The Rare Event

by P D Singer

  He was still sucking up, even if it was punctuated with a moment of honesty. “Yeah, it is. But there’s more than one reason to go.” Ricky was a lot more concerned about what the mysterious Davis might want to cram into Jon. “And I might see Derek Jeter hit a homer.” He’d pulled the name out of thin air, hoping he’d picked a New York player through subconscious familiarity. Logan didn’t contradict him, so either he’d gotten it right or Logan didn’t know, or more likely, didn’t care.

  “Have fun.” Doubt filled Logan’s wish, doubt that Ricky shared.

  Pulling a gym bag out of the corner, Ricky shut the door and swapped his dress slacks for a pair of jeans. He debated changing into the T-shirt versus leaving the dress shirt, then tucked in his tails, remembering how much Jon liked the look of an open shirt and the edges caressing skin. In this early September game, the heat shouldn’t be too bad. He could hope. Shoving everything, including some supplies that he would do his best to get Jon to share, into his pockets, Ricky opened the door and waited to see who would try to enter Jon’s office.

  “What if I had sex with other people?” Jon had asked.

  “That’s not who you are,” Ricky’d replied, knowing beyond doubt that Jon didn’t do random or strangers. But this Davis was neither random nor a stranger.

  Ricky looked at his watch, irritated that the expensive timepiece didn’t make his wait go faster, and glared again at Jon’s door. It stubbornly remained closed, opening only to emit Dwight and an armload of papers. The analyst paused at his own desk in the main trading area, and started to stack his papers after turning the silent Bloomberg terminal on.

  Maybe Jon was changing in there, just as he had? Maybe he could catch Jon with his trousers off for some over-the-desk entertainment? Make sure Jon’s mind was on Ricky?

  Few people who didn’t work for Wolfe Gorman or do business with the firm ever came to the office: strangers were a rarity. Anyone who walks in is probably Davis, whoa….

  This guy, a tall blond with wavy hair tickling the collar of his blue polo shirt, had to be him. Any artist would be delighted with the cheekbones and the straight brows, the clean lines of jaw and chin, the eyes blue enough to be seen from here. He clipped shut the cell phone he’d been holding to one ear, and Jon, now in jeans, T-shirt, and boat shoes without socks, came out and locked his door.

  Ricky was going to kill the bastard if Jon greeted him with a kiss.

  No kiss, just friendly chat. Ricky willed his blood pressure down and ambled out. “Hey, you must be Davis?” He stuck his hand out to the stranger, who shook it. Jon took over the introductions before Ricky could get his next line out.

  “Davis Willingham, Ricky Santeramo, who will not be joining us tonight.”

  Ricky refused to see the meaningful look that went with the disclaimer. “That meeting was rescheduled, Jon, I can come after all!” Turning conspiratorial eyes to Davis, he confided, “Some people do not look at the Yankees’ schedule before setting dates for fundraiser meetings, you know?” It was a Yankees game and not a Mets game? He struggled to recall the words that had filtered through the haze of his shock yesterday.

  “Which fundraiser?” Davis asked.

  Good, he was buying it! Now, if Ricky’d only thought his entire story out, he’d have a charity to name. If he lied more often, he’d be better at it.

  “Uh, Friends of the Opera.” It sounded reasonable, and he kept the question mark off the end of the sentence.

  Too reasonable. “I don’t think anyone gave Jon’s mother that message. I hope she doesn’t make the trip for no reason.” Davis was all concern.

  Oh damn, that’s why it sounded reasonable. Jessica belonged to that group. Jon had teased him with it last week. “Erm, I’m not on her subcommittee.” That much was the truth. “Anyway, shall we go?”

  Jon wasn’t playing along, though. “Ricky, you hate opera almost as much as you hate baseball.”

  Some truth Ricky could agree with. “Yes, I do! And if we don’t catch that train, we’re going to miss the opening pitch. Come on!” There was no way that he was going to let Jon spend the evening alone with this gorgeous man, old friend or no, baseball-going crowd or no. A crowd wasn’t a deterrent for the determined—no one knew that better than Ricky.

  “Guess we’d better get moving, huh, Jon?” Davis wasn’t objecting out loud to Ricky joining them, but the way he stood so close to Jon looked damned possessive. Jon didn’t step away—there would be some unsubtle torment for him this evening, oh yes, there would be. Ricky ignored the small voice that reminded him that’s what Jon had predicted.

  “Oh, sure, we’d better; it’s going to be a forty-five minute train ride at the least. Let’s go.” Jon started forward, at last—okay, Ricky would have to suck it up and enjoy the game as best he could, because Jon’s grin said, “You won’t last three innings.”

  THE three men joined the throngs of workers exiting the big offices in the financial district, surging toward the subway station. Jon made sure he had the middle position, keeping Ricky away from Davis.

  “Have you ridden the subway much, Davis?” Ricky asked, and Jon couldn’t decide if that was small talk or the beginning of a flirtation. He’d let it ride for now, because however unwelcome Ricky was this evening, his presence would create his own punishment. Starting with a rush-hour train north into the Bronx.

  “Not much—I’ve gotten good at hailing cabs, but it’s getting a bit expensive.” Davis glanced across the other two to the street clogged with yellow vehicles interspersed only rarely with passenger cars and more than a few limousines.

  “You can go through a pocket full of fives and tens pretty fast that way,” Ricky advised him. “We’ll teach you the New Yorker’s way of getting around. A lot of walking, a lot of subways. Buses are an invitation to a long wait.”

  That was rich—what’s this ‘we’?

  They descended the steep escalator into the bowels of the earth and pushed through the turnstiles toward the trains, joining a wall of people waiting for the next train. “Don’t get separated from us, Davis.” Ricky could fend for himself just fine, but Jon worried about his less experienced friend. “Even if we have to squish. People are used to that. Be prepared to stand the entire length of Manhattan. The train will get fuller before it gets emptier.”

  “And this is the tail end of rush hour,” Ricky added. “It was a lot worse half an hour ago.”

  Squishing wasn’t required, though they did have to stand. Jon maintained his buffer position between his companions, and with each stop, they did have to inch a bit closer. Before they reached Grand Central Station, Jon was nearly touching Davis on one side and Ricky was getting very close on the other. Jon could free up a little more space if he turned, but should he turn his back to Davis or Ricky? Ricky would take advantage, but Davis wouldn’t. Another surge of people into the already packed car made Jon’s mind up. He turned his back to Davis and squished.

  Ricky staggered into Jon, propelled by the crowd, and there wasn’t an extra inch left in the car. There might have been a centimeter had Ricky turned either to face Jon or away from him, but then again, that might have only been Ricky’s chance to rub his ass against Jon’s groin. With his shoulder against Jon’s chest, that—put his hand at Jon’s groin.

  Damn it! Ricky knew where his hand was and twisted slowly, never changing his face but working his fingers against denim and zipper, offering no clue to his activity with his expression. Responding was inevitable—hardening against Ricky’s hand as he had done with every other touch, Jon couldn’t escape, nor could he say anything without alerting Davis. Backing up wasn’t possible—that would send Jon from brushing against him to plastering against him, and that Jon would not do. “Stop it,” he muttered, but either Ricky didn’t hear or wasn’t listening, and his questing fingers worked around the contours of Jon’s cock.

  “Stop it,” he hissed again, not wanting to say it loudly enough to carry over the ambient noise that was killing conversation, bu
t Ricky continued playing with Jon’s growing erection. The delicious torment took Jon’s mind from the humanity-scented subway car, warm with too many exhalations from too many bodies. Ricky kept on stroking with tiny movements that wouldn’t show as far up as his shoulder.

  Should he relax and enjoy it? Should he snarl outright and taint the evening? Or—Jon wormed his hand to his front, unwilling to hint to the straight man behind him that there was a bit of clandestine groping going on. Intercepting Ricky’s fingers somewhere around 86th Street, Jon used his own hand as a barrier. Ricky’s face gave no clue that he felt thwarted in his endeavors, and his fingers curled between and around Jon’s.

  Jon tried to swallow back the lump in his throat. Kevin’s harsh words came back to him: a regular squeeze for when he doesn’t feel like hunting. And now Ricky had the game brought to him. Jon had made it so easy.

  But he didn’t let go of Ricky’s hand.

  Unless—Jon didn’t quite understand how, given that Ricky knew him so well—did Ricky think this was a date? Did he, who didn’t think twice about sex with nameless men, think faithful Jon was stepping out? That turned everything a different shade of strange.

  The tiny smile with the hint of wickedness that accompanied the squeeze of fingers was only to take Jon’s attention away from Davis. Unless it was meant for Davis, and Jon wasn’t entirely sure it wasn’t.

  The train lurched to a stop with a squeal and a hiss, the doors screeching open to let all the baseball fans out at the 161st Street station, across from the stadium. The mass of fans surged out, pushing Davis against Jon, making him appreciate his decision to give Davis the space. Davis would have been horribly embarrassed had Jon bumped against him earlier. There was no mistaking: Jon knew exactly what he was feeling at his rear. Fifteen years ago he would have razzed Davis unmercifully, but now he’d let it go quietly. The whole world didn’t have to know that Davis was hard.

  Chapter Eleven

  “THESE are really good seats, Jon.” Davis took the seat third from the end of the row. Had they wanted to throw something, it could have landed on third base. The foul pole didn’t obstruct their view of home plate.

  “One of my dad’s clients sent them over.” Jon put a hand on Ricky’s shoulder and slid around him. “You want the aisle for your legs, don’t you, Ricky?”

  No, not really. What Ricky wanted was a chance to ask Davis a couple of questions that Jon couldn’t hear, but this little barnyard dance Jon was doing put paid to that. What did he think Ricky was going to do? Punch the guy in front of the whole stadium? Or did he just not want Ricky asking certain questions? Or did he yearn to keep Davis from asking any questions of his own?

  Ricky’s seething grew when he discovered the armrests couldn’t be put out of the way for thigh contact and some real action. Taking his cue from the crowd, Ricky tried not to blow his baseball-loving cover, applauding, screaming, and even understanding some of what he was watching when the Yankees scored twice in the first inning. Maybe this wouldn’t be fifteen minutes of excitement crammed into two hours.

  Maybe the good luck wouldn’t last. The conversation next to him was gibberish—Davis was blatting on about RBIs and ERAs, and Jon replied in the same alien tongue, interspersed with numbers. Nodding agreeably was Ricky’s sole contribution to the chat. He’d gone to one game with his father some twenty-five years ago, but never again: eight-year-old Ricky couldn’t sit still, and it became six innings of misery before his dad dragged him out of the stadium, scowling. Grown-up Ricky had more motivation and a program that might explain what was going on.

  Great. Rows and columns of figures for each name, and how many did each team have? Numbers in tables had meaning for Ricky—he could decipher it. There being little reason to leap from his seat and shout nonsensical encouragement for the figures on the field for some time, Ricky began to think he might have been wrong, and he’d seen the entire action for the evening, but at least he was starting to identify some trends in the stats here.

  He’d eaten a hot dog, not a meal he would have chosen for himself, but this was a ballpark and if Ricky was in Rome, he’d shoot the Roman candles. The beer, uh, no. Nasty stuff, worse than the swill Kip had cleared away untasted at the club. One mouthful and Ricky knew he was stuck with something he couldn’t finish; soda would have been a better choice and at least a wet reward for having stood in line to buy it. Jon didn’t seem to mind the flavor; his was disappearing.

  Good could come of this—Ricky held his cup and waited his chance.

  It came in the third inning. Some highly paid athlete in navy pinstriped pantaloons succeeded in hitting the ball and getting partway around the diamond, and the entire crowd tensed. Jon leaned forward in his seat, eyes forward, and both his and Ricky’s concentration were rewarded. Highly paid athlete number two slammed the ball into the outfield, and both Jon and Davis were on their feet, cheering. So was Ricky, but not before he’d poured part of his beer into Jon’s unguarded cup.

  “Yes! Three-zero!” Davis exulted, and Jon joined him in a toast, clinking his cup against Davis’s and then Ricky’s. Ricky touched the plastic to his lips without swallowing, and waited for his next opportunity, which should come soon; Jon had taken a fairly substantial swig.

  The teams swapped places again to the loudspeaker commentary, barely distinguishable, of who was batting, who was pitching, and his companions’ remarks.

  The innings were at least short, three batters and swap, which was great with Ricky. He was getting tired of columns with headers that had no meaning to him, and not enough was going on down on the field to keep him engaged. Conversation with Jon was out of the question—once he’d plopped his butt in that seat, he was all baseball all the time, and Davis was just as bad, no joy there, even if he’d been willing to talk over Jon. Ricky gazed out over the beautifully manicured grass complete with stripes mown in, thinking that he’d managed four innings without a single derogatory comment about the team golf played out before them. He hadn’t even remarked when one of the outfielders adjusted his crotch repeatedly, though it was the best part of the game so far.

  The lunatics in the bleachers beyond the right outfield at least provided something to watch and listen to beyond the slow-motion on the field. Screaming, chanting, dancing, waving, it all had a planned look about it.

  “What’s with them?” Ricky nudged Jon.

  “The Bleacher Creatures. They consider themselves part of the entertainment. I don’t think the visiting right fielders are particularly entertained, though.”

  No, probably not. Having to play baseball and listen to the heckling—Ricky spent a moment of pity on the right fielders. If his pop had bought seats in a section like that, Ricky might have become a real fan.

  Finally, some excitement in the fifth inning to enliven the evening—the Royals came to bat again, armed with the sort of attitude Ricky could understand. Crack and running, and Ricky took up his beer again, alert to possibilities. The next batter up did the same thing, running two bases this time, and oh good, Jon was taking some big gulps out of his cup. The tension must be getting to him—he put the cup down when the next batter approached the plate. A collective moan from some fifty thousand throats when the next batter connected as well, a feat that Ricky, with his knowledge of statistics and recent observations, understood to be an unusual thing.

  The moan was louder yet for the next batter, who sent everyone scurrying when he, too, connected and sent the ball so far into the grass that the first two runners scored before the ball got back near the bases. Jon looked to be in actual pain when it happened again; some Royal batter drove another two runners home, and the scoreboard flashed 3-4.

  Ricky used the moment Jon covered his eyes in sorrow to tip some more beer into his cup. It would dull the pain of a loss, Ricky reasoned, and Jon needed it even more when the fifth batter in a row drove the ball to the outfield and a runner into home plate.

  “Five hits and five runs. Good Lord.” Davis commiserated with Jon.r />
  “The rare event happened?” Ricky had to twit about the wrong thing because Jon turned to scold him.

  “Yes, thus proving my point. It happens, and it can be disastrous.” Ricky’d take the scolding meekly, because Jon punctuated it by draining his beer. He’d tipped the cup completely upside down, so Ricky decided against slipping the last two or three ounces Jon’s way. He’d transferred enough to accomplish his immediate goal.

  “Disastrous seems a bit extreme. The game is only half over.” Ricky took a pretend sip of his beer, more for the power of suggestion than a taste. He sloshed the fluid in the cup, hoping to increase the discomfort that Jon would be feeling any minute now.

  “I’d wanted to wait for the seventh-inning stretch, but I don’t think that would be a good idea.” Jon looked around at the packed stadium. “Everyone else is going to have the same idea. You want to come with me, Ricky?”

  And be deprived of the chance to talk to Davis alone? “No, not bad enough to risk the restrooms here.” Ricky innocently sloshed the beer again—Jon’s eyes weren’t bulging yet.

  “Davis?”

  Ricky hadn’t counted on the state of Davis’s need, but he’d only had about half the liquid Jon had gotten.

  “I’m good. You go.”

  “Davis.” There was a definite air of appeal in Jon’s voice.

  “You’re a big boy now, Jonny.” Ricky grinned over the cup he touched to his lips. No liquid had actually entered his mouth since the first inning, and if he was going to get up, it would be in search of a soda. “You can go all by yourself!”

  That happy bright tone might make Jon’s head explode before his bladder. He looked downright suspicious but slid down the row when Ricky stood to let him pass.

  “Have any condoms?” he whispered on his way past.

  “To use in these bathrooms?” Ricky whispered back, startled by the request from Mr. Never-in-the-Backroom. “That’s disgusting.” He could have said yes, but there was no way he’d actually do anything here, and if Jon planned to dump his fastidiousness for Davis, Ricky wouldn’t make it easy.