by Daryl Banner
Quite suddenly, he stopped eating. After a moment of sitting there perfectly still, he slowly put down the remaining hunk of bread pinched between his fingers, then turned his steely gaze like a blowtorch toward me.
He didn’t have to try. Anything he looked at, he smoldered with a single glance.
Then he spoke. “What do you want?”
I flinched. “What do you mean?”
His eyes drew down my face, to my chest, to my lap, without his head moving an inch. Then he flicked his eyes back to me. “In exchange.”
I was still at a loss. “Exchange for what?”
“You’re paying?” He nodded at the bread. “For all this?”
“I told you, the bread is free.”
“For my meal.” His words were like little hammers, each one driving the nail closer to home. “You’re … expecting something?”
Call me blinded by his beauty. Call me nervous and flustered. Call me thick as a wall, but I was still clueless as to what he was getting at. “I’m treating you to dinner. For free. Being nice.”
His eyes hardened. “Are you expecting a hand job after?”
I choked on my own saliva.
The very next instant, Rebecca materialized from an alternate dimension. “Hey there, you two. Welcome to Alberto’s. Can I start you off with an appetizer or something from the—Are you okay?”
I was still choking and coughing. Rebecca regarded me with as much concern as you’d give a cockroach on its back, dying in a shallow puddle of poison. I might have even been kicking my legs quite similarly under the table.
“Two waters, then?” she suggested less than patiently.
“Please,” I affirmed with a quick nod, then jabbed a finger at the menu. “And some crab balls, maybe.”
My guest spun his head. “I’m not eating no crab testicles.”
I cleared my throat, having regained my composure. “That’s a double negative, and they’re little bits of crab meat that are fried in the shape of balls. Like crab nuggets.” I eyed Rebecca. “We’ll do the crab nuggets.”
Rebecca pressed her lips together, nodded, then spun and sauntered away. I’m certain she hid a roll of her eyes.
When I returned my gaze to my guest, he was already looking at me, his eyes iron-hard and expectant. I couldn’t believe he even thought I was expecting some sort of … sexual favor for what I was doing for him. Didn’t anyone ever just put money in his cup?
Well, I guess that was a bit of an assumption, that he ever panhandled or sat outside with a cardboard sign. In my defense, he could have easily had one stowed away in his backpack.
I spoke plainly and calmly. “I’m not expecting anything in return. Not a thing. Nothing. I …” I let out a long sigh. “I heard the way the guy out there was yelling at you, and—”
“He was a fuckin’ dick.”
I let the curse slide. “And I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t care who you were. It didn’t matter to me. I was hungry, I wanted a meal, and … well, now we’re having a meal together, aren’t we?”
He pulled his eyes away from me then, staring at the table ahead of him. Again, he seemed to be working over every word I just gave him, processing it. His deep brown eyes were like two little overclocked computers, trying to keep ahead of whatever calculations they were making.
I wondered for a second if that was a product of being on the street; he always watched his back, he was always suspicious, he was always ready for someone to take advantage of him.
Desperate as I was to learn more about him, I refrained, giving him the space to be … dodgy. Or whatever it was he was being, as he seemed to alternate between glaring at the table or at the hunk of bread, which still sat in front of him.
I felt like if I asked him one more question, it’d scare him off.
I really, really didn’t want to scare him off.
A minute later, Rebecca came with our glasses of water. We sipped in silence. Then came the crab balls, which we both shared, slowly taking one at a time. “These are pretty good,” I reluctantly stated, to which he gave me absolutely no response.
I’m not sure what I expected.
When Rebecca asked if we were ready to order, I asked for the Fettuccine Alfredo with grilled chicken. To my surprise, mister tortured eyes next to me ordered the same. Rebecca took our menus, and away she went with them and her judging eyes.
I shuffled my feet under the table. My shoe tapped against his on accident. He pulled his foot back and glanced at me. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Small tables.”
He huffed at that with a, “Yeah,” then said nothing more.
I clasped my hands together and sat patiently waiting for my food. Well, that’s a lie. I was waiting for him to say something. Or to graze my foot under the table. Or to look at me in a certain way.
It did not escape my attention how close we were sitting, either. Every now and then, he’d let out a short sigh, and his breath would stir the hairs on my arms.
It was electricity to me. Every slight movement he made drew me in. Every little sound that escaped his lips, whether it was a sigh or a clearing of his throat or a cough, invited me toward those plush, pouty lips.
Really, I should have earned a prize for managing not to just stare hungrily at him the whole time we waited.
And right next to that prize goes my big old trophy for most awkward first date ever.
This isn’t a first date, I scolded myself, my face going red just at the thought.
I wanted to talk to him more. I really did. But every time I had thought of something to say, my mouth froze, and I was left just glaring at the last cut of bread that still lay in the wicker basket between us, untouched.
Then when I thought I might finally speak, our food arrived.
For the next while, we were just two hungry men eating pasta in a restaurant. He ate with his fork—you know, instead of palming it into his mouth with his grubby, bare fingers, or whatever—and finished long before I did.
When I looked up from my plate, I discovered that the look on his face had softened. He wasn’t scowling at everything anymore. He just sat there, seeming to drink in the sights in wonder.
It was a total change in demeanor, now that he had a little food in his belly.
Maybe that was what gave me the courage to open my mouth. “Do you live around here?”
I blurted the question out so fast, he flinched as if I’d slapped him. His brow wrinkled up as he stared at me. “Huh?”
My confidence died a quick death. But I repeated my question. “I asked if … Do you live around here? In the area?”
His jaw set. “You can say that,” he finally mumbled.
So he’s not homeless? I shrugged, as if to lamely indicate that I wouldn’t have minded if he was homeless, that I wouldn’t have judged him. Not that he would get all of that from a stupid shrug. Then I parted my lips again. “I’m from Little Water.”
“I know.”
I clenched shut my eyes, my face going red. “I … I know you know. I forgot we covered that already. Sorry. Dumb.” I shook my head. “I think I meant to say … that since I’m from Little Water, I don’t really … I don’t really know this area all that well. Except for these four adjoining casinos and the Royal Flush. That’s where my room is,” I stated suddenly, as if it needed to be announced. “I … I have a room there.”
His stare was a dead-eyed one. “Okay.”
I started to sweat badly. My breath was short. Maybe speaking at all was a bad idea.
“I gotta take a piss,” he said suddenly, then rose from the table, slung his backpack over a shoulder, and left.
And I watched, wide-eyed, as he strolled off, his long, tapered, muscular backside disappearing around the corner.
He’s not coming back, I told myself, my heart sinking.
I couldn’t leave the table and go after him, either. Not until the food was paid for. All I could do was sit there holding my cock, proverbially speaking, with two emptied plates and a s
till-dancing candle in front of me.
Damn. I thought for a second we were getting somewhere.
Rebecca returned nearly the moment he’d left. She collected our plates with a smirk. “You two thinking about dessert?”
“No,” I mumbled, totally deflated. I even crossed my arms like a sulky child. “No dessert.”
I’m pretty sure I didn’t intend a hidden meaning in my saying, “No dessert,” but I would be lying if I didn’t say I was hoping to get to know him a little more, perhaps spend some time together. Nothing sexual had to happen. I mean, he had given no indication whatsoever that he was into me—let alone men at all.
“I’ll be back with the check.” And with that, our server was gone, too.
I pulled out my phone and stared at its screen, wondering if I should text my mother and tell her I’d be there tomorrow after all. The work thing was canceled, I might have messaged her, so I will be there after all! Save me a seat by my sister’s hot husband!
A shadow fell over my phone.
I glanced up.
He stood there with his hands buried in his pockets. He was looking down at me, his gaze firm, yet not unkind.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
I said nothing. I think I was still in shock that he hadn’t, in fact, ditched me after the meal.
“For the food,” he amended with a tiny nod at the table.
“Welcome,” I responded automatically.
He shuffled his feet awkwardly for a second, almost scowling. Then he shrugged and nodded over his shoulder. “I’m gonna go.”
He turned and began to move his feet. I watched and allowed my heart to break for precisely two and a half seconds before I blurted, “I’m James.”
The words stopped him. He turned and lifted an eyebrow.
I hadn’t realized I’d gotten to my feet. Was I that desperate for him not to leave me again?
“Do you …” I cleared my throat. “You wanna stay?”
“Stay?” he croaked uncertainly.
“Y-Yeah,” I finally managed to get out. “Stay. Hang out for a bit. Maybe …” What the hell am I saying? “Maybe hit some slots. Or just walk around. Or …” I shrugged. “Anything.”
He studied me long and hard. I could have pissed my pants right there.
Until he said: “Lucky.”
I didn’t follow. “Lucky? Lucky what?”
“My name,” he clarified. “My name’s Lucky.”
Of course it was.
Chapter 4
JAMES
Don’t for a second think I believed that Lucky was his real name. I knew it was a street name. Or a nickname he pulled out of his ass. We were engulfed by casinos on all sides of us, for fuck’s sake. He could tell me his last name was “Dice” and I’d shrug and go with it.
But I wasn’t there to press the guy. If my calling him “Lucky” made him more comfortable, then so be it; I wouldn’t rob him of one of the only solaces he had left.
It made me wonder if I should have given him a fake name for myself. Like Banker Bob. Or Moneymaker. Or Cash.
Those all sound like porn star names.
When we left Alberto’s, the aproned moron who screamed at Lucky on the street earlier was the one to nod and tell us that he hoped we had a nice rest of our evening. Aww, what a sweetheart.
Lucky gave him the finger.
“So, um … you said you’re from around here?” I asked the side of his chiseled, totally kissable, brooding face as we slowly strolled through the Elysian. It took all available resources in my brain to resist leaping on him full-force every second he was by my side.
“Yeah,” he answered simply, even that one word oozing with his young, masculine brusqueness.
I swallowed. “So what part was that?”
“All over.”
I bit my lip. He was still being guarded. Really, I didn’t blame him. Who the hell was I other than some random dude who just bought him dinner? He didn’t owe me anything.
“You in an apartment in the area or something?” I pressed on, determined to get a straight answer. “Renting a room someplace? I mean, it has to be close by since you’re here often. You were here last weekend, and now—”
“So were you.”
“I …” Okay, well, he had me there. “Right. I was. But that’s just because I—”
“You an addict or something?” he then asked, cutting me off.
I frowned. “Addict?”
“Yeah. Gambling addict. Slots. Craps. Cards. Whatever.”
“Ah, uh, no.” I chuckled even at the notion. “I’m just … well, I guess I do like coming here to gamble. I’m usually here with my friends every other weekend. But it’s not the only—”
“Friends?”
I nodded as we turned a corner, walking past a food court. The thick scent of french fries and charred meats enticed me. Maybe the pasta from Alberto’s didn’t fill me up as much as I thought. Or I’m a nervous eater. “Yeah. Work friends, you could say.”
“Where are your friends now?”
“Oh. They’re …” I pointed somewhere, then somewhere else, then gave up. “It’s just me. I didn’t come with them this time.”
“Why not?”
“They couldn’t come. I … well …” I opted for total disclosure. “I didn’t ask them to come this time, actually. I just came here all by myself because I …” Okay, half disclosure. “… I needed to get away from my job again. Badly. One weekend wasn’t enough. My job can really be stressful at times.”
“Huh. What do you do?”
“I’m a personal banker.”
He didn’t really acknowledge whether he heard me or felt any certain way about my answer. He just gripped the strap of his backpack tighter and stared off.
Reading his face was difficult, to say the least.
He eyed one of the nearby machines and slowed down. It was a slot machine with a big mermaid at the top, her breasts artfully covered by a crude bushel of seaweed and pink coral.
I nodded at it. “You wanna give it a go?”
He frowned. “No.”
I pulled out my Hearts Tower casino card. “We can give it one quick spin. It’s really no big deal. It’s on me. My treat.”
“It was you I ran into last Saturday night. Night of the storm.”
I froze. For some reason, I had already assumed and moved past the notion that he recognized me from before. Maybe I was mistaken, and he was actually piecing the mystery together in his head ever since I invited myself into his roadside argument.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “Last Saturday. I … I figured that you’d …”
He eyed me awhile longer, then said, “I was a dick to you.”
“Forget about it,” I assured him right away. “It’s nothing.”
“Your arm’s yellow.”
“I was just—Wait, what?” I glanced at the elbow that took the brunt of my fall, squinting. “What do you mean?”
“Right there,” he said, pointing.
I still couldn’t see it. “The lighting in here’s dim. I still can’t—”
He took a step closer and softly drew a circle on the side of my elbow. “Here.”
I’m not going to lie. When his finger touched my skin, nothing short of pure electricity coursed through my body and shook to life every single nerve, bone, and tissue I had.
“You see it?”
I distractedly glanced up at him. I hadn’t quite realized how close he had come. My eyes stuck for a second to his magnificent chest—which was less than a foot from my half-hanging mouth—and the way his hoodie hugged his shapely pecs and shoulders.
Then my stubbornly clingy gaze pulled up to meet his eyes, which burned me both in their concern for my wound as well as something else—maybe a question in his eyes that, if vocalized, might have asked: What the fuck are you looking at?
I blinked away and glanced back down at my elbow. “N-No,” I confessed. “Still don’t see it. My arm just looks like—”
; “Come here.”
He brushed past me. Confused, I followed him across the casino and into a long, bright hallway lined with clothing stores, gag gift kiosks, and a cheerily-lit ice cream parlor called Creamy’s.
It was in front of the ice cream parlor that he stopped and spun around, then gripped my arm and pulled it into the light. He pointed once again, drawing a small circle at my elbow. “Do you see it now? Where it yellows?”
Then I could see it, clear as day. “Shit,” I blurted out. “That’s bruised. Badly. I never noticed.”
“It wasn’t like that all week?”
“No.”
He frowned. He was still holding my arm. “It’s just yellow. Not dark. Probably just bruised. Hopefully not fractured.”
I met his gaze again, but my stubborn eyes took the long, scenic route up his chest, his neck, his squared jawline, his forest of facial hair, his slightly open lips, and then finally to his eyes. “You … You think it might be fractured?”
“Hopefully not.”
“It doesn’t hurt at all unless I put weight on it. Or push it right here,” I explained, pressing a finger right into the tip of my elbow. “I mean, I don’t even wince anymore when I lay it on an armrest.”
He quirked an eyebrow at me, then studied my elbow some more. That boy could spend the rest of the night studying it if he wanted; I was enjoying the simple grip he gave my arm perhaps a tad too much.
“Don’t know,” he finally mumbled, then looked up at me. “I’m guessing it’s just bruised. Might take a few more weeks to heal. Strong guy like you, it shouldn’t take long.”
The word stuck out of his sentence like a bear on twink night. “Strong?”
He shrugged. “Yeah. You seem like a … strong guy. Solid. Good frame.”
I couldn’t help but let out a short, derisive laugh. “Okay. Not the first choice of adjectives I’d give myself.”
Almost softly, he let go of my arm. I let it drop to my side. The touch of his firm fingers on my arm was instantly missed. But he still looked at my eyes, as if wondering what adjectives I’d rather he used. Honestly, I wouldn’t be able to answer that question.
My heart refused to slow down. It was impossible to be calm at all around Lucky. I was excited at the prospect that neither of us had anywhere to be. It was like we were adrift in a timeless space devoid of any pressure or responsibility or even, in some ways, identity. It didn’t matter who we were. Anything could happen. It was like the fateful pull of a lever on the slot machine, the pictures spinning in front of you, spinning, spinning.