Gambling on Love

by Jane Davitt

  It wasn’t okay, but he’d have agreed to anything that put a smile back on Abe’s face and kept those big, warm hands moving over him. He could feel the frantic thud of Abe’s heart through the T-shirt he was about to peel off him, could smell the longing and taste the need.

  When he fell back on the bed, Abe fell over with him, his kisses still tentative, but so fucking sweet they made Gary’s teeth ache. Gary reached down and cupped Abe’s ass for the first time.

  Felt good. Felt so fucking good.

  The following May . . .

  Gary watched the last student emerge from the locker room and stopped pretending to read the notice board. Half the stuff stuck on it was out of date or obscured by graffiti anyway.

  Everybody, including the coach, had left. Everybody but Abe. With a smile he couldn’t hold back, Gary slipped through the door and into the warm, steamy air. It smelled ripe in there, the damp atmosphere holding the sweat and musk that’d built up over the years. He should’ve been in class, but Abe had a free period, so he wouldn’t be rushing to dress, not when he knew what Gary had planned.

  Not that Abe had believed him.

  “You can’t. Not at school. Shit, Gary, are you crazy? In the middle of the afternoon, when anyone could walk in?”

  “There isn’t another class in there. Yours is the last one of the day, and you know Coach Dyer always takes off to grab a coffee and a smoke. Loosen up, Abe. We graduate soon and I’ve never sucked you off on school property. It’s a waste of a hot fantasy.”

  “No, Fox, okay? No.”

  Abe had sounded totally sincere, but here he was, still wet from his shower, sitting naked on a bench, a towel draped across his lap, watching the door. Gary leaned against the wall and smiled. “Oh, yeah. You look like a man who doesn’t want to get blown. Tell me again why this isn’t a good idea. I’ve got to say, with a hard-on visible from space, you’ll need to be really convincing.”

  Abe glanced down at his lap as if he hadn’t realized that his dick, anticipating Gary’s mouth, was already nicely stiff. He was flushed pink from the shower, but the color in his cheeks deepened. He stood, the towel in his hand, his body there for Gary to stare at. Gary’s mouth couldn’t decide whether to drool or go dry with longing. How the fuck had he gotten this lucky?

  “Yeah, I’m hard. What do you expect? You wind me up and I— Jesus, Fox, get over here.”

  Gary closed the gap between them with two long strides across the slippery floor and took a kiss to hide the fact he couldn’t come up with a single coherent sentence. Abe’s skin was hot and damp under his hands, muscles pumped, cock thick and hard. Abe kissed him back with more aggression than normal—passion fueled by nerves, Gary guessed. He felt the same way. This was risky—but that made it tempting.

  “Over there.” Abe showed more discretion than Gary was capable of. “In the washroom. If someone comes in, we’ll hear the door open. You can stay in the stall and I’ll say I was changing.”

  Gary’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “I’m not blowing you in there.” The toilet stank and the floor was wet and covered with soaked scraps of toilet paper. “I’ll hide in there if I have to, but I’m not kneeling in piss and dirty water. Over by the wall and give me your towel to kneel on.”

  Abe bit his lip but Gary reached down, his hand getting busy. A squeeze and a promise, and Abe groaned, rocking his hips, his dick sliding through the tunnel of Gary’s hand. “Okay, okay. We’ve got to be quick, though.”

  “Don’t worry about me.” Gary kept his voice down once he’d dropped to his knees. Voices echoed oddly in the locker room, bouncing off the tiled walls, and it made him edgy. “I’ll jerk off later. I want to spend the rest of the afternoon tasting you every time I swallow.”

  “You’re so fucking kinky.” Abe shut up, his back against the wall, clutching Gary’s shoulders.

  Gary sighed happily and got to work, his plans to make this quick and dirty lost in the pleasure of feeling his mouth stretched wide, the circle of his lips conforming to the shape of Abe’s cock. They’d done this often enough now that gagging was a thing of the past—mostly—and it’d been ages since either of them had yelped, sensitive skin scored by sharp teeth.

  He let Abe control the blowjob at first, accepting each thrust with nothing more than an encouraging hum while he waited for Abe’s nervousness to quiet down. He saw his hands, fingers spread wide, on Abe’s thighs, but they looked unfamiliar, as if they belonged to someone else. The thought of another boy touching Abe always made him feel sick and lost, so he closed his eyes and moved his hands. One slid down to cradle Abe’s balls, damp and hot from the shower; the other, he wrapped around the base of Abe’s cock. Sometimes Abe went too deep, leaving the back of Gary’s throat bruised. He didn’t mind, but today he wanted to be the one in charge. He’d set this up, after all, persuading Abe to play along. He should be the one who got to conduct the orchestra. Besides, he preferred it that way, and he suspected Abe did too. They hadn’t been best friends for nine years for nothing, and Gary knew when Abe wanted him to take the lead.

  He could smell the faintly antiseptic tang of the soap Abe had used—taste it too, at first—but under the flat taste of water and soap, Abe’s natural scent was still there, ready to be coaxed out with each lap of Gary’s tongue. He loved making Abe gasp and choke out his name, certain in the moment, if not the aftermath, that Abe wanted him, needed him.

  They weren’t only friends now. Awareness of each other’s bodies colored everything between them. Gary could get half-hard seeing Abe’s jacket slung across a chair in the cafeteria, remembering how they’d used it as a blanket the weekend before. He existed in a haze of arousal focused on Abe. His porn, what there was of it, lay forgotten, hidden in his closet. He didn’t need it now. All he needed to get off was a memory of Abe.

  He sometimes missed the way they had talked, saying nothing much and taking a thousand words to say it, or the hours spent listening to music together, the beat of the drums and the scream of a guitar or a singer working its way under his skin until it was part of him. Now, when they were behind a closed door, they were kissing, not talking. Kissing until Gary’s lips felt numb, rubbery, his chin scraped raw from Abe’s stubble. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t get enough of Abe’s mouth, moving against his slowly, or the flick and thrust of Abe’s tongue.

  They knew there was more they could do to each other, but without discussing it much, they stuck to what was easy and didn’t require shoplifting. Neither of them could buy condoms or lube from anywhere local without word getting out, so stealing was their only option, and Abe wouldn’t let Gary risk it. Abe’s dad didn’t use condoms—he’d had a vasectomy years before—so their options were limited if they wanted to stay safe. And they did. They figured they’d have time to explore those other options after high school. Lately they’d both started talking about when, not if. When we’re in our own place. When we can fall asleep afterward every night.

  He still hadn’t told Abe he loved him. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t, but he’d never been so dependent on someone before. It scared him, but not enough to make him want to back away. He only wanted more.

  Gary closed off his thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. He had another class before he could go home, and he would spend it with his body tense, thrumming with arousal. He liked making himself wait to climax sometimes, tormenting himself with a denial that was more pleasure than pain. Abe had once pinned him down to the bed and told him not to come, grinning because he knew how close Gary was. He’d come before Abe finished speaking, not because his dick was wet from Abe’s mouth, but from the kick of being ordered not to, though he hadn’t shared that with Abe. It was the idea of it, the whole scenario, that set him off . . . and the thought of making Abe wait like that sometime. Some of the thoughts in his head were too out-there to share, too confused to put into words. Even Gary didn’t always know what he wanted until it was happening.

  Like now. He was on his knees, but he’d plann
ed it that way. What did that make him, top or bottom? The only certainty was that something in the mix got him hot.

  He drew back and teased the head of Abe’s dick with the tip of his tongue before rubbing his cheek against it, getting off on how slutty he must look. Judging by his throaty groan, Abe liked the view.

  Fluid was slick over the crown of Abe’s dick, and it wasn’t all spit. He was nearly there. If Gary put Abe’s dick back into his mouth and sped up the bob of his head, he’d get what he wanted.

  He settled himself more comfortably on the towel, losing himself in his self-imposed rhythm, mercilessly driving Abe toward his climax.

  “Jesus H. Christ!”

  Abe cried out, startled, panicked, and Gary jerked around, his wet mouth popping loudly and lewdly off Abe’s cock.

  Coach Dyer stood a few yards away, his face blank with shock, but already twisting into a pained grimace.

  Gary’s hand was still on Abe’s cock. He felt it jerk and soften, a balloon losing its air. Fuck. Fuck. Five minutes. That was all they’d needed. Less.

  “Get dressed, Carter.” Coach’s voice was flat with disapproval and disgust. “You’re both coming with me to see the principal. And not one smart word outta you, Stratton. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Coach, please don’t,” Abe begged, his voice unsteady. He pushed Gary’s hand aside and moved past him, his hands dropping to cover himself. “Don’t. We’re sorry. It was one time. It’ll never happen again, I swear.”

  “I expected better than this from you.” Dyer shook his head. “For God’s sake, Stratton, get up. And Carter, put on some goddamned clothes before I throw up.”

  It was one time.

  Gary stared at the tiles in front of him, white with dark cracks running across some of them. He rose and put his hand on the wall to balance him as a bleak dizziness swept over him. He’d stood too fast, that was all. It wasn’t because Abe had left him, hurrying into his clothes without a backward glance.

  It stayed with him when they walked along the empty hallways, the coach behind them, silent now, unhappy, as if he knew what he had to do but didn’t like doing it.

  They wouldn’t get expelled for sex on school property—if the administration stuck with that policy, the classes would be half-empty after every prom—and they were both over eighteen, so he couldn’t see that being much of an issue. It wasn’t as if it’d been the coach blowing Abe, after all. Shit, he couldn’t think about that. It made him want to laugh, and he didn’t need to go into Principal Warren’s office fighting a giggle fit.

  Word would get out, though. It always did. They’d be outed, with a month of school to endure, and the gossip wouldn’t end when they graduated.

  He gave Abe a sidelong glance, hating how Abe averted his face. It didn’t take a Sherlock to work out Abe was ashamed of them and what they’d done, what they were.

  One time . . . It had practically been the first thing out of Abe’s mouth. As if everything they’d shared over the past eight months—and everything they’d talked about sharing in the future—didn’t matter at all.

  It was over. No matter what happened after they walked past Mrs. Gilroy’s desk and into the principal’s office, what he had with Abe was over.

  That made him so miserably angry, nothing else registered. Not the principal’s icy lecture—not focused on the fact they were guys, surprisingly, but on the school rules they’d broken. Not the spitefully smug look on Debbie Gilroy’s face when they emerged ten minutes later. She went to church with Gary’s mom, and he knew she’d been eavesdropping and would be on the phone within minutes, spreading the news. In confidence, of course, to her closest friends, because they ought to know. Not gossip, at all.

  More than any other face, it was hers Gary saw when he packed what he needed that night and prepared to leave town. Debbie Gilroy represented everything he hated about the place he’d lived all his life. Petty, small-minded, endlessly inquisitive . . .

  His mother was at church, praying for a son she could love, most likely. He passed her empty bedroom on the way to the stairs and didn’t spare it a glance. When she’d come home from work, he’d thrown his confession at her like a stone, telling her he was gay before she could bring up hearing it from anybody else. There had been no flicker of surprise on her face at the news, but there had been no emotion in her eyes for years.

  And later that night, there was no doubt in Abe’s eyes when he refused point-blank to leave town with Gary. Then Abe had started crying. Gary hadn’t bothered hanging around to hear his excuses.

  Eleven years later . . .

  The tires of his car skidded on a patch of ice, and Gary gripped the steering wheel tighter, sweat breaking out over his body. His shoulders ached, but he couldn’t relax and sit back. The snow whirling around the car fell too thick and fast for that.

  Turning around would’ve been sensible, but the lack of anywhere remotely suitable—and his stubborn belief that turning back was bad luck—kept him inching along what was little more than a track.

  “Should’ve stayed on I-90,” he muttered under his breath. “Scenic mountain route, my ass. Like I didn’t see enough of them growing up.”

  He’d left I-90 to fill up with gas at Missoula and stretch his legs. Being this close to home after so many years away had felt strange, like wearing jeans he’d outgrown. He’d known when he planned his route it would take him close, but he’d never intended to do more than nod in passing at the place he’d grown up. Nostalgia only went so far. He’d left when he was eighteen, and in eleven years away, he’d never regretted that decision.

  The map had shown he could take a road running parallel to the highway and closer to the mountains that loomed up invitingly, silently challenging him. He’d fumbled his lucky quarter out of his pocket. Tails for the road less traveled . . . and tails it was.

  He never argued with the results of the coin toss. He’d found the quarter when he was nine, his eye caught by a silvery glint on the sidewalk. The dropped coin had been lying not flat, but on its edge, a minor miracle that’d saved it from being spent on candy because clearly, it was no ordinary coin. To keep it from being lost in the rest of the spare change in his pocket, he’d carried it home clutched in his hand and slipped it inside a small drawstring bag that’d once held marbles. The bag had changed over the years, but it was the same quarter. A boy at school had once swapped it out, thinking he wouldn’t realize. One bloody nose later, that boy had flung the contents of his pockets at Gary and dared him to pick out his quarter from the five or six scattered on the floor.

  Gary hadn’t hesitated, his fingers closing around his quarter with complete certainty before he verified the date and the tiny nick on the edge.

  Now he wondered if the coin had steered him wrong for the first time. He was lost, and he didn’t know how it’d happened. Getting turned around in a city or the suburbs, where the subdivisions seemed designed to take a visitor in endless loops and down a dozen dead ends, was one thing. Out here, though, where roads were as rare as second chances, how in God’s name had he managed it? Not to mention the embarrassment of getting turned around in his own backyard. Well, okay, twenty or thirty miles away from it, and he had been away for over a decade, so he should cut himself some slack.

  He could’ve sworn he hadn’t strayed from the single road marked on his inadequate map. He hadn’t turned abruptly or chosen a direction at a crossroads, yet somehow, here he was, climbing up instead of following a road through a valley, and heading into a blizzard. That’d been what the gas station attendant had called it, at least. From what Gary had seen when he stood shivering in a thin January wind, the gas he pumped moving sluggishly into the tank, the area must’ve had a few already. White drifts cloaked everything that wasn’t a road or the parking lot to a business.

  It’d been too early to stop driving and get a room for the night, and the decision to continue and outrun the approaching storm had seemed reasonable at the time. No more than a few flakes had be
en fluttering down, and the roads were clear, salt and sand keeping the ice at bay. He’d lost time on his long journey already that day by waking late. He’d checked out of the roadside motel in a rush, still damp from a hasty shower with the water running hot for no more than a stingy minute or two.

  Ruing his decision wouldn’t do a damn thing to help him now, but he wasted a few moments on indulging in a fantasy, mentally rewriting the afternoon so he stayed on the highway, without making that damn coin flip. He racked up the miles, then pulled off when night fell at a clean, comfortable motel with soft beds, hot water in abundance, and a diner nearby staffed by waitresses falling over themselves to keep his coffee cup filled.

  It made a nice mirage, but the reality of the situation required his full attention. He shook off the daydream and concentrated on guiding his car around a series of tight bends, praying he was the only idiot using the road.

  His car was a beat-up station wagon, a late-nineties Ford Taurus in an uninspiring silver-gray. It held the road well enough, and the heater worked fine, but he mourned the loss of his company car, a BMW with enough bells and whistles that, after driving it for six months, there were still some functions he’d never gotten around to figuring out. He hadn’t earned it—they were reserved for partners, not their secretaries, but Peter had tossed the keys at him one morning during a meeting and Gary had caught them with a grin. The scene later, when Gary had said thank you on his knees with his mouth too busy to form the actual words, had been almost as much fun as seeing the stunned fury on Christopher Talbot’s face, witnessing Peter’s generosity. Talbot didn’t own the company, but he often acted as if he did. Gary had always enjoyed watching Peter remind Talbot whose name was on the door.

  And now, with Peter dead, there was no one to prick Talbot’s self-satisfied bubble from time to time. Gary couldn’t help thinking that wherever Peter was now, he was well and truly pissed to see Gary reduced to driving a POS.