Double Blind

by Heidi Cullinan

  Meet me at the casino.

  Sam picked up the notepad and frowned at it. “Meet him at the casino? Okay, sure, but why didn’t he call? Or text?”

  “Probably for dramatic effect,” Randy replied, his heart still pounding. It worked. “He must be planning something.”

  Sam brightened. “Oh, I hope it’s something for Butterfly.”

  Randy resisted the urge to roll his eyes or wince. The fact that he was still shaken helped. He didn’t leave, you dumbass. Where’s he going to go? The mob will kill him if he goes. Or Crabtree, or something. He’s here for a while yet. Calm the fuck down. “I still don’t like the name.”

  “That’s because you have no taste.” Sam punched a text into his phone. Then he paused and pursed his lips. “He won’t tell me anything. He just says to get there because he’s been waiting for two hours.”

  “He’s definitely planning something.” Randy felt a little better. Plans were good.

  They took the truck over to the casino, and continuing the theme of the day, Sam drove. Randy couldn’t say he minded. It gave him the space to think.

  Slick had gone balls-deep into this casino thing, and he’d been pretty good at it, actually. Well, not the casino itself so much. But Randy had seen some of Ethan’s spreadsheets, and yeah, he was a fair hand with investments and money organization. The books were looking fairly decent, probably for the first time since the early nineties. And even though Randy still thought it was a disappointment waiting to happen, he and Sam were having a heyday planning Butterfly Nights: Let your soul fly free or whatever the tagline was. Randy hoped to hell they got a better one before the flyers went to press.

  But they were having a good time. A great time. Slick was lit up. And happy. And here. Randy wasn’t going to complain—too much.

  They came around to the front, because Sam said Ethan had been adamant about it in his text, and Randy could tell from the way the staff jumped as they approached that Ethan had given orders to watch for them. Which was another funny thing. Ethan really was running the place, all from his little office on the seventh floor.

  He wasn’t on the seventh floor now. When Sam and Randy came in the door, the first thing they saw—or that Randy did anyway—was Ethan. Ethan in his black suit, which had become his signature: black suit and black tie, but tonight he had on a purple paisley shirt, one of Randy’s favorites. He looked like a fucking king, so sleek and smooth he didn’t have to advertise. He was cool. He was fucking sex on a fucking set of sex sticks. He was glowing, gorgeous, and so fuckable Randy wanted to do him right there.

  He was also standing in front of a goddamned fountain. The fountain, in the place where Billy’s craps table had been.

  With the goddamned fucking demon statue in the middle of it.

  “You did it.” Sam rushed forward to high-five Ethan. Ethan didn’t look at him, though. He was watching Randy.

  He was going to have to keep watching too, because Randy could not stop staring at the damn statue. He had never seen it, just heard about it, and now here it was. All ten feet of it, water pouring out of its nostrils.

  Finally Randy shook his head. “Holy. Shit.”

  “Isn’t it great?” Sam regarded the golden face. “We found it in a secret room inside a closet. Sarah had the workmen take it out. I knew this was going to happen, and I knew it was a secret, but wow, I didn’t know you were getting it done so fast. You had all the way until the end of the month before Butterfly.”

  “No.” Ethan stared right at Randy. “I only had two weeks.”

  The bet. Fuck, Randy had forgotten about it. He looked at the fountain again, and because Sam had moved, this time he could see the whole thing—including the part where the fig leaf decidedly wasn’t.

  Hello, demon.

  Randy rubbed his chin for a minute and kept his eyes on the leafless aspect of the statue. “So. It seems I’m now dancing for Billy and for you.”

  “Oh, you aren’t dancing for Billy.”

  Randy cocked his eyebrow. “I’m not, you say? Because I remember losing a bet—over you, I might add—to be his floozy-rent-boy ad campaign for the night.”

  “Yes. We’ve rethought the strategy behind ‘Gay Nite’ and don’t think it’s quite the image we want. Billy’s agreed to accept instead you’ll work that night, probably as a dealer. Or you’ll perform. I promised him your costume would be at least slightly embarrassing for you.” Ethan nodded at the demon. “It’s not marble, by the way. It’s gold. Though technically I think it’s brass.”

  “I can see I was misinformed.”

  Ethan smiled wryly. “You lose a lot of bets to me, Ace.”

  “Yeah, about that. You’ve been a little busy with your casino projects, Slick—we haven’t played poker in a while.”

  “I was thinking that too. Actually, there was one game I know you didn’t teach me.” Ethan tilted his head. “What about strip poker?”

  “Oh, I would be happy to teach you that one.”

  Sam’s phone sounded Mitch’s ringtone. He greeted his husband happily, but his joy quickly faded. He stepped away from the fountain to have an intense conversation, and he returned flushed and dejected. “There was a problem with the delivery. He won’t be coming back on schedule like he planned.”

  Randy winced. “When’s he due now?”

  “He doesn’t know for sure. Maybe two weeks. Or maybe even three. Not until the first of November, at any rate.”

  All Randy’s plans for strip poker and hot sex went up in smoke, but he didn’t complain, just went forward and put his arm around Sam and kissed his hair.

  Chapter Nineteen

  IT WAS JUST as well Mitch’s phone call rerouted Ethan’s plans for the evening, because the truth was, if Randy looked too deeply, he’d have discovered that outside of the fountain and a little juggling of the financial columns, this was all Ethan had actually done.

  He didn’t want Randy telling him he couldn’t do this, didn’t want that look that said he thought this was a bad idea. He hated it, because it fed his own self-doubt. He wanted to do this by himself, to be cool and chic and amazing, to have Randy look at him all the time as he looked at him and at this fountain now. Or how he had been until Sam had gotten his call.

  He didn’t want Randy to look at him like he looked at Sam, either, a child who needed protection.

  Ethan drove them home in his car, listening as Randy soothed Sam. Something had happened today at the therapist, because they were treating each other with kid gloves. “You’ve still got you, Sam, and me,” Randy kept saying.

  To be honest, the two of them were being so emotionally intimate that Ethan felt a little jealous. No, he didn’t want what Randy and Sam had. But in his own drive to make the casino work, to prove whatever it was he was proving, he’d let some things go slack. For the first time since he’d known Randy, he worried he had let whatever this magical ride was slow down too much.

  He worried he’d lost Randy back to Sam and Mitch again, which was where he probably belonged.

  Ethan reminded himself Randy was comforting Sam about Sam’s husband’s unexpected prolonged absence, and tried to remember the three men had been sharing themselves with each other for some time now. But the last one didn’t help and started him back down the road of worry.

  Did he want Randy to involve him with the three of them? Leave space for him to be involved? Be mad he wasn’t making that space himself? Did he want Randy to lean on him after? Not do it at all? Ethan had no idea. Because panic was uncomfortable, he became irritated.

  This was why people didn’t generally run around in unconventional three-and-four-way pairings. The politics never ended.

  Yet he couldn’t deny he liked Sam and Mitch. And yes, he enjoyed sex with them too, for more than physical stimulation.

  Ethan studied the two men huddled on the couch, Sam spiraling endlessly into misery, Randy drowning in frustrated empathy and love. Politically tricky or not, it was clear the two of them needed comfo
rting, and as soon as Ethan realized it, comforting them was exactly what he wanted to do.

  He turned to the end table from which Randy had withdrawn the poker chips and pulled out a deck of cards and a tray of chips. “I think what we need here is a distraction.”

  Sam held up a hand. “I don’t want to play poker. I don’t want to think.”

  “You won’t have to. We won’t play poker proper, just leave things up to fate.”

  This predictably got Randy’s attention. “Hey.”

  “We’re playing draw poker.” Ethan put the chips on the coffee table. “No discards. Losing hand loses an article of clothing.” He arched an eyebrow at Randy. “That’s how the game goes, yes?”

  Randy grimaced. “It won’t be any fun at all. None of the hands will be any good. It’ll be nothing but high card over and over again. There’s no skill at all. And there will be two losers, you might notice.”

  Ethan thought it was telling that Randy had the chance to get the three of them naked together and he was more fixated on the fact that he’d have to rely on fate. But he also had to admit he had a point about the two losers, and even the inevitable lackluster quality of the hands.

  “We’ll play Hold ’Em. But there’s no betting and no folding, and no ante. As for how to decide who is disrobing…” He took a plastic cup from the cupboard, brought it back to the table and set it down before picking up three chips from the tray—one green, one blue, one red. “The winner draws the loser. Sam is green, Randy is red and I’m blue.”

  “What if the winner draws himself?” Randy asked, his tone silently adding, wiseass.

  Ethan looked at the two of them sitting there, so close, so intimate, knowing so much about each other, and he grinned.

  “The winner draws the loser, and he decides whether or not the loser removes an article of clothing or answers a question. And if he draws himself, he can either choose to remove an article of clothing or ask a question of himself.”

  Randy was still derisive. “Truth or dare and strip poker in one? Truth poker?”

  “I like it.” Sam scooted forward on the couch. “I don’t have to think, and I might get to embarrass Randy. Or learn more about Ethan. I’m in.”

  “Peaches,” Randy said, half plea, half warning.

  “Randy, I’m tired of being soppy. Mitch feels rotten. I feel rotten. But I feel good when we do stuff like this.” Sam picked up a few of the chips and shuffled them inexpertly inside his palm, watching them slide over one another. “I’d rather do it with Mitch here. But if I called him up, he’d tell me to do it. Well, he’d tell me to leave the speakerphone on or get video set up.”

  There was something forced about that little speech, and for a minute Ethan worried he’d made a mistake, opening this door. But before he could question it further, Randy headed for the kitchen.

  “Fine. We’ll do this, but I’m not doing this straight.” Randy reached up above the refrigerator, Ethan assumed for a fifth of whiskey or some other hard liquor. But Randy only drew something small from inside of a canister far in the back of the cupboard, then took something else out of a drawer.

  He returned to the couch with an ashtray, a lighter, and a joint.

  “Whoa.” Sam held up his hands and slid to the opposite end of the couch. “No way, Randy.”

  “Fine.” Randy put the joint to his lips. “I’ll smoke by myself.”

  They stared at him while he inhaled, held his breath for several seconds then blew the smoke rather expertly at the ceiling. He gave them both a withering look.

  “Oh, don’t go all goody-goody on me. Jesus H., it’s been a fuck of a day, and now you want this. Fine. I’ll play. But I’m getting high.”

  “It’s illegal, Randy,” Sam said, before Ethan could. “What about work? What if they drug test? Even if I don’t smoke, it could register.”

  Randy crossed his foot over his knee and looked Sam in the eye. “You don’t start work until the first of November. Plenty of time.”

  Ethan didn’t care for this, and he didn’t know why. He’d lost control, for one, which was probably enough. He’d never smoked anything before, either, cigarettes or otherwise. Somehow it didn’t surprise him that Randy did, but it disappointed him a little too. He just couldn’t figure out why.

  Or maybe it was the defiant way he was acting. Maybe it was because he was mad that all he was asking Randy to do was get naked and talk to him, and he had to try and scare everyone off.

  Fine.

  Ethan picked up the cat food dishes and headed back to his bedroom. Once he set the food down, he used the clicker, and the cats came bounding in. He petted them both, brought the litter pan in from the bathroom, and shut the door.

  Sam met him in the hallway, which was good. He looked a little wild-eyed.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Ethan said to him. “But I think I’m going to.”

  Sam bit his lip before answering. “He hasn’t done drugs ever around me before, outside of alcohol. I think he’s upset.” He rubbed his arms. “Me too.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “It really is a big deal with my job. But at the same time, I know other nurses who use. I don’t know. I knew a guy once who was a total pothead, and I don’t like it, period.” He tapped his fingers on his arm. “I’m not going to do it.”

  Ethan approved of his moral standing but knew he wouldn’t follow. This once, he’d try. “Do you want to go with the cats? Or move them to your room?”

  Sam’s reply was almost silky. “I’m staying in the game. I’m just not smoking. And we’re opening a window.”

  They came back to the living room, Ethan sat down, and Randy, already slightly stoned, grinned at them.

  “Joining my party, are you?” He inhaled again.

  “Ethan is.” Sam opened a window before taking a seat in the chair between Ethan and Randy.

  Randy glanced at the window, then leaned his head to the side and stuck his lip out in a little pout at Sam. “Come on, Peaches.”

  Sam remained lounged in his chair and looked Randy straight in the eye. “No.”

  Randy sighed, sat up, and passed the joint to Ethan.

  Ethan’s hand trembled as he took the joint. He thought about asking what he should do but didn’t want to seem stupid. He brought it—carefully—to his lips, wondering with every inch if he should give up and fold.

  No. Putting it between his lips, he shut his eyes and sucked.

  It tasted acrid and sweet, both at once. And strong. Like a tree was burning and he was sucking it inside his body. Why the hell was he doing this again?

  Randy critiqued his form. “Hold it in, Slick. Five seconds or so.”

  Ethan tried, but he let it out early because the buzzy feeling started almost right away. Just a jolt, humming through him. I don’t want to pass out. He huffed the smoke out of his body. But once he did, the buzzy feeling began to slide away.

  Reclaiming the joint with a wry smile, Randy drew on the cigarette and settled into the couch.

  Ethan picked up the cards and shuffled them. “Shall we play?”

  Sam leaned forward in his chair. “Yes.”

  Randy blew out another drag. “Why the fuck not?”

  As Ethan dealt, Sam leaned over to the stereo and fiddled with some music. As a male singer crooned softly, Randy took another hit, and Ethan checked his cards—jack of spades, 5 of spades. He glanced at the board—4 of hearts, queen of hearts, 4 of spades, 8 of clubs, 8 of diamonds. He had two pair, but then, so did everyone else.

  Randy passed the joint to Ethan as he laid down his cards, face up—9 of clubs, king of diamonds. “Turn ’em over, boys. If there’s no bidding and no folding, there’s no point in hiding. Let’s see what you’re packing.”

  Sam flipped his cards over while Ethan took another hit, holding the smoke in longer. This time the buzz continued as he exhaled and looked down at Sam’s cards—ace of clubs, 9 of diamonds. Sam had won.

  Randy, tired of waiting for Et
han to wake up and turn over his own cards, reached over and did it for him. “Three fucking chances for a full house and we all blew it. And goddamn, but that would have been a sweet bluff.” He sighed, picked up the cup, and jangled it before holding it up to Sam. “Pick your loser, Peaches.”

  Sam dug in, clinked the chips around for a few seconds, then withdrew a red one and grinned at Randy. “Let me see some skin.” He tossed the chip back in.

  Randy set it down with a snort, then reached for the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head.

  Ethan stared at the tanned, sculpted planes of Randy’s chest, absently taking another drag from the joint.

  After shuffling and dealing, Randy drew another hit too before peeking at his cards. The board read 3 of diamonds, 7 of spades, 6 of diamonds, 6 of clubs, jack of diamonds. Ethan had 3 of spades, 10 of spades. In other words, one low pair and a kicker that might roll over and groan, but nothing else.

  Randy had 3 of clubs, 7 of hearts—two pair.

  Sam had 5 of hearts, 4 of diamonds.

  “Peaches wins again, this time with a straight,” Randy said around the butt of the joint.

  “I love this game.” Sam chose another chip. This time he chose a green chip—himself. “Hmm.” He flicked it back and forth between his fingers and grinned. “‘What is your favorite food, Sam?’ ‘Ah. That’s a hard one, Sam, but rules are the rules. My favorite food is Mitch’s tamales.’” He tossed the chip in and beamed. “My deal?”

  Sam laid down 9 of clubs, 9 of hearts, 9 of spades, 6 of hearts, queen of hearts. Nobody made anything off the board at all, which meant it came down to high card, which Ethan won with the jack of diamonds.

  He drew a red chip.

  “Fucking hell.” But he’d been smoking heavily, so Randy laughed and took another hit before he held out his hands and leered at Ethan. “You want my pants, baby? Because I’ll give them to you.”

  Ethan didn’t want the pants. He wanted a question. But it was like someone demanding you say something in a foreign language—the minute you were called to do it, your mind was blank. Ethan would never, ever be able to explain why he asked the question that finally floated to the surface.