My feet stopped. Not out of fear. I turned around.
He grinned at me, gap in his teeth showing. Maybe there was a little fight to the stone pillar. Maybe it liked falling on people occasionally. “Come back in here and sit down. We have some rules to go over.”
“First rule,” I rebutted immediately, “I’m a geomancer too. Ain’t a door in the world that can keep me locked up and I already broke yours coming in.”
With that, I left.
Could’ve gone worse.
At least I didn’t call him a fucktard.
Session 150
Coming to you LIVE from the Ouroboros Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, Nevada!
The Days of Supernatural Exhibition! Day One! Day of Speed!
—crowd sounds—
The Ouroboros Arena was an engineering miracle, built mostly out of geo-anima laced concrete and geo-anima weaved steel. Sure, it only held ten-thousand people in the cheap seats, but the field itself was massive, big enough to hold a football field, with extra besides. Think wide and fat, but not tall. Not a bad seat in the whole joint. Intimate in number, but spacious in reality. Same as the supernatural world, I guess.
Then there was the roof.
The roof should’ve caved in.
Was like a ‘W’ flipped upside down. The center spike was two OLED screens big enough, bright enough, and thin enough to make even Jerry Jones really jealous. The two spokes sliding right into the roof itself, angled glass and steel frames, held one-hundred luxury boxes on either side, for two-hundred total.
A group more exclusive than even the elite.
Guess that’s like Ultras, ain’t it?
Who’s up in them boxes? Vega? Other Weres? You here in Las Vegas for the grand event, JoJo? He make you cover up the tattoos and put on a pretty dress? He plaster you with diamonds and put you under guard? You trapped in a cage of comfort again? Screeching at the golden lock that won’t let you get loose?
I talked to my sister every week and she’d failed to ever mention this place or about the Days of Supernatural Exhibition. Which given the fact that if we talked any more often than that once-every-other-week our conversations got really strained as we tried to come up with stuff to talk about . . . well, all I’m saying is we could’ve used the topic, since neutral ones seemed so hard for JoJo and me to find. Funny, when we first connected it was every day and meet ups to see each other . . . but now even at a week in-between, by the end of the call we were sniping at each other about slights over ten years old. Typical sibling shit.
Other than that . . . she seemed content. Didn’t talk about Vega a lot. Or the Coyote Nation at all. Made it clear there would be no rescuing of any sort and I should just stay the fuck out of it. Her words. I ain’t the only Price with a potty mouth.
I still worry.
Should worry about yourself. You have just as many deals with her husband as she does nowadays.
Especially since I just broke his Rock Breaker game.
Yeah.
Kind of won the one-hundred grand jackpot too.
My bad.
Should’ve played it straight, Horatio. Didn’t make your toy a cheat and I would’ve let it be. But nah, let your inner schemer out, found a way to cheat the geomancers out of their money. Got to protect my own, right? One of your rules for this peaceful world, ain’t it?
“Wow,” T-Bone said next to me.
Our seats weren’t shit. There are no shit seats in the Ouroboros arena. Even at the back in the cheap seats we had a good view of the field. On one side there was a normal track and field ring for sprints and races and in the middle of that an Olympic-sized swimming pool. On the other side was a pair of multilayer mazes with doors and bolt holes too small for humans, but perfect for dogs and cats.
This would’ve been interesting enough, but above it all was more: a set of multicolor rings that I really hoped birds would be flying through and not broomsticks, a hanging obstacle course like something out of Ninja Warrior, and in the middle a group of platforms spaced a good fifteen feet apart.
“So cool,” T-Bone whispered.
“The Harry Potter theme song starts playing and I’m out of here,” was my only comment.
“Kill joy.”
“I’m just pissy about the ten-dollar beer,” I decided.
“But . . . you aren’t even drinking.”
“So? Everyone should be pissed about ten-dollar beer. It’s a matter of principle.”
T-Bone gave me a look. “You just won one-hundred thousand dollars.” He thought about it some. “Unless you’re lying.”
“I never lie.”
T-Bone snorted.
“Withholding information ain’t lying.”
“So you forgive Pocket and everyone else for not telling you about this?” T-Bone laid a landmine for me to step on. “And you’ll be explaining what you and Annie B were talking about in that hotel room finally?”
I glanced at the empty seat next to me. All around us people were slowly filing in. Being I was with T-Bone, that means we’d been in the doors the second they opened. He was one of those punctual people who had never heard of fashionably late. But then my family was never fashionably late either. Just poor-as-fuck-late-as-fuck white trash. Susan had tried for a while, but then she ran off.
Funny I’m in a family mood when I got all those distractions that I’ve been craving right in front of me.
My gaze rose up to those luxury boxes. “Think my sister is here?”
T-Bone nodded, letting the discussion on my information withholding wait for another time again. “Seems likely. Not that I’ve met her. Still.”
“Don’t want her husband getting skittish about her meeting too many new people. He’ll think I’m planning something. Besides, we’re fucking friends, not fucking friends. We established that when you invited me over for family dinner, didn’t we? You remember how that went, right? Why you want to keep doing it?”
His manners had won out over good common sense when we’d signed the papers giving him a stake in the ‘comic shop.’ More proof that manners are dangerous. Especially when your family doesn’t know about magic being a thing.
Sure do after that dinner.
It wasn’t my fault this time.
“You had to antagonize me,” T-Bone accused at the memory.
“It turned out okay.”
“You and that stupid ‘spy’ van,” T-Bone accused some more.
“It was a spy van.”
“It had two idiots from Champion Comics in it trying to find some way to blackmail us out of their business! It wasn’t vampires or any other real threat!”
“I still think it was mean the way you fried all their surveillance equipment.”
“Better than you beating them up, tying them up, and driving the van off. Wherever you took it. You didn’t kill them, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t kill them. Who do you think I am?”
I, however, might have threatened them a little bit and made their van go crunch.
Better than turning them over to ESLED for memory modification, ain’t it?
As long as they had insurance.
T-Bone’s expression was traumatized. “My father keeps asking me to ‘do it again’ every time I see him. Even in public.”
“He’s proud of you. More than I can say about mine. Not that I give a shit what my dad thinks,” I hurriedly added.
“He’s really happy I didn’t invest in a comic shop though.”
“See, it all worked out well.”
“Does that mean I can meet your sister then?” he asked hopefully.
I thought about this. Was probably another bad idea. “Ain’t planning on fucking her, right?”
“I . . . why must you always—”
“I mean . . . I kind of got used to her fucking black guys when I caught her with the third one by the time I was twelve, but I don’t think her husband, Horatio Vega, King of the Coyotes, would be very happy about her having an extramarital a
ffair with a black guy named—”
“Stop talking like that! You’ll get me killed!”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to meet my family and he is my brother-in-law.”
“I meant bring your sister by the shop and say, ‘hey, sis, here’s my fucking business partner; bitch, yeah he’s real, I’m not lying about having a black big-dicked friend’ like you always like to prove to people. I didn’t mean try to hook us up and get both of us murdered!”
“Oh, Vega won’t kill her. He needs her too much. Plus, I think he loves her. Fucking fool.”
T-Bone squeezed the bridge of his nose, face in pain. “Why isn’t Pocket here yet?”
“He’s backstage with Jesus giving him a . . . a pep-talk.”
“Oh.”
Thoughtful silence from T-Bone.
Nervous silence from me.
I had a bad feeling that manners was about to screw the both of us again.
T-Bone started to talk once, but stopped.
“You met Val,” I tried to distract him with. “And Pocket . . . and Jesus. Seems like I’ve incorporated you into my life pretty well, business partner.”
T-Bone thought some more, missing my bait. Being so smart, he proved what a moron he was. “I have a delicate question . . .”
“Oh, I love those. Think they sell chili fries here? Love me some chili fries.”
T-Bone asked the question. “Are Pocket and Jesus . . . you know?”
“What?” I growled.
“Are they . . . ?” a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“Huh?”
“Are they gay?”
Awkward silence.
“I shouldn’t have asked,” T-Bone apologized hurriedly. “Or . . . did you not put some of the clues together . . . or . . .”
More awkward silence.
“Of course they’re not gay,” I finally said.
“Oh . . . it’s just . . . same room and they’re always together and the way they act around each other and . . .”
“That’s a horrible accusation to make about two friends, T-Bone. Especially the way you been trying to meet my sister and the way people could take that conversation if they don’t know better.”
“I was just being polite to you and you aren’t turning this around on me—”
“I mean,” I said, faking being really pissed off at him, “just cuz Pocket likes fucking Jesus in the ass and just cuz I walked in on them like five fucking times at the Asylum without them knowing and just cuz they’re two men sharing a hotel room with only a single bed in it . . . that don’t make them gay.”
More awkward silence.
But I wasn’t part of the awkward this time.
I was the one outside of the awkward this time around, enjoying the whole thing.
“You’re an asshole for turning this around on me,” T-Bone eventually said.
“Yup. But it was worth it.”
“So are they out or . . . it doesn’t seem like it.”
“I don’t think Jesus gives a shit if people know, but Pocket has ‘em in the closet cuz he’s freaked about his parents finding out their only boy likes the man-ass. Me? They’ve never told. I suppose they don’t want to endure the equivalent of whatever big black wang jokes I could come up with.”
“Probably the man-ass joke,” T-Bone whispered.
“Yeah, like that one. Jesus knows I know and knows I don’t give a shit one way or the other, but we don’t talk about it so Pocket can live in his little dream world of ignorant bliss. It’s not really a big deal, except Pocket is making it a big deal.”
“So I should just not—”
I gave him some more predator grin. “Just treat them like you been treating ‘em. What’s being gay have do with it? Not worried they’re gonna crave that big black wang, are you? Think every gay man is out to fuck you? Like you could ever hook up with a stud like Pocket, right?”
“You are such an asshole,” T-Bone repeated.
“Yeah . . . but I’m a tolerant asshole. I mean . . . I even fucked a vampire.”
More awkward silence filled with T-Bone’s regret at having manners.
“Still want to meet my sister?”
“Go get us chili fries before I shock you with your own SDR.”
[CLICK]
I got three plates of chili fries and three large Dr. Peppers, somehow finding my way back to our seats. By the time I arrived, Pocket sat in his. “All for you, dude, or you sharing for once?” he asked with a grin.
So yeah . . . Pocket is gay. Which just makes me sad. Not that there’s anything wrong with it . . . the Foul Mouth will make a joke about anything to unnerve tight ass prudes, but I ain’t ever been bigoted. Just don’t care. Never have. Unless it’s to gingers . . . and apparently I have a very deep, repressed urge to do the nasty with one of them, so I’d say that’s a wash.
Problem with Pocket is . . . look at the bastard! Six-foot-three. Broad shoulders. Attractive. Charming as all hell. Got them green eyes and that wavy brown hair and the chiseled face that draws women without even trying. If I looked like him I could get so much quality strange in my life. It’s a good thing you don’t look like him though, Prince Henry gets you in enough trouble already.
Then Pocket has the gall to not even be some party boy gay guy going after his own type of strange or a super gay guy into fabrics and dinner theater and all that stereotypical shit you see on TV . . . cuz that’s progressive entertainment!
Nah.
Pocket’s just this alpha stand up dude everyone immediately loves, has himself an awesome job helping people, is in a committed, normal relationship . . . and he happens to be gay.
FYI.
Don’t tell his dad, please. Said dad is a traditionalist asshole that wants Pocket to pass on the family name to the next generation of spawn.
I’ve thought pretty hard and deep a few times about telling Pocket I know.
Just cut the crap, Pocket.
Or shake the crap off your gay dick, whatever.
Pretty sure that Jesus would really like it if I would go ahead and man up. Not that we have ever talked about it other than sharing that unsaid acknowledgement that we’re in on all sides of the secret. Jesus and I were good for them acknowledgments. Lord and Savior’s good at smelling bullshit, but not bringing up the fact that he does.
Better at keeping a secret too, I guess.
Part of me wondered if the reason I hadn’t told Pocket I knew was part of the same malfunction of character that made me never tell Val that I loved her.
Or Ceinwyn about Paine being alive.
Or T-Bone about me meeting a dragon.
All of it.
Studying that happy grin, his boyfriend’s big moment about to arrive in a few hours, I kept my mouth shut. Always easy to keep your mouth shut. Even for King Henry Price, especially if the sentence don’t have some fun curse words in it.
“It’s a loss,” I said instead, “but I guess I’ll share with you two.”
When we all had our drinks and chili fries, Pocket pulled out a flier and handed it to me. “Finally got a list of the card for the night. Don’t talk about it though! Mr. Black says it’s suppose to be a surprise as every event comes up.”
“Mr. Black?”
Pocket nodded. “He’s the promoter who set this whole thing in motion. He’s been planning it for years, but it only became a sure thing when he pitched it for the Ouroboros grand opening. I know he’s working with Weres, but he’s a stand up guy. Convinced Jesus to run his dogs and gave us these seats even.”
It was the first time I’d thought about this all costing someone—meaning Pocket and T-Bone—money. “How much do I owe you?”
He ate a chili fry, hating the potato but loving all that juicy meat. Juicy, juicy spicy meat in Pocket’s mouth. Rolling around over his tongue. Yummy. Yup, all of you knowing Pocket is gay is gonna be great for the jokes. “Nothing,” he told me, “you were in need of help, so I’m helping. Wouldn’t be right for me to charge for it
.”
“King Henry won one-hundred thousand dollars today on the casino floor,” T-Bone informed nonchalantly. “Still sure you don’t want some money?”
Pocket’s jaw dropped. A second fry hung limp, barely sticking to his lips . . . fine, fine, I’ll stop with the fry as penis imagery, but only under protest!
“Manners,” I commented on his open mouth with all that chewed up food showing.
“How did you—”
“I punched a rock. It died.”
“Dude!”
“Yeah. So assuming Vega actually gives me the money and I don’t die in the next week, we can place everything on the Price and Bonnie Incorporated tab.”
“We don’t actually have a company,” T-Bone reminded me, “I just have a twenty percent share in the comic shop . . . which isn’t a comic shop . . . which means the legal standing of our partnership is shaky in the court of law . . . if there is a court of law for non-guild Artificer shops. Maybe we should form a new company just to be safe. I hope my father doesn’t hear about this . . .”
I nudged Pocket’s shoulder as he tried to stuff his face with more fries. “I come to Vegas and I end up married by the third day.”
“Had to happen to one of us eventually,” he laughed.
“Odds are still on Raj being first.”
“I’m sure there are quite a few women out there who would agree to putting up with you til’ death do you part, dude.”
“Yeah . . . and the first in line for it is in prison, thank the Mancy.”
“Too bad you didn’t figure it out before you slept with her about a hundred times.”
“Trying to make me throw up my chili fries?”
“A little . . . hey, they’re starting!”
The lights faded just then. All around us clashing cheers went up, racing from one side of the arena to the other and then back again. For a big, open space with barely ten-thousand people inside, it had some serious acoustics working for it.
Only the OLED screens stayed on, showing advertisements for the different Ouroboros entertainments. Apparently the casino had private gaming rooms, conference rooms, gentlemen’s clubs, ladies’ clubs, and all sorts of shit on the floors above the casino. There was even an advertisement for a four-hole indoor floromancer managed golf course being built next year and for an indoor pool and spa area on the thirtieth floor of the hotel building I didn’t know about.
The Foul Mouth and the Mancy Martial Artist (The King Henry Tapes Book 5) Page 17