by Jodi Payne
So for now Thomas’s plan was to keep Sam distracted during the holidays by giving him something—and someone—else to think about other than family and Texas. He would keep bringing Sam to the club for short, intense visits on Sundays, keep him curious, unsatisfied, make him hungry.
Dangle the kind of carrot Sam couldn’t resist reaching for.
Maybe it would work; maybe it wouldn’t. That was up to Sam.
He took his coffee into the living room and joined Sam on the couch. “More work? Aren’t you already six days a week?”
“I mean real work. Research. I am not going to be a bouncer until the end of time. This is rent until I can figure out how to make my freelance work enough.” The sudden flash of pride and passion burned the air.
Burned the air and burned in his own chest. Sam’s pride had become as important to him as his own. “I have confidence you can do that. I can see it in those complex hazel eyes of yours. Let me know if I can help. I do know some people in the field.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m going to pick your brain. This is harder than back home because fewer people need cowboy art specialists, but ninety-five percent of my jobs are electronic, so…I will make this work somehow, dammit. I’m not stupid, and I know how to put my nose to the grindstone.” Sam blinked, touched the tip of his nose. “That saying always makes me think ow.”
“Ow.” He chuckled. “Yes, I was going to suggest that it shouldn’t matter where you work. You can serve the same clients.” Sam just needed an office. One with fewer distractions than the back office at the bar. For instance, one in Thomas’s condo. He filed that thought and barely hid a grin. “You just need a good setup.”
“Yeah. I can do this. I swear to you.” The line of Sam’s jaw was sharp enough to shave with. Shave…
“You shaved your beard!”
Sam cackled happily. “I was wondering if anyone would notice.”
“You know when you know something is different about someone, but you just can’t quite put your finger on it? You look great. I prefer it. I can see your smile better. What made you decide to take it off?”
“The girls at the bar keep tugging on it. That seems real…personal to me. I didn’t like it.”
From what he understood from Angel, much of the staff had a reputation for getting personal. “That’s to be expected in a bar like that, especially if you’re the new adorable barback.” He winked and tried for a grin, but found himself wrestling again, this time with what he thought might be jealousy. It had to be.
Well. That’s a new one.
“Yeah, yeah. Adorable, that’s me.” Sam flexed playfully. “Small but mighty and able to fell drunk assholes with a single bound.”
Sam started laughing, the sound filling the air, just ringing out.
He started to laugh as well, because joy was rare these days and Sam’s was contagious. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Sam really laugh. Not like this. “You need a cape, ‘little Sammy.’ Oh…don’t look at me like that. Angel told me.”
“Yeah. I’m never going to get away from that. Good thing I don’t have short-man syndrome.” Sam actually kept a straight face for fifteen seconds or so; then they were howling with laughter again.
“Don’t let it get around the club. It’s been nearly ten years, and I still can’t live down Tommy. Ugh.” He lifted his coffee to take another sip but spilled it in another attack of the giggles. Right down the front of his shirt. “Oh, shit.”
He stood up, still chuckling, and set the cup down on the coffee table. “Damn. I’ll get something for the couch. Just let me…” He reached back and tugged his shirt off over his head. “Let me just deal with this before it stains.”
“Here, I’ll rinse you out.” Sam stood and reached for the shirt, missing altogether, hand landing on his belly.
Reflexively he covered Sam’s hand with his own and blinked. “Your hands are warm, cowboy.” Sam’s eyes were wide, and he could see every fleck of gold and brown in the green. Oh. This was a little close. Just…a little too close. “Not quite the washboard you’ve got.”
“You don’t know, do you? How fucking fine you are?” Sam shook his head a little, that scarred corner of his lips quirking up in a half smile. “I guess none of us know how we are in someone else’s eyes.”
He cupped a hand to Sam’s cheek, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Well, they can tell you, but that doesn’t mean you believe it.” He drew his thumb along Sam’s bottom lip. “How long should you hold on to a moment when you know your next move changes everything?”
“You cain’t. You got to nod your head and open the gate and ride.”
Open the gate. Thomas took a deep breath, gave Sam a nod, and kissed him gently, just a taste, as if they might both shatter if he moved too quickly.
Sam’s hand trembled on his belly, but only the barest bit, and Sam never looked away from him, didn’t hide from the connection, from the kiss. Hell, from him.
He needed that and let it guide him like a lighthouse in a storm. He never gave a thought to anything but Sam, but he knew what was brewing in him, and he knew eventually the wind would blow and the waves would crash over him and he’d need Sam to tell him this was okay.
He hooked an arm around Sam’s back, pulled him closer, and tangled his fingers into Sam’s hair. Sam responded by sliding those warm hands around his back and steadying them.
“I ain’t scared, honey.” The words brushed against his lips.
It’s your first rodeo, cowboy. You don’t know any better.
“I’m…terrified.” He kissed Sam again. “And hopeful. I know what I want. I just don’t know if I’m allowed to have it.”
“Don’t think I haven’t prayed on this, because I have. I’m not dishonoring anyone’s memory.” Sam kissed the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t hurt you for love or money, though.”
If he were a praying man, this might be a lot easier. He only had himself to answer to. “I don’t think being happy is a dishonor to anyone. I just need someone to tell me that’s the truth. There’s no…definitive text on this. You’re not hurting me. It just…hurts. And it doesn’t. It’s confusing.”
Sam nodded and kissed him once again, the caress gentle enough that it made him ache. “I got your back, honey. I got all the time in the world.”
He shook his head. “You don’t, though. The only thing we know we have is today.” He’d learned that lesson, right? He wasn’t going to rush, but he wasn’t going to hesitate either. “So far today is making me happy.”
“I can handle happy.”
He chuckled. “Me too. Can you handle coffee stains, though? Do you mind stopping by my place on the way to the club so I can change? I might even have something you can borrow to show off your washboard.”
Somehow Sam had found just the right thing to say. He didn’t feel like he was going to fall apart at all, and if he did, he wasn’t worried. It was the strangest feeling, knowing he’d be okay. Sam had his back.
“I’d love to see your place. I got stain stuff, though, just to save the shirt. I’m like the laundry king.” Sam took his shirt and headed to the bathroom.
Something about Sam taking care of his shirt for him brought that itch into his fingers and made him grin.
Then he realized he was freezing. He snagged Sam’s blanket off the back of the couch and tucked it around his shoulders. Did the thermostat really say forty degrees? Surely Sam knew how to turn the heat up. Surely. But how do you ask that question without being insulting? Maybe it was down to finances again. “You know your heat is set at forty, right?”
“Yessir. That’ll keep shit from freezing in the house, and I’m never here anymore except to sleep. Hold up.” There was a rustle, and Sam appeared with a gigantic sweater with a moose fucking a unicorn on the front. “It’s ugly, but it’s warm.”
“If you tell one single living, breathing soul, I will have your balls in a vise. I’ll show it to you at the club tonight if you require proof.” He’d rather stay wrappe
d up in the blanket, though. It smelled like Sam.
“Shit, I sleep in it. The damn thing goes down to my knees. Your secret is safe with me.”
The only thing weirder about pulling on that sweater was that someone named “Daddy Mike” actually wore it first. “It is pretty warm, you’re right, but…Jesus. How big is this guy? Look at the sleeves on this thing!”
“Daddy Mike? He’s a monster. I swear to God, man. Four hundred pounds, six-six—he’s like a slab of meat. He smacks me on the shoulder every night and I think I’m fixin’ to fly out the door, and he’s not being an ass! He’s just saying ‘Hi, let me remind you I could kill you with one hand.’ ”
Mother of God. “Tell me again about that plan to get more research work?”
“No shit, huh? Worse? Darla’s the mean one. She’s fierce. She’s the one that lets me work in the office in exchange for sitting near the door while she’s doing the money. She’s been messed up a couple times, and it’s my job to get in the way of that mess for internet access.” Sam held up his shirt, staring at it, then nodding. “I looked into getting a carry permit, but damn.”
“Yeah, New York isn’t Texas. Besides, it sounds to me like she’s the type to have one of her own.”
And there was his opening.
“Why don’t you use my home office? You could use it while I’m at work, or I’m up at five to go to the gym.”
“Oh…that would be…would I be imposing? Because I don’t want to be a bother, but—” Sam stopped himself, rolled his eyes, and breathed. “I think we might could talk about that, yeah.”
He curled his fingers into Sam’s shirt and tugged him into another kiss, laughing against Sam’s lips. “I think we should. You won’t be imposing. Think of yourself as a guard dog.”
“Woof. Be good or I’ll take a picture of you in my nightgown.” Sam’s eyes were lit up, joyous, bright and so clear.
“Balls. In. A. Vise. It has teeth, did I mention? And a lock.” He let Sam go but stayed close, soaking in that sunshine.
“You’re shitting me. Teeth and balls are not intended to be in the same sentence, much less vise.”
“Rather like unicorns and Thomas don’t go together either.” He stepped away and started folding up the blanket. “Can you hang that up for me? I’ll come get it later. We should probably move along since we’re headed to my place first. Oh! You can see the office and tell me what you think. I’ll call an Uber. I’m not getting on the subway again with that pie.” Or in this ridiculous sweater.
Whoa. Diarrhea of the mouth. How very odd.
“Thomas, are you sure this is okay?”
They were almost at the club, and they had the pie and the rolls and some hummus and crackers because somebody had texted Thomas.
Sam had decided he was going to have fun, dammit. No drama, no psycho family shit. Just a bunch of folks giving thanks.
This shirt, though.
Jesus.
Thomas had offered it to him—a fitted black sweater that left nothing to the imagination, up to and including where his nipples were and every single ridge of his six-pack.
“It’s perfect. You’re walking in on my arm, aren’t you? You think I’d let you look like a fool?” Thomas grinned at him, gave his knee a squeeze.
He looked at that hand on his leg, sitting there like it belonged.
Something inside him had…not broken, but shifted, slid the night of his initiation to the club. He’d paid James in flesh. He’d paid for deciding to stay. He’d let himself be taken down until he couldn’t stand back up. He’d given what all he was fixin’ to in penance, and he was done now. He was here, and he was going to keep on staying on.
“This is us,” Thomas told the driver, then got out of the car and held the door. “You’re going to love this, such good company.”
“I’m ready.” A little nervous but nothing more than facing anything new warranted.
Thomas actually did offer his arm. “Hey, breathe a little. Everyone is well aware that James is missing from the table. We’ll be well looked after. Maybe too well, you know what I mean?” He winked.
Personally he didn’t think James would be missing this year. Sam had missed his brothers at the Thanksgiving table for a long time. This year in this place, though, Sam had no doubt James would be present, even more present than he was. He could live with it. He didn’t think Thomas cared to hear any of that, but it eased him. “I reckon, yessir.”
They made their way inside. Men were milling around, talking and laughing. There was music, but it sounded like cocktail-party fare, not the usual thump-thump. There was no club lighting, no bartender, no host. Most remarkably, though, no one that he could see was in leather, and almost no one was kneeling.
“Thomas!” A red-haired man in jeans and a gray sweater greeted them almost immediately, someone Sam hadn’t seen before.
“Bill. Good to see you. Happy Thanksgiving.”
Bill hugged Thomas and smiled at Sam. “How are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Bill, this is Sam O’Reilly.”
“Sam…O’Reilly. It’s good to meet you.” Bill offered his hand and a slightly confused but genuine smile.
“Thank you, sir. Pleased to meet you.” He dipped his chin, acknowledging the weird. “I’m James’s little brother.”
It was ironic—at home he was always trying to make up for the fact that the others weren’t there, and he was going to play that role here, he bet. Hell, right now that was what he was for Thomas, and he was just going to have to work until he was more than a stand-in for someone everyone really wished was there.
“Should have known. It’s in the eyes. So sorry. But I’m sure you’ve heard plenty of that. You guys want to put your food down?”
“That would be great.”
“So the dinner stuff can go right on the buffet table, the munchies on the bar.”
“Got it. Thanks, Bill.”
“I’ll let you two get settled. Welcome to the club, Sam.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate it.” He set the rolls down where it looked like the rest of the bread went before dropping off hummus—which seriously, what the actual fuck was that? Bean mayonnaise? Who ate bean mayonnaise?—and the crackers.
The smaller tables had been pushed together to seat eight or ten and spread out around the room and over the dance floor. Along the far wall was an enormously long table with a space in the center that had to be for turkey, and covered dishes of all kinds spread out on either side.
Thomas leaned close to his ear. “I’m going to go set this pie down and hang up my coat. Can I take yours?”
“Surely.” He was kinda hiding in it, though. “I’ll come with you.”
Thomas led him along the table. “Ah. There. That looks like a bunch of sweet stuff.” The pie sat nicely among what looked like lemon bars, a couple of pumpkin pies, and a huge tray of cookies.
“Lots of new faces, right? They’re harder to recognize without the leather and the leashes.” Thomas grinned at him and took his hand. “The first year I did this, Clint had me try to guess which of them were the Doms and which the subs. It was impossible.”
“Yeah? It’s easy to tell what rodeo people do, but that’s a sport, huh? You know who the running back is versus the tackle in football. This is more a game than a sport?” He handed over his jacket and his hat, feeling pretty near naked, but you couldn’t wear cover at the Thanksgiving table.
“It’s not a game. It’s important.” Thomas’s tone wasn’t stern or defensive, but Sam knew the man was serious.
“That’s not what I meant. It is, but—I meant chess doesn’t rest on whether you’re built a certain way. Or poker. Heavy guys don’t ride bulls. Tiny guys don’t bulldog. A certain kind of mind plays chess. I don’t have the lingo for what I mean, but I wasn’t being glib.” This part was getting easier—they seemed to be learning each other’s language.
“Oh, I see. Yes. It doesn’t seem to matter how you’re built. Needs and des
ires aren’t governed by size and shape, gender, any of those conventions that are characteristic of a sport.”
Thomas led him over to a taller set of tables that had bottles of wine on them and coolers of beer and bottled soft drinks underneath.
“I guess that’s why we call it a lifestyle. But actually, you’re partly right when you call it a game. It does have rules. There are certain traditions and rituals.”
He nodded. Exactly. “That I understand—that’s a huge amount of Western culture, especially when you start getting into tribal artwork, because it’s still very much a living thing. Cowboy art looks backward, there’s a longing for before, but…” Sam stopped. “Sorry. I get going and I can bore the world.”
“Why do you assume you’re boring me? I know very little about cowboy culture and practically nothing about cowboy art. I majored in art history as an undergrad before I got my MBA. Western just wasn’t on my radar. We have this art-geek thing in common, right? I’m interested. You’re interesting.” Thomas smiled at him. “Wine, beer?”
“I think I’ll go with a beer today.” He grinned, warm in the pit of his belly.
“I can’t begin to guess, so go ahead and hunt around.” Thomas stepped out of the way so he could get to the coolers, and picked out an already open bottle of wine.
“Hey! Is that the same boy that tried to pass out on my bike last weekend?”
“Hello, Angel. Wine?”
Angel looked at Thomas. “Get serious. What are you drinking, cowboy? Grab me one.”
“Yessir.” He found two bottles of Dos Equis and stood, then popped the top of Angel’s and handed it over before opening his own. “And I didn’t fall off, did I? I owe you a drink or five, next time you come into Mike’s.”
He didn’t know what he would have done that night without Angel. Not gotten home, that was for sure.
“You did not fall off. Not only that, but you hauled your own ass up the stairs to your apartment even though you couldn’t tell me your name, or mine. Cheers to you, little Sammy.” Angel held up his beer.