair had fallen out of place, but the strands were still glossy, finely separated by the pomade Jem had worked th
rough them. It looked better this way, Jem realized. Not the crazy, wild, pushed-back mess that Tean normally wore. But not the perfectly combed style that Jem had imposed on it either. Something in between, softening his thin face, accenting the full lips. The broken glasses had slid to the end of his nose, and the date—Logan? Parker? Chase?—reached across to steady them. Tean blushed and laughed some more, and Logan/Parker/Chase laughed too. Jem put back the rest of the whiskey and gestured for another.

  “Can’t you just let him be happy?” Jem asked.

  “He isn’t happy. If you can’t see that, you’re blind.”

  “But he’s trying. He’s getting there.”

  Ammon spun the lowball between his hands, staring down into the cocktail. It was only half-drunk; when he exhaled slowly, Jem could smell the booze on his breath. He spoke into the glass. “What do you think matters most to Tean?”

  Jem took a moment. He was lost in the mirror world, where Tean had a tiny, embarrassed smile and was blushing, where Logan/Parker/Chase was reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. “His family, I guess. He’s put up with so much shit from them, and he keeps going back for more, so he must love them pretty fiercely. His friends. He’s very loyal. He wants to be a good person. He cares about the truth. He’s given up just about everything to be honest about who he is and how he sees the world, even though it terrifies him.”

  Tean’s laughter carried to the bar, and then his voice saying, “Oh my gosh, you’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Why do you think he puts up with them?” Ammon asked when Tean’s voice had faded.

  The question sounded like a trap, so Jem stayed silent and sipped his drink.

  “Why,” Ammon said, “does he still have a box full of Hollister calendars in his closet?”

  “He likes blonds.” Jem fought to work up a smirk. “Obviously.”

  “Why does he wear those same awful glasses?”

  “He’s been giving his parents money. He hasn’t been able to afford things for himself.”

  “Why do you think he put up with all my shit for almost twenty years? The lying, the sneaking around, being treated like dirt.”

  Jem shook his head; his eyes stung, and he closed them. “Because he loves you.”

  “Maybe. He did at one point, but I think I might have fucked that up beyond repair.” After a moment, Ammon said, “Well? Why does he hold on to all this stuff?”

  “This is a trick.”

  “It’s not a trick. Answer the question.”

  Opening his eyes, Jem was surprised to find Ammon looking directly at him. The blues eyes were frank and, for perhaps the first time since they had encountered each other in Tean’s apartment, empty of hostility. “Whatever I say will be wrong. That’s why this is a trick.”

  “What are you going to give him?” Ammon asked. “You’ve got no job, you’ve got no life, you’ve got no healthy relationships. You lie about everything. Tean might be able to look past that, but here’s the sinker: his family hates you. Do you really think he’s going to give them up for you?”

  The clink of cutlery on china, the chime of glass against glass, the murmur of voices. Jem wanted to close his eyes again. Instead, he said, “We’re just friends.”

  “Same old song and dance,” Ammon said. He downed his drink, wiped his mouth, and shrugged. “It’s going to hurt worse if you force him to make the decision. If you haven’t learned this about Tean, let me fill you in: he can’t let go. Not of his old pretty-boy calendars, not of the glasses he wore on his mission, not of me, not of his family. Not of anything that meant something to him, even if it was years and years ago. Do yourself a favor and spare yourself a lot of time and a lot of grief. You’ll be doing Tean a favor too: you’ll be letting him have his family, his life, me. The things he’s been holding on to almost as long as I’ve known him.” Then he got up and left.

  Jem didn’t watch him go. He had to close his eyes for a while until he could pack everything away, until he was ok again. And then he was fine, everything under lock and key, the taste of blood in his mouth from where he had bitten open the inside of his cheek.

  His phone buzzed with a text from Mommy Dearest. He could hear Brigitte’s voice in his head, the thin, high nervousness of it: I am so sorry, Jeremiah, but Gerald thinks it’s best if we wait a while longer before you meet your brother and sister. I’m afraid you can’t come on Tuesday. Please let me know about the checks. If you need more, I can talk to Gerald.

  Jem deleted the message. Then he deleted Brigitte’s contact. He wiped his mouth, his fingers trembling, and found himself on the brink of something, some noise he couldn’t even name. When Luz threw him a worried look, Jem waved her off.

  He watched the mirror, watched Tean lean back in his chair, watched him snort with laughter and barely catch the glasses when they fell, watched him get that look of hyperfocused interest. He was still watching when Tean excused himself, pushing away from the table, and headed to the back of the restaurant. He was still watching when the date leaned across the table and put something in Tean’s drink.

  Jem was out of his seat before he knew what he was doing. He was vaguely aware of Luz saying something to him, but the words buzzed at the edge of his hearing. One of the display cases for the wine was in his path, and he had to cut around it. Then he was standing at the two-top, staring at Logan/Parker/Chase, who was poking at a piece of potato and looking bored. Before the frat boy-gone-to-seed could react, Jem had pulled Tean’s chair around the table and set it next to him. Jem dropped into it. He grabbed the steak knife from the table, caught Logan/Parker/Chase by the collar, and set the tip of the knife against his side. Logan/Parker/Chase had gone stiff.

  “What did you put in his drink?” Jem said.

  “What the fuck?” Logan/Parker/Chase said. His eyes were set too close together, Jem saw now that he was closer, and he smelled like a drugstore beauty counter.

  “What did you put in his drink, motherfucker? You have five seconds to tell me before I put this between your ribs.”

  “I—I—I—”

  Jem released his collar, slapped him on the back of the head, and patted him down. He found the small, stoppered vial in Logan/Parker/Chase’s front pocket. It was unmarked.

  “What is it?”

  Logan/Parker/Chase was hyperventilating.

  Jabbing him with the knife, Jem said again, “What is it?”

  “G, it’s G. I wasn’t going to—”

  “Get the fuck out of here.”

  Logan/Parker/Chase pushed back his chair so fast that it fell over. The crash silenced the room, and then low, excited murmurs filled the room while Logan/Parker/Chase sprinted away. Jem reached down to pick up the chair. When he straightened, Tean was standing there, staring at him.

  “What are you doing?”

  “He was—”

  “Where’s Bradley?”

  “Tean, this guy—”

  “Is that a knife in your hand? Are you kidding me right now?” The color had leached out of Tean’s face; his dark eyes looked huge against his sudden pallor. He grabbed the table. “I cannot believe this.”

  “You don’t understand. If you’ll just let me explain—”

  “I saw you follow me to Stanza. I saw you, and I thought it was just a coincidence. I thought it was a misunderstanding. But then Ragnar wouldn’t respond to any of my messages, and I thought—” He couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and Jem was worried he was on the brink of passing out. “How many others?”

  “I didn’t do that.”

  “How many others? How long has this been going on?”

  “Tean, please sit down. Take a breath. I can explain—”

  “All you ever do is explain. All you ever do is explain and explain and explain. This is what you did with Ammon, too—the lying, the hiding, the manipulating. And with Ragnar. And now with Bradley. So answer my question: how many others?”

  His shouts echoed through the
stillness of the dining room; every eye was fixed on them.

  “Let’s go upstairs,” Jem said, rising to take Tean’s arm. “I’ll tell you what happened, but you’ve got to calm down first.”

  Tean yanked his arm free. “All of them? All the guys that wouldn’t go on a second date? Is that what’s been going on?”

  “Ammon—”

  “Don’t fucking talk to me about Ammon.”

  “He put something in your drink, shit-for-brains,” Jem shouted. “Will you shut up and listen to me?”

  Tean got even paler if that were possible. He was taking thin, whispery breaths, and his hand was clutching the table so tightly that it looked like a claw. “Here we go again,” Tean said. “Another story. Another game. Bradley’s conveniently gone, and I have to take your word for it.”

  “What the fuck is wrong with you? When have I ever lied to you?” Then, face heating, Jem said, “Recently, I mean.”

  “You lie all the time. All you do is lie. You lie about where you’re living, what you’re doing, how you’re doing, whether or not you’re ok. You lie about why the fuck we’ve spent the last few days in the middle of nowhere. You lie about why you haven’t been sleeping and why you’ve been acting like a lunatic lately. You lie about so many things I can’t even keep them straight anymore.”

  “We’re going upstairs. We’re going to talk about this—”

  When he tried to take Tean’s arm again, Tean shoved him. Jem staggered back. He caught up against the chair, stumbled, and almost went down. Someone whispered, and Jem was suddenly aware again of their audience. He was shaking. Somehow, he got clear of the chair without falling.

  “Go away.”

  “No, I want—”

  “I don’t care what you want. I don’t fucking care. Go away, Jem. Just go away.”

  Clutching the vial in one hand, Jem turned for the exit. He walked. Then he broke into a run, the hub of voices chasing after him.

  32

  Tean didn’t sleep. He lay in bed, staring up at the ghost of the ceiling, replaying the scene over and over again. He waited for Jem to call or text or knock at the door. He turned his phone off and turned it on again. Once, he began pulling on clothes, planning on marching to Jem’s room. But then he remembered looking out the windows at Stanza and seeing Jem on his motorcycle and knowing, even though he hadn’t wanted to admit it, that Jem was following him.