Oh, fucking hell. Ethan took a deeper drink of water. “I honestly don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll wear you down.” Billy made a face. “Shit, you aren’t a fag, are you? He banging you?”
Ethan had never had anyone be so casually bigoted to his face and in front of a tableful of people to boot. “I’m not banging Crabtree, nor he me.”
Billy’s eyes narrowed. “Say. I know you from somewhere. The fag thing made me think of it.” His eyes widened, and then he laughed and slapped his leg. “You’re Jansen’s roulette guy.” He addressed the table again. “Hey—this is the guy. The one with the bet! The one who made Randy lose his bet twice. I love this guy.”
Ethan felt for Billy when he saw how not a single person at the table, despite their enthusiasm for following him around and joining him for lunch, showed interest in anything he said. Even more depressing was Billy didn’t seem to realize no one here cared about him at all.
Then Billy started talking again, and Ethan quickly lost his empathy.
“Wait. Jansen made another bet to kiss you, and Scully said you didn’t freak out. So you are a fag.”
Ethan had borne quite enough of this. “I assure you, I’m happy to leave if my orientation offends you.”
Billy rolled his eyes. “Jesus, fags are so touchy. Hey, I’m no bigot. I’m starting Gay Nite in three weeks. Seriously. Gay Nite at the casino. All you rich gay guys can come and spend your money, and I’ll have all the hot twinkies or whatever.” His grin became a leer. “And Randy will be one of them, thanks to you.”
“What do I have to do with this?”
“Because he lost the bet. Those were the terms—either I gave him the twinkie of his choice if he won, or he had to be one of them if he lost.” Billy slapped Ethan on the back then froze in alarm. “Hey, but I’m not a fag.”
“Don’t worry, you’re quite safe.” He started to reach for his water, then gave up and reached for the martini instead.
The first course was already laid before them, and Ethan tried to take refuge in his salad. It was, as Crabtree had suggested, quite good.
“That’s so weird,” Billy went on, between bites of salad, and sometimes during. “I never thought Crabtree would keep a secret from Randy. I mean—” He looked knowingly at Ethan. “They fuck.”
Ethan set his teeth and took several breaths before reclaiming the bite of salad Billy had loosened and said, “I know.”
“But Randy didn’t know who you were. I can totally read people, and I know he didn’t know you. Which means you’re Crabtree’s secret investment broker.”
Ethan stared at the fork, wondering what it would feel like to drive it into the center of Crabtree’s chest. Or maybe the center of his forehead.
Billy laughed wickedly. “Oh yes. I so have him now. Come on, buddy. What do you want? A million? Two?”
Ethan choked on his salad. A million dollars?
What sort of hell could he get into in a nest of gangsters for a million dollars?
How about two?
Ethan drained the rest of his martini.
“Look, I honestly can’t go over five,” Billy said. “Though the casino must be doing better than I thought, because this morning I checked my accounts, and I was sitting on quite a pile. Still, it’s not that much more. And honestly, you can’t be that good.”
Ethan wiped his napkin across his mouth with a shaking hand. “I assure you, I’m not.”
“Come on, man—what the fuck do you want?”
This was insane. He should never have agreed to come to the casino. He should have left Salomé in the office, and then Crabtree would be here to straighten this out. Except Crabtree was clearly behind all this.
A lesson in manipulation.
Ethan tightened his jaw. Fine. He’d play the cards Crabtree had given him, and then he’d be gone.
“All right, I’ll tell you what I know. Crabtree has some investor lined up to buy the casino.”
Billy was visibly pissed. “He can’t do that. It’s mine.”
“Yes, I know.” Ethan decided the only way out of this was to throw Crabtree totally under the bus. “He wants to build up the assets and invest them properly, to maximize the profit. Because—”
But Billy interrupted him. “Because he controls the income. The bastard. And then he’ll come to me and tell me I have to sell for a song, and screw me out of my goddamned money when he resells for twice the amount.”
Ethan frowned. “That’s not—”
“Oh—three times, then? The fucker.” Billy snapped his fingers, and another martini materialized out of nowhere. To Ethan’s shock, he presented it to Ethan. “Here. Drink up. I want to hear all about this.”
“There isn’t anything else to tell, and none of this matters because I’m turning him down.” Right after I wring his goddamned neck.
“Oh no you aren’t.” Billy pressed the glass into Ethan’s hand. “Drink. Eat. Order whatever you want, because it’s on me. In fact, you’re never paying for a drink again in this place, and you get a thousand-dollar tray of chips anytime you like. You’re my man—” He paused. “What’s your name?”
Oh, Jesus fucking God. “Ethan Ellison, but I don’t—”
“You’re my man, Ethan Ellison. My man.” He grinned manically and toasted the glass he’d forced into Ethan’s hand with his own. “And together we are going to take the old bastard down.” He waved to the sunglasses man. “Arnie. Hey, Arnie, get this guy’s bank account number and put a million in it for me.”
Ethan was going to throw up. “Mr. Herod, you don’t understand.”
“Account number, Ellison,” Billy demanded, then grinned, a four-year-old looking thoroughly pleased at having climbed onto the counter.
“I don’t have one.”
“Open my man Ethan an account, Arnie.” Billy looked down at Ethan in alarm. “But you’re not my man like that. Okay?”
Ethan didn’t answer, just tossed back the martini, then gestured at the waiter for another, thinking if he drank enough of them fast enough, he might save the mob the trouble and kill himself then and there.
Chapter Eleven
IT HADN’T BEEN one of Randy’s favorite days.
He’d meant to go in to work for a few hours, go home in time to shower, pick up Slick, and shake him out of whatever fuckery Crabtree had gotten away with. Then the rig he’d been working on had not just caught on fire, it had practically blown up, and of course it was a high-priority load to San Bernardino, and after two hours of trying to jerry-rig something, they’d given up and had Mitch do the run. Mitch had made the decision not to tell Sam, which Randy thought was not the best of plans, but he was too busy calling all over Vegas for parts on another rig that had to leave for Reno by seven p.m. He managed it, just, and a half hour after Mitch had gone back to the house, Randy was on his bike and heading there himself.
It was five thirty, and Slick was not home yet. He tried asking Sam what the hell was going on, but Sam was too busy shouting at Mitch for going to San Bernardino without telling him, and Mitch shouted at Sam because, apparently, Slick had taken him out to learn how to drive the truck. That had sent Randy straight out to the garage and under the hood, but no, the transmission was fine. Which was damn lucky for Slick, and he was still going to give him a piece of his mind.
If he ever fucking showed up.
He paced in front of the house for a few minutes, sweating in the late-afternoon heat, trying to decide if he should run over there now, grease and all, or if he should shower first. He’d decided to go as is when Ethan’s car and a sleek black Audi pulled up.
Ethan wasn’t driving. One of Crabtree’s goons had apparently hot-wired it, because the keys were on his dresser along with Slick’s ring. Ethan’s Mazda was empty except for the driver, but as the Audi parked alongside it, three bruisers got out. While one of them went around to the trunk, the other two assisted Ethan as he appeared from the backseat. He was visibly, fa
ntastically drunk.
He also held a kitten.
Ethan waved before pitching sideways against the car. The goon who’d pulled him out righted him. Ethan laughed and waved again. “Hi, Randy.”
“Hey, Slick,” Randy said carefully. The thug from the trunk came forward with a litter box and a cloth shopping bag, which Randy knew without being told held cat food and a set of dishes. “Oh fuck.”
Ethan sobered—his expression, anyway—and tried to walk toward Randy. “Don’t be angry. I can explain.” His words were so slurred he almost used three whole consonants.
A small, hot fire burned in the back of Randy’s brain, one he’d continue banking until he learned the extent of how fucked this was. Once he’d sorted that out, he’d bloody Crabtree to whatever degree was appropriate. He took the kitten from Ethan. “Baby, I think you’d better let me take him just for now.”
“Her.” Ethan tried to reclaim the cat but missed. “Her name is Salomé. And she’s a girl.” Ethan swayed again, giving his supporting goon an irritated glance. “You can quit holding me. I can stand up by myself.”
“Slick, honey?” Randy winced as the cat nested against his T-shirt. “Why exactly did you bring home a cat?”
Ethan’s expression turned ferocious. “Because she was not going to the shelter. I don’t…” he paused as the alcohol temporarily washed over the speaking portion of his brain, “…care how nice it is. She can’t go back there.”
So far Randy knew Crabtree was going to die by stabbing, but now he thought he should do it with several small blades that hurt more than they killed. Some fingernail removal would absolutely be in order.
“Baby, she wouldn’t go to a shelter. Crabtree would never take a cat to a shelter. He’d take her home.”
Ethan appeared like he might cry. “He can’t, Randy. They’ll kill her.”
Probably some toenails too. “Slick, sweetheart—Crabtree has about thirty cats at his house. They have a fucking jungle gym in the yard that they can get to from a tube in the window.”
“But Crabtree said—” Ethan stopped, and the dim, drunken edge of awareness was a knife to Randy.
I’m sorry, baby. I should have known what he would do, should have known how he would try to get you, and how susceptible you would be. I should have known better. I should never have let you go there.
Ethan looked sick now. “He—You mean he—”
“Lied. Tricked you. Manipulated you.”
Ethan, already fragile as glass, looked as if one more tap would make him break into shards right there in the middle of the driveway.
Randy swallowed his fury and turned to the goons, who stood silently awaiting instruction. “Leave the stuff in the garage and get the fuck out of here.” He slid his free arm around Ethan and aimed him at the house. “Come on, baby. It’s hot. Let’s go inside.”
Ethan shook, unable to walk on his own. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay, Slick. It’s okay.” He caught the despair on Ethan’s face and bled for him all over again. “Hey.” He brushed a kiss over Ethan’s cheek. “Baby, it’s okay.”
“It’s not.” Ethan stumbled as he missed the step, nearly dragging Randy and the irritated kitten down with him. “Oh God, Randy, I’m so sorry.”
“We’re almost inside, and then you can sit down.”
Ethan looked so fucking miserable, worse than he’d looked at the fountains, or in the grocery store, or in the kitchen. Randy had let this happen by sending him to Crabtree. Because he’d been an idiot and trusted the guy.
Ethan shut his eyes tight. “I have a million dollars.”
Randy stopped. “Seriously?”
“From Billy. Crabtree set me up. Wants to double bluff him. Double blind. Double something.”
“Crabtree likes to get you invested two ways, get your ante in twice so you won’t back out.” The cat batted at Randy’s chin, and Randy jerked his head away, but she reached higher. He gave in and lowered his face so she could nuzzle him. The kitten was a dirty miniature of Mirabella, one of Crabtree’s favorites, but Ethan suspected this one had come directly from the shelter. That would have been more Crabtree’s style. He hoped to hell the thing didn’t have fleas.
Ethan looked hollow, beaten. “I tried to tell Billy. Tried all afternoon to convince him this was a setup, but he didn’t care. He’s made me his man.” He managed a sneer. “But ‘not that way’. Like I would want anything to do with his slimy little ass.” The sneer fell away as he crumbled again. “I fucked it all up, didn’t I? I was his live one, and he played me every step of the way.”
Randy was going to take a century to kill Crabtree. This was going to smack so hard against Ethan’s pride Randy wasn’t sure even he could charm him back around this time.
Inside the house, Sam took one look at Ethan and went into nurse mode. “What happened?” He pressed a palm against Ethan’s forehead.
“From the smell of him, a great deal of gin. We’re going to have to get him a new liver soon.” Crabtree’s would do nicely. He nudged Ethan toward Sam. “Here—I have to deal with the cat.”
“Cat?” Sam took in the purring kitten in the crook of Randy’s arm. He softened a little. “Oh, it’s the one Crabtree found in the alley, the one he had when I dropped Ethan off.”
“You dropped Ethan off?” Mitch said from the other side of the room, and Randy peered between Sam and Ethan and gave him a hard look.
“Tedsoe, shut up.”
When Mitch’s nostrils started to flare like a bull’s, Randy said quietly, “Orale vato, ayudame.”
Ethan lifted his head blearily. “You speak Spanish?”
“The barest bones of Valley Spanish, which is an animal all its own.” Randy kept his eyes on Mitch. “I know just enough to beg with.”
Mitch tightened his jaw then let his shoulders fall as he nodded. “Bien.”
Once he had surrendered Ethan to Mitch and Sam, Randy put the kitten down and went to the garage for the rest of the supplies. Ethan argued he had to take care of Salomé, but Mitch held him down and Sam refused to let him up until he’d told him how much he’d drank and how long ago he’d stopped.
“I don’t know.” Ethan laughed, a hollow, miserable sound. “I was trying to kill myself.”
Randy dropped the bag of cat food and dishes, and the litter slid down after.
Sam pressed the back of his hand all over Ethan’s forehead and face and neck. “He’s clammy and he’s pale, but he’s not blue. Have you thrown up yet, Ethan?”
Ethan slurred when he spoke. “No, but I played craps. And roulette. Fucking black again.”
Picking up the supplies he’d dropped, Randy continued the task he’d set out to do before Ethan had scared the shit out of him. He took the litter box to the bathroom, where he tucked it in the space between the toilet and the sink. The kitten appeared immediately, and after demanding a stroke down her back, she climbed inside and made an inspection of it. Randy returned to the living room where he picked up the shopping bag and carried it to the kitchen. Salomé reappeared as he poured food into the dish. Randy put the bag of food in the cupboard above the washing machine, then stood there a second, gripping the edges of the appliance as he tried to center himself. It didn’t work.
He gave up, pushed off the machine, and stalked through a red rage toward the door.
When Mitch caught his arm, he tried to throw him off, but Mitch tightened his grip. “I’ll drive you, Skeet.” He stopped, though, and looked worriedly at Sam.
Sam waved them on, one arm around Ethan. “I’m fine.”
Mitch tried to linger, but Randy headed out to the garage. Mitch came out shortly thereafter, bearing the keys to Ethan’s car, and Randy had to wait while Mitch moved it. His fingernails had dug indentations into his palms by the time Mitch headed for the driver’s side door of the truck.
They rode in silence to the casino, and Mitch went twenty miles over the limit the whole way. He drove up to the side door and waited as Randy climbed
out. “You want me to come in, Skeet?”
“No.” Randy hesitated, making himself acknowledge how much trouble he could get into, going to Crabtree with this much rage. “Yes.”
So he got back in and waited more while Mitch found a parking spot. Then, finally, they were going upstairs.
Crabtree was gone. So was Billy. Nobody knew where either of them were.
“We could use you for prop, though, if you want an extra shift,” the floorman said, and Mitch dragged Randy out before he could vent his spleen on him.
On the way home Mitch drove a lot slower. “Do you want me to go by his house?”
“He won’t be there. He won’t be anywhere we can find him.” Randy slammed his fist against the dashboard, cracking the plastic. Then he drew his throbbing hand against his chest and sagged into the seat.
Mitch kept his eyes on the road. “It’s not your fault, Slick.”
“Oh? Whose fault do you figure it is? Who the fuck went to the bastard in the first place?”
“You were trying to help Sam. I already called the lady on the card, by the way. Look—you know damn well he would have gotten himself involved as soon as he found out—” He stopped, catching himself. But Randy knew what he’d been about to say, and there wasn’t any point in bandying about, not anymore.
Randy snorted. “As soon as he found out I…” he reeled, just a second, “…was falling in love with Slick?” Jesus fuck, but it was even scarier out loud than in his head. He shuddered, then buried his face in his hands and sank deeper into the seat.
It was oddly reassuring to have Mitch reach over and ruffle his hair. “It’s going to be all right.”
“The fuck it will. I saw the way you looked when you showed up with Sam the first time. Your heart has been fucking walking around outside of you ever since.” The words were still echoing in his head. I’m in love with Slick. He shouldn’t have said it out loud, shouldn’t have admitted it. He felt hollow now, and raw, like somebody had split him open and pinned him to the wall. “Fucking hell, Mitch. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”
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