The Losing Game

by Lane Swift

  Chapter 16

  LUCAS RAN home from the Blue Bell, embittered. He shouldn’t have been surprised. In this weather, even a drunkard wouldn’t brave the cold. There had been no guarantees tonight would be the night.

  Not for the first time, Lucas wondered if he was losing his mind. Stalking Shaw, waiting in the dark, fretting that some distant satellite was tracking his movements. If, at some ungodly hour, there might be a knock on his door, and the dogs would be on him, sniffing out the unlawful scheme in his brain.

  He’d kept his online activity clean. He’d promised his workmates a return to the old Lucas, the one who ate his lunch in company and who drank shots at the office Christmas party. He’d told Dante he’d given up on his plans to avenge Grace—to keep him out of it. To protect him should anything go wrong.

  He’d covered his tracks, hadn’t he?

  Lucas hid the gun in its usual place and went directly to bed without turning on a light.

  Sleep took a long time to come, and when it did, in fitful bursts, disturbing dreams followed. Unlike his childhood anxieties, translated into dream-language as loose teeth or of being caught in public naked, Lucas dreamed of the gun. It took on a life of its own. It turned up in his desk at work. In his lunchbox. In his boss’s handbag.

  By morning, Lucas felt hungover, mouth furry, head pounding. The thump-a thump-a in his head beat faster than his heart. It seemed to come from outside his body. Lucas buried his head under the covers as he realized the noise wasn’t in his head. Someone was knocking on his front door.

  In nothing but his underpants, he rolled out of bed, staggered onto the landing, and called down the stairs, “Just a minute.” He pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, ran his fingers through his hair.

  Christmas was just over a fortnight away. Religious groups and charities often called at this time of year, asking for one’s soul or one’s money. Sometimes both. Though not usually at this ungodly hour….

  Oh.

  It was ten o’clock.

  Lucas’s heart skipped a beat. Not because of last night’s foray into the dark, but because the last time the police had called, on that fateful spring afternoon, it had also been a Saturday. Only it couldn’t be the police bringing bad tidings. Not this time. Lucas no longer had a next of kin.

  He couldn’t think straight. Not without coffee. He scrubbed his face with his hands and took the stairs two at a time. He opened the door with a labored smile.

  To Dante.

  “It’s you,” he said, surprised.

  “Yes, I’m fairly sure it is. Hello.”

  Lucas licked his lips, shockingly, embarrassingly aware of his unbrushed teeth and a crust of something foul at the corner of his mouth. The disaster continued unmitigated, from his crinkled top to his bare feet. When had he last cut his toenails?

  Dante was as handsome as ever in the daylight, in a soft-looking, chestnut leather jacket and black trousers with creases down the front so sharp they could have cut through butter. “I’m sorry. I’m not in the habit of turning up unannounced, but I felt like when I left you on Thursday, I’d been abrupt. It was a difficult day. I know I could have called, but I wanted to see you. To see how you are.”

  Lucas clamped his mouth shut after what might have been long seconds of it hanging open. Christ knew whether his poisonous breath had infected Dante’s personal airspace.

  Belatedly, he said, “I’m well.”

  Dante nodded. In the morning light, his eyes were as piercing and serious as ever. Perhaps there was a hint of nervousness too. Now that Lucas had taken Dante down from his pedestal, he liked him better. The man hadn’t lost his charm, only some of his distance.

  “I’ve woken you. I’m sorry.” He took half a step back, as if to leave.

  “It’s all right.” Lucas brushed away a drying glob of sleep from the corner of his eye, which Dante would have been blind not to notice. If Lucas had been on an all-night bender and slept in a gutter, he doubted he’d have looked worse. “Do you want to come in?”

  “If it’s not an inconvenience.”

  Lucas opened the door wide and pointed Dante toward the kitchen. “Can I make you a tea or coffee?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  “I always start the day with coffee. Can I take your coat?”

  “It’s all right. I’ll just put it on the stool here.” Dante sat on the other counter stool as he had two days ago, looking every bit as handsome.

  Like Lucas had every day for the last decade and a half, he went straight into his morning ritual. He took the espresso pot from its permanent home on the induction hob, unscrewed the top, and filled the base with water. From the fridge, he took the coffee tin and loosely spooned ground beans into the filter cup. Sealing the filter to the base, he replaced the spouted top and put the whole thing back on the smallest ring on the hob, with the heat set to medium.

  Sometimes Lucas made coffee this way after lunch, or in the evening. He could do it with his eyes closed, which was a blessing, struggling as he was to wake up.

  Apparently Dante’s eyes boring into his back weren’t as efficient as a caffeine hit in elevating his sluggish pulse. Though his heart rate did seem to be creeping upward naturally, slowly, along with his temperature.

  Lucas turned around to find he was being watched. Dante slipped his handset into his jacket pocket. “Just turning the volume to zero. I don’t like being interrupted when I’m being entertained.”

  Dante continued to gaze at Lucas, as he rested his forearms on the counter and laced his fingers together. “There. I’m all yours.”

  “The coffee, it er….” Lucas could feel his blush rising. “It comes out strong.”

  The soft globes of Dante’s pectoral muscles flexed beneath his jumper. Lucas licked his lips, for what felt like the hundredth time, and in turn—consciously or unconsciously—Dante returned the gesture. The skin inside the sumptuous pout of his lower lip was smooth, like the inside of a shell.

  Lucas was parched. “I usually top mine up with hot water from the kettle.”

  “Then for me too.”

  Dante’s voice was as rich and silky as a late-night dark roast. Lucas’s memory hadn’t deceived him and inflated Dante’s sex appeal.

  “Milk?”

  “Please.” After a pause, Dante asked, “You don’t use a machine?”

  “In this kitchen? Where would I put it?” Lucas reached for the kettle. “In any case, my mother made coffee this way, and I’ve always done the same.”

  Dante nodded approvingly. Lucas hadn’t sought, nor did he need Dante’s approval, but he couldn’t help liking it. He filled and switched on the kettle while the espresso pot bubbled. Took out cups and saucers. He didn’t use the nice china often. The set had been his parents’ and with previous guests, the pearlescent white had always seemed ostentatious and overblown.

  “Have you always lived here alone?” Dante asked.

  “No. This was mine and my sister’s house, joint-owned, until she died, that is.”

  A stretch of silence followed, filled only by the sound of Lucas pouring the coffee and hot water. He carried the steaming cups to the breakfast bar and returned to the fridge for milk.

  He held out the carton for Dante to see. “Is it okay cold?”

  “Of course.”

  Dante cleared his throat. “Would you like to go out for dinner with me?”

  It took a moment for the words to sink in.

  “Dinner? When?”

  “Tonight? If you don’t already have plans.”

  A dozen butterflies, maybe more, fluttered into life inside Lucas’s stomach. What was he going to wear? Another thought followed. Saturday nights, Richard Shaw reserved for his wife. Lucas wouldn’t be able to do anything about him tonight. He could spare a few hours with Dante. Take some time for himself.

  “Yes. I’d like that. Very much.”

  “Good. I could pick you up at seven. There’s a nice restaurant on the mainland, off the London Road in
Harts Oak. The Hope & Anchor. Do you know it?”

  “No.” Lucas curled in his naked, hairy toes. “Should I dress up?”

  Dante lifted his cup. “You must wear anything you feel comfortable in.”

  Once Richard Shaw made his grand entrance into Lucas’s mind, he stayed there. His fat, puffy face hung between them. At least Lucas felt his presence, souring the taste of his coffee and the spectacular view of one of the most handsome, elegant men he’d ever seen.

  Dante reached into his coat pocket. “I brought you something. It’s not much. I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous.” He withdrew a small, metallic pin, in the shape of a rose, smaller than a penny. “I wanted you to know, I really am very sorry about everything you’ve been through. It takes a lot of courage to move on as you have.”

  Lucas remembered the roses in Le Plaisir, on the ceiling and around the doorframes, and what Dante had told him they meant. Sub rosa, under the rose. He understood immediately—the rose was a symbol of secrecy.

  Taking the silver rose between his thumb and forefinger, he said, “What I asked of you…. How we met…. My secret’s safe with you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  “And Lois?”

  “Absolutely. Her word is as good as mine.”

  This time, the silence that followed had the weight and warmth of a thick blanket. Dante would keep Lucas’s secrets, and Lucas would keep Dante’s. The rose was a token of trust.

  Downing the rest of his coffee, Lucas at last felt its invigorating magic take effect. He sighed happily and perhaps too loudly into his cup. Of the rose, he said, “Am I expected to wear this at all times?”

  “No. Not at all. If you don’t like it, throw it away. I won’t be offended.”

  “I do like it.”

  “That’s a relief. I’m not usually very good with gifts.” Dante drained his cup and raked his gaze from Lucas’s bare feet to his tousled hair, and down again. “Delicious.”

  “Thank you. I thought you might appreciate a traditional brew.”

  Dante slipped on his jacket. Buttoning it as far as his chest, he made his way to the hall and stood for a moment, looking at the pictures on the wall at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Is this Grace?”

  “Yes. Can you see the resemblance?”

  Dante had honed in on a photograph taken at the beach, when Lucas and Grace were in their late teens. Grace’s arm was wrapped possessively around Lucas’s shoulders, her long blonde hair whipping around her face and Lucas’s, in the gusting wind.

  “Were you twins?”

  “No. Irish twins, though, almost. Fourteen months apart. Grace was oldest.”

  “You were close.”

  “Yes. We were very different personalities, but we always got along.” The memory returned like a rush of cold air. “When I came out—God, I was only twelve—Grace was very protective of me.”

  “I can see.”

  “Oh, that one was taken years after, and it wasn’t like there was any drama. I suppose we knew—definitely by the time that picture was taken—that we weren’t going to have our parents long, and that after that we’d only have each other. They were older when they had us, by anyone’s standards.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “No. I’m sorry that you’ve lost so much, so young.”

  “Me too,” Lucas said. He expected tears. They didn’t come. The sadness sat like a heavy weight in his chest, but it was a bearable weight for the moment. More bearable than it had been for a long time.

  Dante reached for the latch, and Lucas had a sudden doubt.

  “Tonight. It is a date?”

  “I was hoping so. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. Yes, it is.”

  Lucas hastily, awkwardly, pecked Dante on the cheek.

  Dante’s car was parked at the curb. He slid onto his driver’s seat with his usual aplomb. Lucas waved him off and leaned back onto the front door, closing it with his shoulders. Then he slid down to his haunches, hugging himself, unable to suppress a grin. How perfect. How absolutely perfect. Lucas wouldn’t have to lie to Dante, not once this was over. And perhaps Dante might even be a little proud of him, for succeeding on his own.

  Chapter 17

  BY NOON, Dante had returned to Le Plaisir and found a spot to stand on the shop floor, like a spare part, in front of the till counter. Selena sidled in beside him and straightened a pile of pamphlets advertising a fellatio workshop to be held in the basement the following week.

  “Nice of you to join us,” she said. There was an edge of amusement in her voice.

  “I’m sure everything has been running smoothly in your capable hands.”

  He examined his own, twisting at the signet ring on his small finger.

  “Now you’re here, do you mind if I grab some lunch?”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  “I’m only going down to Jim’s for a sandwich. Can I get you anything?”

  The churning in his stomach might not have entirely been a case of nerves. “Ham on rye.”

  “With lettuce, tomato, and extra mustard?”

  “Yes. That would be nice.”

  Dante thought, for a moment, that Selena had placed her hand on his arm. When he looked down, there was nothing there. Selena was, in fact, swinging around the oak table in the center of the shop and pushing out of the door. She hadn’t bothered to put on a coat. How she could walk over ice-slick cobbles, in heels, with only her arms wrapped around herself, Dante would never know.

  Dante’s stomach recoiled into a knot that hadn’t fully unraveled since he’d left Lucas. No matter how uncomfortable he felt about the GPS tracker in his handset, he had to believe it was the right decision to continue surveillance. He no longer had a choice. He’d chosen to get involved in Lucas’s business, and that left him with a level of responsibility over Lucas’s actions.

  “Can someone give me a hand?”

  Kit—at least it looked like Kit. Dante could only see the legs—emerged from the storeroom with a stack of boxes.

  Dante relieved her of her load. “I thought we restocked these this morning.”

  “Apparently”—it was Kit—“everyone wants a bunny for Christmas. In a novelty gift box.”

  This Christmas, the dual-action vibrators came in a special anniversary box with bonus tickler included. “Fifty years next year. Fifty years. That’s some clever engineering. Imagine how much happiness these little beauties have spread.”

  “Little beauties?” Kit shook her head.

  Together they restocked the shelves. Behind them Lois worked the till. Dante felt a pang of sadness where he should have been happy. Only yesterday Lois and Kit had picked out a flat they liked, over the bridge, on the mainland. Pending references and the deposit, they’d be in at the beginning of February. The day before Lois had been to her job interview. She wouldn’t know how it went for a couple of weeks or so, maybe not before Christmas, but Dante would wager she’d get the job.

  There were too many endings in his life, and the one beginning felt too tentative and fragile to pin any hopes on.

  “Dad?” Kit peered up at him through her heavy fringe. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” Dante took a deep breath. Perhaps he was hungrier than he thought. “I’m going out for dinner tonight. With Lucas Green.”

  “Since when?” Kit’s mouth fell open.

  “Since I went out this morning.”

  Dante found himself smiling, despite the gut-churning, and the weak knees, and a dizzy lightheaded sensation that felt uncannily like his feet were an inch off the floor.

  “So that’s where you went.” She put her hands on her hips. “You sly old dog.”

  Lois was waving. “What’s going on? Spill the beans.”

  Kit sidled over and made a show of whispering (loud enough for the whole shop to hear), “Dante’s got a d-a-t-e tonight. With blondie.”

  “You hav
e? Does that mean…?” She was distracted by a customer, but Dante could see her concern, or confusion. He wasn’t sure what the frown meant.

  His stomach rolled over again. He got back to the vibrators, for something to do, and to take his mind off the surveillance he still had going outside Lucas’s house and the GPS tracker on his phone.

  Maybe tonight he should confront Lucas. Confess. Tell him he was doing it out of worry for his well-being. Which he was.

  But that isn’t the whole truth by a long shot. What about the bet, Dante? It might be off now, but what does it say about you that you placed it in the first place?

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” Kit was clutching his hand. Tight.

  “Yes.”

  “A bit nervous?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Best to stay busy, then. So you don’t think about it.”

  It wasn’t difficult. Dante ended up hastily eating his ham on rye in the storage room, chased by a cup of lukewarm tea. The post-lunch rush had him, Kit, Lois, and Selena going full pelt until closing.

  At five, he stopped by his office. He put the monitor windows on sleep mode, closed the door, and went up the three flights of stairs to his private rooms. He showered, shaved, and perfumed. Standing in his bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, he took a long, hard look in the full-length mirror hung inside his wardrobe door. He pinched the flesh that sat above the line of the towel on his side. He flexed his pectoral muscles. They lifted and bulged, less than they used to.

  Next week he’d get back to the gym.

  If he got things right with Lucas, he might soon have to bare this flesh. Expose himself more completely than he had in Lucas’s kitchen. It had been a while, hadn’t it? He looked at the rug and the bed and the faded curtains. When was the last time another man had entered this bedroom? How many years?

  The suits hanging in his wardrobe seemed too austere. His shirts offered little more to temper the blacks and grays. A man with skin as dark as his could wear a splash of color. He picked out the purple paisley tie Lois had bought him for his birthday and another of deep red color-blocked silk. He held them side by side, eyeing first the purple, then the red.