Getting Lucky

by Daryl Banner

  Just the memory of him drove me crazy. It was like our little dispute on the street never happened and I was still chasing him with my eyes in the dim, smoky rooms of the casino. It became such a game to me, my emotions flaring up every time I caught sight of him. It was daring. It was exciting. It was terrifying.

  And now I could have him in my dreams. I could pull his lips to mine as an equal, making out with him for hours. Or I could drop to my knees in front of his commanding, muscular form.

  Commanding.

  Muscular.

  Form.

  I realized suddenly that I was seconds away from coming.

  “Guys like you,” he spat down at me, “have been trying to control guys like me my whole life.”

  I stopped jerking.

  The less sexy words were starting to invade my fantasy. The real memory.

  “So how about you take your entitled, comfy, fortunate hotel-room self and get the fuck out of my pathetic, dirty, street-rat face?”

  I opened my eyes and looked up at him.

  The sight of my blank bedroom windows greeted me instead.

  There I was, kneeling on my bedroom floor with my hard-as-steel cock in my palm, right on the edge, and a sick feeling began to creep its way into my stomach.

  I couldn’t put a name on the feeling any more than I could put a name on the thing I left behind at that casino.

  “I don’t think you’re pathetic,” I heard myself say, both in the memory and out loud right then, my cock still in my hand. “I don’t think you’re pathetic or dirty at all.”

  The next moment, I was sitting on my bed, my cock ignored as it slowly deflated, and I stared at the floor, lost deep in a swirling, dark tunnel of guilt and remorse and something else.

  Something else.

  Desire?

  Frustration?

  Curiosity?

  It must have been that moment that inspired the decision I made when I went to work Friday. I gave Lewis a pat on the back—who regarded me with a tight nod as he adjusted his security radio clipped to his belt—and went straight to my office. At my desk, I emailed my mother to say I wouldn’t be coming to the family dinner on Saturday due to a sudden thing that came up at work, then told her to give my best to Dad, to my sister Ashlee and her hot husband, and to Uncle Charles. Then I pulled out my phone, called the Royal Flush Hotel & Suites, and booked myself a room.

  The moment I clocked out, I sped home, cleaned up, packed a bag, then took off. Another weekend awaited me at the casino—except this time, I was braving it alone.

  Chapter 3

  JAMES

  Alright, I felt super brave leaving home. By the time I parked and made my way through the doors of the Royal Flush Hotel & Suites, I was a wreck.

  The same young woman was at the front desk from the weekend before. She gave me a knowing smirk when I came up to check in. “Here without your pals this time?”

  “Just the gay,” I affirmed with a too-tight, straight-lipped smile, sliding my credit card and ID across the counter.

  She bit her lip. “I guess I can go a weekend without Quinton humping my front desk. He’s left a dent as it is.”

  I chuckled at that, though my throat was constricted and my eyes kept darting around. Not that I was looking for a very specific someone. “He’s really not a bad guy when you get to know him.”

  “You okay?”

  I spun my head right back to her. “Yeah. Why? Why do you ask? Why are you asking?”

  She blinked, staring at me, then shook her head. “No reason. Sign here, please.”

  I signed there. I could have signed away my house or my car for as little as I was paying attention, distractedly glancing over my shoulder every five seconds.

  “Seventh floor of the Hearts Tower,” she stated as she slid my room key across the counter. “Don’t tell your buddy I said hi.”

  “Says the woman who remembers his name and asks about him,” I sassed back, giving her a wink, then I took my card.

  She only snorted, as if dismissing my tease, and called out for the next customer.

  But her and Quinton’s fated love affair was the last thing my brain had any room for. I was a mess of feelings when I rode the elevator up to my room, counting my heartbeats with the floor numbers as usual—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven … ding!—and then pushing into my room. The familiar, slightly clinical smell of the clean bed sheets and shampooed carpets filled my nostrils as I threw my bag on the one king size bed in the room, then promptly shoved myself into the bathroom to proceed to stare at myself in the mirror.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked myself.

  Then I splashed some water on my face, fidgeted with my hair for ten seconds, and headed out of the door.

  No, I didn’t answer my own question.

  The lobby was hopping with just as many people this weekend as there were last weekend, but the clientele seemed generally calmer for some reason. It was unsettling.

  I knew why I was there. I knew the reason was totally crazy.

  But I couldn’t shake the way that guy looked at me. I couldn’t get his intense stare out of my mind. It was driving me insane all week, and I felt like it wouldn’t go away until I saw him again.

  Maybe just one little look, then I could work the bastard out of my system, liberating myself to return to my life.

  My totally miserable life.

  After about an hour of meandering around the lobby with no apparent purpose or direction, I finally decided to pass some time by playing the slots. But which casino? If I had the guys with me, we’d spend an hour alone arguing about which one to hit up first.

  With just me, I could cover my eyes, point, and spin myself.

  I got to choose.

  Talisman, it is.

  For the next hour, I sat perched at a big slot machine with a catchy chime that played every time I won a little. It baited me just enough to keep me interested, even though my eyes were always glancing over my left shoulder, then my right, then my left again. Nothing in front of me got my full attention.

  My wallet grew lighter, lighter, and lighter.

  It wasn’t long before self-consciousness began to flood me. I genuinely felt like I didn’t belong there. Was it written all over my face that I was only there in the casino for some super creepy and questionably borderline-stalker reason? Did anyone else nearby give me a once-over and wonder what the hell I was doing?

  I was on my feet again walking between the casinos. The night air felt cool on my skin, inspiring a shiver. Maybe I should have grabbed a jacket.

  Maybe I should just head the fuck home.

  I sighed and threw my back against a wall, my arm aching. My elbow was bandaged up when I left home, but I had since taken it off because it looked so damned ugly. Unfortunately, the pressure from the bandage was the only thing that helped ease the throbbing within. I guess I preferred to ache over looking unsightly.

  But no amount of bandaging could help the throbbing of my heart, which ached with each ugly second I remained in this godforsaken place.

  Why was I doing this to myself?

  “Fuck you,” came a distant voice.

  I turned my head, startled. There was the general hum of the crowds of people passing by me on the streets, since the night was still young, but through it all I heard those two words like the loud toppling of a tray in a noisy restaurant; no matter how loud the place is, you turn your head when the server’s tray tips and seven margarita glasses go crashing to the floor with a platter of lobster tails and shrimp scampi.

  The distant voice was joined by another, which shouted back in protest. Then more cursing. Then another shout.

  It isn’t the normal reaction of a healthy human being to walk toward such a commotion.

  So naturally, I did.

  “I have just as much a right to be here as anyone else!” came the deep, husky voice again, cutting through the white noise of drunken fools and murmuring couples.

  When I m
ade it through the bodies, I was standing on the curb staring at the familiar face of the Italian restaurant across the street from my hotel.

  In front of that restaurant stood the reason I came there at all.

  He was every bit as gorgeous as I remembered him. He was in his body-hugging hoodie, which bulged especially at his biceps, the fabric stretched taut, with the hood almost hanging off the back of his head, most of his hair showing. His face was flushed with fury as he spat words at an aproned server, who was arguing right back, matching him in anger and volume. The two were shouting so much, I couldn’t make out any words.

  Until I heard these ones from the server: “Take your nasty, sad, homeless ass away from the door to our restaurant or else I’m calling the cops.”

  I blinked, staring at the pair of them, stunned.

  Homeless?

  “Dude, you better get the fuck out of my face,” the young guy warned him. “I told you, I have a right to be here. I’m a human—”

  “I’ll call the cops. I swear it. I’ll call them.”

  “I’m a human being. This sidewalk is public property, bitch.”

  My insides were shaking. Was I shivering, or scared shitless?

  Before I could register anything at all, my feet were throwing me across the street. In seconds, I was at his side.

  He turned his angry glare onto me.

  Recognition burned in his syrupy brown eyes.

  And then, of all acts to pull out of my ass, I went for the most obvious one in the book. “There you are!” I cried out with glee. “Shit, I’m so sorry I’m late, man!”

  He stared at me unblinkingly. His lips parted, and yet nothing came out.

  “I know, I know,” I went on, shaking my head. “We should’ve gotten a reservation. I’m an idiot. Anyway, I’m here, and starved. Let’s see if they have a table for us.” Then, pretending to just now notice the red-faced server, I glanced over at him. He regarded me with a squinty, baffled expression. “Oh, sorry,” I muttered to him. “Did I interrupt something? Is there a problem?”

  The server couldn’t manage to speak at first, sputtering for a syllable or two. Then, finally, he asked, “You know him?”

  I frowned. “Of course I do. He’s my buddy.” With that, I gave my “buddy” a hearty slap on the shoulder—which succeeded in demonstrating to me exactly how firm and hardened his body really was. He had such a strong body, his shoulder felt like the wall of a cliff. My hand clung to him the way fingers dug into unyielding rock—not a bit of it budging in the slightest. “We’re grabbing a bite here before we hit the casinos. I love this place.”

  The server squinted ever so slightly, a trace of skepticism on his wordless, dumb face.

  The name flew out of my mouth. “Oh, is my friend Rebecca working tonight?”

  The server’s eyes went wide. “R-Rebecca? You know her?”

  “Think we can get a table in her section?” I asked. “She’s the best of the best. And that’s what my … my buddy and I deserve. Y’know. After a … After a hard day.”

  At those words, both the server and the gorgeous hunk next to me looked my way.

  So much time passed, I feared the indignant employee was about to call my bluff. Then, at last, he relented, nodding stiffly and leading us to the door with no further trouble.

  He even held it open.

  What a gentleman.

  After entering the restaurant, I experienced a split second of panic that my new “buddy” wasn’t going to play along and come inside with me. Then when the hostess greeted me and I told her, “Table for two, please,” I found him standing right by me with his hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his hoodie and his black backpack hanging off his shoulder.

  He came in with me. He actually came in.

  We were just about to be seated at a table together. In a restaurant. Like a date.

  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

  I couldn’t believe I was doing this. This was literally not me. I would never in my right mind do something so bold, so brazen …

  For that matter, what exactly was I doing?

  We were seated in the very back, despite a number of more visible tables being available in the front and middle of the place. It wasn’t a particularly upscale or ritzy restaurant, but definitely wasn’t the garden variety downtown hole-in-the-wall either. A dish of oil was placed on the table along with a basket of bread and two menus. “Your server will be with you shortly to take your drink orders,” murmured the hostess. She glanced uncertainly at my guest of sorts, then sauntered away.

  Then there we were: two complete strangers at a table in the very back corner of an Italian restaurant—the name of which totally escaped my memory. A glance at the menu filled that little hole: Alberto’s. Ah, nice.

  But let’s be honest. The name of the restaurant was the last thing on my flustered mind.

  He was still sitting there. He didn’t even go for the bread. All he did was stare at the candle in the middle of the table as the tiny flame danced and twitched irritably. I had no idea why the place had candles on the tables at all, considering the big tacky sconces lining the walls.

  I couldn’t stand another second of silence. “Help yourself,” I muttered with a nod at the basket of bread.

  He lifted an eyebrow at me that seemed annoyed. Then, in his husky, young voice, he asked, “Why did you do that?”

  I blinked. “Do what?”

  “Pretend you were, like … waiting for me. Or whatever. That we were planning to eat here.” He nodded at the bread. “I can’t pay for that shit. I couldn’t pay for a fucking side item here.”

  “Alright. First things first: Language.” I frowned at him. “Stop fucking cussing.”

  He narrowed his eyes at that.

  “Second: Dinner’s on me. You don’t have to pay.”

  Then he eyed the bread, suspicious.

  “Seriously,” I encouraged him. “Help yourself. I’m pretty sure the bread is complimentary, anyway. Like chips and salsa at a Mexican restaurant.”

  After another moment of dark deliberation, he took his cloth napkin off the table. To my surprise, he slowly wiped his hands with it, as if cleaning them, then set it aside. He then reached and took a knob of bread. For some reason, I expected him to wolf it down medieval-knight-in-a-tavern style. Instead, I watched as he delicately pulled off a bite, lightly dipped it in the oil, then brought it to his mouth. When he chewed, his eyes closed for a second, like it was the first time he’d tasted bread. I imagined him savoring every little crumb, his tongue wrestling with it in his mouth. His squared jaw worked and flexed as he chewed, a drop of oil running lazily and catching in his chin hairs.

  Goodness help me, he made eating look so sexy.

  I wondered how long it’d been since he ate anything. Was he even homeless, or was the server just spitting insults?

  “So what are you?” he asked suddenly, his mouth still full with his bite of bread.

  I lifted an eyebrow, uncertain what he meant.

  He swallowed. “Do you work for a church or some shit? Is that why you’re doing this? Good Samaritan? Earn Jesus points?”

  Jesus points. I gotta write that one down. “Language.”

  “So which church do you work for?” He popped another bite of bread into his mouth, but this time he kept his eyes opened and locked on mine. He looked so focused and severe, like he couldn’t bear to relax for one single moment, even safe in a restaurant as he was with a basket of bread in front of him.

  “I don’t,” I answered. “I’m just … me.”

  “You.” He seemed to smirk as he chewed. “And who are you?”

  I swallowed hard. It was so difficult being calm around a guy who looked as inhumanly beautiful as he did. It literally struck me anew every time I looked his way and remembered how infinitely deep his eyes were, or how sexy and cute his flushed cheeks were, or how dominant his light beard made him look, or how pouty and full his lips were as another chunk of bread slipped past the
m.

  “I’m … just a guy. I’m from Little Water,” I explained. “West of here. An hour west.”

  “Hmm.” He frowned as he chewed slowly, seeming to process every single word I gave him, like he was sifting through whatever I said for a lie. “You look familiar.”

  I nodded. “I was here last weekend, actually.”

  “And now you’re back.”

  He was a persistent one, that guy. He was focused and always working something out in his head, like a detective. I felt like I was being interrogated. The thick, solid sound of his voice only helped to amplify the power he had over me. It was no wonder I felt instantly compelled to answer every single one of his questions; I couldn’t not if I tried. “Yep. I’m back.”

  “Why?” he pressed on.

  “I like coming here. I like … I like to gamble.”

  “Aren’t there casinos closer to Little Water?” he asked at once, unsatisfied with my answer.

  “These ones are better,” I answered truthfully. “The ones on the other side of Little Water are filled from one end to the other with people twice my age. And they’re boring. The slot machines are all … sticky. And … tight.”

  “Tight?”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye anymore. Not when I was using words like “sticky” and “tight”. “They paid out less often. They’re rigged or something, rigged to rob from the elderly, I guess.”

  “All casinos are rigged.”

  “Maybe.”

  He pulled off another bite and brought it to his mouth. I felt compelled to watch. I don’t know why I was surprised by how … carefully he was eating the bread. Did some totally ignorant part of me expect him to eat boorishly, as if all homeless people somehow learned to discard all their manners and turn into Neanderthals?

  That brought me back to question number one.

  Is he really homeless?

  “So who …” I took a deep breath. “So who are you?”

  His biceps looked so big with his arms bent, elbows propped up on the table. The material of his hoodie stretched tightly over his muscles, pulling on his broad shoulders and pecs.