Getting Lucky

by Daryl Banner

  “How does that feel?”

  James moved his arm a little bit. “Feels like there’s a hot, wet towel hugging my arm.”

  I snorted at that. “Sounds about right.” Then I headed for the bathroom. “My turn,” I said on the way, grabbing my backpack and going to do my before-bed business.

  Normally, I did this sort of thing hours before I actually went to bed, and I’d do it in a public bathroom. I never had a bathroom like this to use, let alone for two nights in a row.

  You better not get used to this, I warned myself with a dark glare at my face in the mirror.

  When I was all finished up and left the bathroom, I found James on the bed with my sketchpad in hand, opened up to my latest half-finished blood red drawing.

  “The fuck?” I blurted out.

  He looked up from it. “Did you draw this?”

  I snatched the pad out of his grip so fast, the page half-tore. “That’s none of your damned business.”

  His eyes were full of wonder, shimmering with the light of the lamp from the corner of the room in them. “It was beautiful,” he murmured. “Seriously. That artwork …”

  “Do you always go through other people’s shit?” I let out an angry huff—and then his words struck me belatedly. “Beautiful?”

  “Yeah.” He stared at me for a second, then cast his eyes down to the opened sketchpad, which I still held in my clenched fists. “Can I ask how long you’ve been drawing …?”

  I swallowed, then glanced down at the pad myself and my red, half-done sketch of a fire dragon, now with a rip halfway down its snout. It took me a moment to calm down enough to answer him. “Since I was a kid. I always … doodled on things.” I let out a slight chuckle, thinking suddenly of a time when my mother watched little six-year-old me across a dining room table as I drew a big, crude castle with a blue crayon. Was it crazy that I remembered that? “That’s what my mom always called them … my ‘doodles’.”

  “That’s … more than doodles in your hand.”

  I was distracted, thinking of my mother. I looked up. “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “You have a gift.” James’s eyes were alight. “Really. Seriously. That’s some art school caliber stuff you have right there.”

  I frowned, then shoved it in my backpack, unable to hear any more. I tucked my backpack between the nightstand and the bed as if I was on the street and needed to protect it from park thieves.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s fine,” I said, cutting him off.

  “No, I get it.” James took a breath. “Really, I get it. You need to protect your things. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to live like that. Life as a teenager on the street. I just—” Then he cut himself off and shut his eyes. After a shake of his head, he added, “I’m just sorry. I should have known better.”

  I got back on the bed, the springs squeaking under me. “I left it out on the bed. Not your fault. No big deal.” Then I half-turned to him and added, “And I’m not a teenager.”

  James looked like he was about to argue, but nodded slowly instead and said nothing more. The pair of us returned our eyes to the TV, though I doubt either of us were really paying attention. I was in a mental fog of my mother, my sketches, and park thieves. James was probably just worried he’d botched things between us.

  Or maybe he was just thinking about his day at work Monday.

  Or the fact that he chased a nineteen-year-old all weekend.

  Or how long his trip home tomorrow would be.

  Before which, he’ll be saying goodbye.

  “Lucky, I was thinking …”

  I faced him. “What?”

  James’s face was especially tense. More so than it had been before. “I was thinking …” He sighed. “Look. I know you have your whole … thing going on here.”

  “My thing?”

  “Yeah. Your routine. Places you like to go. Places you don’t. Maybe friends. People you rely on. People who rely on you. I don’t really know the first thing about your daily goings-on. And, well, now I know our age difference. For certain. Like, it’s actually a number now and not just some …” He sighed. “Anyway, what I wanted to say was … Shit.”

  He took a deep breath. I could tell his heart was thumping a thousand times a second. Just looking at him made me nervous as hell. “Well, get it out already.”

  James stared at the towel wrapping around his arm when he let it all out at once. “If you want, I’d like to invite you back to my house with me. Back in Little Water. I have a spare room. I have two, actually. Take your pick. You can live with me if you want. You can have a bed of your own. A bathroom. The whole works.”

  My heart stopped. I couldn’t blink.

  I was weightless.

  He wasn’t for real, was he? Am I really hearing this?

  “There’s no obligation,” he went on, still talking to the towel, to his wounded arm—the arm that was only wounded because he crashed into me that fateful day. “You can stay as long or as short as you like. Until you get on your feet. Or you get a job. Your own place. Whatever. I’m just offering it. It’s out there now. On the table. Take it or leave it. You don’t owe me an answer now. Just … Just think it over. Sleep on it. And …” He was out of breath, likely forgetting to breathe at all between his words. “And I’m cool with whatever you decide. That’s it. That’s what I wanted to say.”

  With his eyes glazed over with fear, with anticipation, with something, he lifted the remote up and started flipping through the channels, searching for something else to watch.

  I couldn’t manage to speak myself, too stunned by his offer.

  It was too good to be true. Really, it was literally my dream, the thing I thought would never come. And yet there it was, the dangling carrot I might actually be allowed a bite of.

  “I think I’m gonna crash,” James decided, setting the remote on the nightstand next to him, clicking off his lamp, and then turning his back to me and lowering his head to the pillow. After precisely six seconds of slipping under the sheets and squirming into place, he settled and grew still as the dead.

  I bit the inside of my cheek, staring at his back. I thought long and hard, considering the friends I did have here on the street. I thought of Kelsey. I thought of Old Man, if I could even count him. I thought of a baker on the other side of town who was friendly and gave me the stale stuff they usually threw out. I thought of a female bartender at the Ebon Oasis who always smiled as I walked by her bar.

  Those were my friends.

  Those are who I’d leave behind.

  And then I thought of a million enemies. Some whose faces I knew. Most I didn’t. Enemies who would cut my throat in my sleep for the contents of my backpack.

  And the so-called shelters that were packed one end to the other with thieves, crack addicts, and rapists.

  All of that beautiful chaos, I’d also be leaving behind in the dust at my back.

  In exchange for my own bedroom.

  And a bathroom.

  In James’s house.

  Several minutes later, I had turned off my lamp and slipped under the sheets on my side of the bed. I turned to face James, still watching him, still wondering, still trying to picture a life in his home without even knowing what it looked like. His house could look literally like anything and it would be heaven.

  I was so fucking happy, I could cry.

  And I’m not a bitch who cries.

  “Hey,” I murmured to his back as the blue glow of the TV kept creeping over us and receding like ocean waves. “You awake?”

  He didn’t move a muscle, but answered at once. “Yeah.”

  I swallowed, still staring at him. My heart was beating so fast, it could pound a hole through the bed. “I just—”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks,” I said. “For the offer.” I licked my lips. They were so damned dry.

  He still didn’t stir when he spoke. “Of course, Lucky.”

/>   “It’s Lucas.”

  I couldn’t remember the last time I told someone my real name. James may never know the significance of that moment right then when I decided to give up my mask and trust my luck.

  It had gotten me that far, hadn’t it?

  After a brief pause, he murmured, “Goodnight, Lucas.”

  “Night, James.”

  And into the sea of glowing television light, we drifted off.

  Chapter 9

  JAMES

  I woke up in the middle of the night. Three in the morning, to be precise. My first thought was: Hey, half of the arcade is free-play for an hour now. Maybe I should wake Lucky.

  My next thought was: What’s that around my waist?

  When I shifted my head slightly, I realized there was breath on my neck. Slowly, it dawned on me whose breath it was and what, precisely, was around my waist.

  I froze. Each of his slow, steady breaths crashed over my neck. Tingles of ecstasy chased their way through my body, casting goosebumps down my arms. His face was buried into the back of my neck, nuzzled there like a puppy’s. His arm lay slung over my waist, loose and limp.

  Did he even know he was cuddling me? Did he think I was a big body pillow on the bed, forgetting that I had fallen asleep right next to him? It’s not like the bed was small and we had no room to spread out; we had more than plenty.

  The feel of him almost holding me made my heart explode.

  I couldn’t know if it was intentional or accidental.

  But I didn’t want it to end.

  I was terrified that any small movement of mine might make him stir awake and realize what he was doing. Not that I had any doubts that he was clearly either bi, gay, or just one of those loose straight guys who liked the adoration of gay men like me. In a way, it almost didn’t matter. I wasn’t into his sexuality.

  I was into the bond. The intimacy.

  The male closeness.

  The dependency and the fulfillment.

  The nearly microscopic smirk of approval I noticed on his face whenever I landed a decent joke.

  The gamble of odd circumstances that landed both of our dice into that bed, in that unlikely, beautiful moment.

  The way that whole weekend tied us together like two totally unmatched lengths of string. And the heart-fluttering feeling that, despite all our uncanny differences and oddities and rough edges, we somehow belonged tied together.

  I twisted my head ever so slightly—as far as I dared without stirring him—but still couldn’t get a look. The sheets were kicked off of our bodies, all bunched up in a pile near the end of the bed. Did we get too hot during the night? Did he kick them off, or did I?

  My eyes adjusted, and I could see the red shorts hugging his thighs. My shorts.

  Every breath he took was an ocean pulling back. Every breath he let out was a wave crashing in, its immaterial waters rushing over the sensitive skin of my neck.

  I closed my eyes.

  I had never known such a high as I felt right then. Nothing in all my thirty-cough-something years of life had made me feel as wanted, as loved, as complete as I did in that very moment.

  When I opened my eyes, I noticed a light coming from the nightstand on my side of the bed. I glanced over and realized it was my phone lighting up, likely from a message or notification.

  That’s when it hit me: I completely forgot to cancel my plans with Duncan, and I never called my mother back to re-re-cancel.

  Shit.

  I figured it wasn’t much of a stretch to grab my phone and text Duncan back. I also figured he could fucking wait, considering I was swimming in a sort of muscular sweaty heaven over here. The indecision led me to half-ass reach with my free arm, which was the one still bound in towels that were no longer warm, but damp and cumbersome.

  I reached.

  Lucky stirred.

  I settled my arm right back into place and froze.

  Lucky grunted once, his breathing interrupted. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, the arm he had slung over my waist tightened, pulling me against him even more. I felt every inch of the front of his firm body as it squeezed against my backside, a tight embrace, clinging to me, the hold of someone who did not want to let go.

  And that was when I noticed the brand new situation.

  Something stiff pressing against the material at my ass.

  Oh, my merciful, tormenting gods.

  His face remained buried at my neck, his slow breaths in and out returning, crashing over me. And I was inescapably glued to him as he clung on, spooning me with literally no wiggle room.

  Except for the throbbing boner in his loose shorts.

  I could feel it as it flexed, resting hard and proud against my gym-short-clad butt.

  Was he aware that he was flexing it in his sleep? Was he aware that it was throbbing?

  And that he just ground it against my ass?

  I had to believe he was asleep. There was no way he could be awake, willingly spearing my butt with his super-early-morning wood, and greedily clinging to me like his new toy. Otherwise, he was clearly an expert at the art of faking the long, deep breaths of a person adrift in a sea of dreams.

  Lucky had to be asleep.

  Lucas …

  I had almost forgotten he told me his real name right before we fell asleep.

  Not that I slept right away. I couldn’t. I was restlessly awake for a solid hour before I finally drifted off. And after getting barely an hour of sleep, I was wide awake again, thanks to Lucky and the polearm he had down there with which he was clearly and shamelessly stretching my shorts.

  I wondered if maybe I should ask him whether he preferred to be called Lucky or Lucas when he woke up.

  His cock flexed again, expectant, throbbing, and hard as iron.

  I clamped shut my eyes and swallowed.

  Fuck.

  Lucky’s grip on me was like a vice. I was locked in place with no chance of squirming free, not in his strong arms, not even if I needed to take a middle-of-the-night leak.

  Which was clearly what he had to do, considering the ferocity of that behemoth he had knocking on my basement door.

  Literally knocking.

  With every beat of his heart.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  Flex, flex, flex.

  Throb, throb, throb.

  I must have endured that mental torture for a solid fifteen minutes before he stirred again. My heart jerked excitedly as I felt him squirm a little, his boner rubbing against my ass as he shifted on the bed. The smooth material of our shorts made it very easy for his dick to slide around down there—and easier for my ass to feel every goddamned inch of it.

  His arm slid down lower, holding me at the hip instead of my waist, and then his body settled, relaxing, and his slow breaths returned.

  And now his hand was in my crotch.

  It didn’t take much, really. His hard monster cock was pressed unknowingly against my butt, now teasing between the cheeks after his adjustment, and his hand was resting firmly on my cock, which had begun its inescapable, irreversible journey toward total and complete erect, throbbing status.

  I could barely control my breathing. I felt like I was going to pass out. I had not had a hand that wasn’t my own touching me down there for years. And though it was the mindless hand of someone who was asleep, that someone happened to be a gorgeous young hunk at my back who I was trying not to be inappropriately, uncontrollably, irresistibly attracted to.

  Who was also clinging to me.

  And whose plush, perfect lips were basically kissing my neck as he breathed deeply in his sleep.

  I can’t believe this is happening.

  Then, as if my curious situation couldn’t get worse, my hard cock decided to involuntarily jump at the thought of his sexy lips.

  Which meant that he just felt it.

  If he was aware of anything at all.

  And a tiny part of me suspected he was.

  To my equal parts horror and unabashed pleasur
e, his hand responded. It stirred faintly—half a stroke—then stopped.

  I was doing everything I could to refrain from moving.

  And moaning.

  And begging for more.

  Then he gave me more. His clutch on my body tightened ever slightly without warning, and his hand moved yet again—another stroke, or a rub, but it was firmer.

  Without my permission, my cock flexed again, throbbing.

  I couldn’t help it. It was human fucking nature.

  And then his hips stirred, grinding against my ass. I heard his lips part as his breath turned jagged, yet he never lifted his head from the pillow or said a word.

  Holy shit. Was he dreaming something erotic? Have I somehow become the accidental object of his horny dreams?

  Or did he know exactly what he was doing to me?

  His fingers curled. My swollen cock was now property of his hand, even though the material of my shorts still stood in the way.

  Not that the material provided much barrier. These shorts of mine were so damned thin, he might as well have been humping my bare ass with his bare dick while gripping my cock directly, skin to skin, with his mighty, demanding fist.

  “Yeahhhh …” he groaned as he started to let all his uneven breaths out of his mouth.

  The word tickled my ear closest to his lips.

  The electric sensation that followed raced down my body like it was running away from a wildfire. Wow.

  I could have come right there if he was still moving his hand. I didn’t realize that I had opened my mouth as well, unable to get enough air through just my two tiny, inadequate nostrils.

  He began to hump my ass more aggressively.

  His hand gripped tighter, squeezing my dick powerfully.

  What the hell is he trying to do?

  Now I couldn’t help but writhe against Lucky’s body. I was too worked up. I was losing my mind from the way he took control of me and claimed whatever he wanted, even in his sleep. I couldn’t free myself from his tight grasp.

  And I didn’t want to.