“Is the gun still under the seat of my car?” The question felt heavy, even with the marijuana, but it was funny how lightly it came out of his mouth.
Randy’s leer faded, replaced with an open display of shock, then sorrow, then fear, then pain. He had, Ethan realized, no poker face at all when he was high.
“Sorry.” Ethan wanted a drink. He reached for the joint instead.
Randy leaned forward and picked it up, keeping it from him. “No.” Looking directly into Ethan’s eyes, he passed the joint over, turning it carefully in his hand and pressing it up against Ethan’s lips, waiting as he inhaled. “The gun is gone. I gave it to a friend to get rid of. No one will find it, and if they do, they’ll never know it had anything to do with you.”
Unexpected tears pricked the back of Ethan’s eyes, and he blinked them away as he exhaled. “Thanks.”
“No problem.” Randy sat down.
It took Ethan a while to gather the cards and deal them, but no one rushed him.
Sam won again, with a pair of 6s. He drew himself once more, and Randy snorted and got up to go to the fridge. He returned with two beers, one he tossed to Ethan, who was glad to have it because he found he was quite thirsty and a little hungry. They watched Sam, who was clearly considering his options.
Then he grinned, reached down, and pulled off a sock.
He won the next hand, too, with a pair of queens. When he drew himself a third time in a row, he shook his head.
“This doesn’t work. I say we make a rule change.”
Randy lifted his eyebrows at this. “Let’s hear it, Peaches.”
“I say if the winner draws himself, it’s a wild card. He can call on himself, or the others.”
“Fine by me.” Randy passed the joint over to Ethan. It was nearly half gone.
Ethan felt lightheaded and very agreeable. “Okay.”
“Great.” Sam dropped the chip into the cup and turned to Ethan. “What’s your biggest fantasy, Ethan? A sexual one. One you haven’t done.”
Ethan sipped at his beer, thinking. “I don’t know. I mean—I have to think.” He tapped his finger on the side of the bottle. Fantasy. Fantasy. Sexual fantasy. He began to panic, because he had no idea. For years his greatest longing was to have Nick for a long weekend. Now he had sex every night and an orgy on call. He was living the fantasy he hadn’t even known he’d wanted. But that wasn’t an answer. He wanted to have an answer. He frowned.
For no reason at all, he started to giggle. He giggled like a little girl, and the next thing he knew, Randy was too.
“You embarrassed, baby?” Randy asked, and they both started in again.
“No.” Ethan wiped his eyes, because he was giggling so hard he was crying. “No, I just—I don’t know. But I’m thinking. Shh.”
They giggled again, but this time he looked right at Randy, watching his body shake as he laughed, and hilarity turned on a dime and became a deep, consuming arousal. He breathed out, made himself focus. “I want to fuck you.” He stared right at Randy. “In front of people. Total strangers.”
Randy’s eyes went dark, and he stopped giggling. He was still smiling, though, as he reached for the joint from the ashtray. “We’ll put it on the to-do list.” Taking another hit, he scooped up the cards.
The next board was 5 of hearts, king of spades, 2 of clubs, 7 of hearts, jack of diamonds, and Ethan grinned, because he had 7 of spades, jack of hearts. Sam had 2 of hearts, 3 of spades, and Randy had 9 of diamonds, 4 of clubs. But when he started to reach for the cup of chips, Randy quickly scooped them out of his hand.
“Oh, no you don’t.” He almost leered, he was so victorious. “I have just won your stupid game. This hand, anyway. Fucking finally.”
“But you don’t have anything,” Ethan complained. Then he giggled again.
Randy laughed too, but he also shook his head. “The fuck I don’t. You see what I’ve got? You see it, Peaches? I’ve got skeet. Fucking Skeet has skeet.” He slapped his leg several times.
“What the hell?” Ethan asked, but Sam leaned forward and beamed.
“I get it—you have the 9, the 5, and 2 on the board, and you fill in with a 7 and 4 from your hand.” Sam smiled at Ethan, who was still openly confused. “Skeet. A 9, a 5 and a 2, and something in-between.”
“That’s a fucking weird hand,” Ethan said, and laughed again.
Randy reached in and drew his own chip. He leered at Ethan. “Give me your fucking shirt, lover.”
Ethan tried to be serious. “I get to decide what article of clothing.” Standing, he kept his eyes on Randy as he undid the buckle of his belt, lust plainly written on his face as Ethan freed the catch.
Randy’s countenance fell as Ethan pulled the belt out completely and tossed it aside.
“Fucking hell,” Randy complained, then stopped as Ethan undid the button and the fly to his trousers.
“There you go,” Randy whispered.
Ethan, who didn’t feel like giggling anymore, stepped out of his pants, took a hit from the joint, and sat down.
Randy stared right at Ethan’s crotch. “Let’s stop playing and fuck.”
“No,” Sam said calmly, but Ethan thought maybe with a hint of wickedness. “I want to keep playing.”
So they did.
Ethan lost track of time, of place, even of himself. At some point popcorn appeared, and damn if it wasn’t the best popcorn he had ever had in his whole life. He wanted to make love to the bowl when it was gone, but settled for licking his fingers and running them along the inside, catching the salty butter on the rim.
He noticed Randy watched him whenever he did that.
Ethan was slightly drunk and very high. And horny. His erection was intermittent, which should have scared him, but he kept thinking, Who cares? He gleefully took off his jacket at Randy’s order, then when he won and drew his own chip, removed his shirt. Sam only got called on when his chip was drawn—Randy always ordered Ethan to undress, and Ethan always went after Randy or himself, which was why Randy was also in nothing more than socks and underwear, begging for a chance to take the latter off too. When Ethan realized this, that it was in many ways a two-man game, he apologized.
“It’s not a problem.” Sam drifted between the half-naked men before him. “I’m beginning to understand the appeal of the voyeur to Mitch.”
“I’m sorry he got called away longer, Sam. But we’ll keep you company.” Ethan realized he’d put his hand not just on Sam’s thigh but practically on his cock, and he giggle-snorted. “Oops. Sorry.”
Sam stopped his hand from withdrawing completely and caressed his palm before letting him go. “Stop apologizing, Ethan. Otherwise I might have to punish you.”
Now Randy laughed, which made Ethan giggle again. God, this was fun.
“I want to fuck,” Randy whined.
Sam wagged a finger at him. “Be a good boy and I might let you.”
Randy frowned. “Who put you in charge, Peaches?”
Ethan giggled more.
Sam arched an eyebrow. “Okay, fine. Whoever can walk in a straight line from the kitchen to the bathroom gets to be in charge.”
Ethan, who was having a hard time sitting up, threw up his hands in surrender. But Randy stood, hitched up his underwear and wandered toward the refrigerator in a drunken zigzag. He righted himself, drew a deep breath, and headed for the hallway, walking forward one slow, painful step at a time. When he listed left so hard he ran into the couch, he swayed, snorted then fell over sideways.
“I want to fuck him.” Randy’s cry was a plea and laugh at the same time. Upside down, his legs were spread and hanging over the back of the couch, and Ethan could see the tip of his cock peeking over the black band of his underwear. “Please, Peaches?”
Yes, Ethan thought. Please, Peaches.
Sam leaned his elbows on his knees and regarded Randy severely. “You haven’t been a good boy.”
Ethan giggled again. Or maybe he was still giggling from the last time. He cou
ldn’t tell.
Randy’s laugh was dark. “Then you should punish me.” He tugged at the waistband of his underwear, revealing a luscious portion of his groin, but not, alas, his penis. “Get the paddle, Sammy, and punish my bad ass.”
The image of Randy bent over while being paddled by Sam filled Ethan’s head, and he stopped giggling. He couldn’t even breathe for a minute. Yes. Punish him, Sam.
Sam took hold of Randy’s chin. “Be good, Randy, or you’ll go to bed without any fucking at all.”
Randy sobered—mostly. He touched Sam’s hand in acquiescence. “Yes, sir.” He stroked the hand. “But can we please stop playing the game? And play a different game? With sex in it?” He stroked again. “Please?”
Sam patted his cheek in a gesture that should have been almost paternal but was somehow arousing instead. “Sit up.”
Randy did, sitting primly—if somewhat unsteadily—as he waited for his next instruction.
Sam looked at Ethan, then back at Randy. “You can kiss him. But just a kiss, or I’ll punish you.”
Randy almost growled. Stepping over the table, he knocked over an empty beer bottle and sent half the deck and the cup of chips onto the floor. He stared down at Ethan, a dopey, drunk-high look on his face.
Randy grabbed the waistband of his underwear, pushed it to the floor, straddled Ethan and pressed his naked body against Ethan’s nearly naked one as he took his mouth in an open-mouthed, beer-and-cannabis-tainted kiss.
Ethan moaned, opened his mouth wide and drank him in.
The world was already spinning, but it left its axis and arced off into outer space when Randy stuck his tongue deep into Ethan’s throat, drawing Ethan’s own tongue into his mouth to suck on it. All the while he ground his cock into Ethan’s stomach. Ethan moaned into his mouth and groped blindly for his ass, and Randy pinched Ethan’s nipple before pulling him out of his underwear. When he took their cocks together in his hand, Ethan shuddered and thrust up, and if he hadn’t been so dazed by the marijuana, he would probably have come then and there.
Randy drew Ethan’s hand up toward his own mouth. Ethan watched, dizzy and full of lust as Randy took the fingers deep inside.
“Hurry.” He sucked again, letting his saliva run in thick strands down Ethan’s fingers. “Put them in me, Slick. Fuck me, baby, before he comes back.”
Ethan didn’t ask questions, just slicked his fingers in Randy’s mouth again, loving the look of that, the way Randy had, with the help of substances both legal and illegal, given himself more completely than Ethan had even known to wish for. For one second, he wished Randy trusted him enough to do it sober.
Then he gave the thought up and reached around Randy’s waiting, willing body. Randy had himself open, spread, eager, and when Ethan pushed against his hole, Randy sucked him in. As Ethan pushed deeper, trying to be careful, Randy took his mouth in a kiss and moaned as he impaled himself. Shuddering, Ethan kissed him back and desperately tried to find a rhythm.
Someone pulled his fingers out and knocked them away. Ethan opened his eyes in time to see the look of dazed, eager anticipation on Randy’s face before he placed his hands on the chair behind Ethan on either side of his shoulders, knees spread and straddling Ethan, head now pushed against Ethan’s shoulder. “Here it comes.”
Behind Randy Sam stood poised with a wide wooden paddle in his hand. Ethan’s eyes went wide.
Really?
Amazed, he watched the paddle swing down against the bare surface of Randy’s exposed ass.
Randy cried out, rough and lusty, and it shook Ethan because these were more intense than the cries he made when they had sex. The paddle came down, and Randy shouted louder, burying himself harder against Ethan as the blows—there was no other word, Sam was striking blows—came faster and faster. Now Randy grunted and humped, and so did Ethan, because even though it was strange and scary and almost surreal, it was also the most fucking erotic thing he’d ever felt or seen.
Then all of a sudden it wasn’t, because his shoulder was wet because Randy was sobbing.
When Sam stopped, however, Randy lashed out. “Don’t stop.” He was so raw and undone Ethan almost came undone along with him. Sam resumed, and it was weird for a moment, but then Randy started undulating again, gripping Ethan, kneading his biceps. Shutting his eyes, Ethan nuzzled Randy as he wept into Ethan’s shoulder.
On some unspoken cue, or maybe because his arm was tired, Sam stopped, and this time Randy sagged against Ethan, who cradled him close.
Sam kissed the small of Randy’s back, stroking him gently. “I’m going to go and get some lotion.”
Randy nodded.
As Randy drew deep, ragged breaths, Ethan tried to figure out if that had actually happened or if this was some marijuana-induced hallucination. Then Randy kissed his neck, and Ethan took his face in his hands and kissed him back, long and deep.
“Sorry.” Randy kept his eyes closed, and he looked exhausted. “It was a rough day in therapy.”
“It’s okay.” Ethan nuzzled him. I love you, he thought, and then, as if the marijuana and alcohol were some sort of verbal chute, it came out of his mouth. “I love you, Randy.”
“I love you too, baby.” Randy’s mouth sought his, then settled on his chin and sucked it a little. “Don’t go, Ethan. Don’t go.”
That made Ethan open his eyes, and he was going to ask where the hell Randy thought he was going, and then he saw the pain on Randy’s face. He couldn’t say a word.
Randy stared at Ethan’s chin, his fingers tracing his cheek. There were tears in his eyes again. “Don’t go, Ethan. Please. Don’t.”
“Randy,” Ethan whispered, but his throat was too full to say anything more.
Then Sam was back, and Ethan got a good look at Randy’s ass and recoiled. It was as red as his chips.
“It’s okay.” Randy laughed, sorrow forgotten—God, but pot was weird—and winced as Sam applied cream. “I’m all nice and warm now.”
Sam met Ethan’s gaze as he worked. “I’m careful. Mitch taught me. It really is okay. I know how to hurt him only in the right way.” He smiled, half-wicked, half-shy. All Sam. “I can teach you later.”
Ethan nodded. He couldn’t look at Randy’s ass, though, so he watched Randy’s face instead, touching it, staring down into it. He tried to tell him, with his eyes, that he would never leave, not if he could help it, that he didn’t know how he would ever leave this. Him. How he’d ever leave him.
It might have worked, if Randy’s eyes hadn’t been closed.
They stayed closed too. “Sorry,” he slurred, as Sam finished with his ass. “Don’t think I’m gonna get to fuck you, Slick.”
Ethan kissed his temple in reply. Weird, how he’d been so horny, and still was, but sleep sounded good too.
Sam led them out of the living room and into his own bedroom—he stripped Ethan down the rest of the way and tucked him in beside Randy, where Ethan tried again to explain his feelings, but Randy just pushed his face down, and then Ethan saw the fat, pretty cock and forgot what he was going to say.
Ethan was never really sure if he came or not. He remembered a lot of kissing. A lot of mouths. Cocks and mouths and cocks in mouths. There were fingers in his ass at some point, and he remembered telling Sam, no thank you, he did not want to be spanked. He remembered tasting come, but he had no idea whose it was. There might have been food, but he might have just wished for it. The details were fuzzy. He was happy, though. He knew that.
He woke with an aching head and a chest that felt too heavy until he realized it was because Randy, his still-pinked ass bare to the air, was using Ethan’s chest for a pillow.
Ethan’s mouth also tasted like all kinds of hell.
Someone moved behind him, and he heard Sam say sleepily, “Here.” An open bottle of water pressed into his hand, and Ethan drank greedily. Oh God, he felt like total shit.
“Go back to sleep,” Sam murmured, wrapped his arms around Ethan’s chest, and Ethan did.
&n
bsp; Chapter Twenty
“I’M SORRY.” CARYLE leaned over Ethan’s desk with grim resolution. “There’s no way around it. We have plenty of small shows lined up, drag queens and kings and performers of all kinds. We have dancers and waitstaff and dealers, and that’s great. But this is never going to work if we don’t get a headliner.”
Ethan tapped his pen against his ledger. They were three weeks from opening night, looking at Caryle’s projections for the Butterfly event. They were dismal. “Would it help if we changed the name?”
“The name is actually the best thing you have going for you right now. I put some teaser flyers out in a variety of public places, and a lot of people picked them up. I think if you get a model on those, someone androgynous and beautiful, you’ll really have their attention. But you need more than their attention. You need their bodies to come here on your opening night.”
“We want them to gamble. That’s where the money is here. That’s where it’s always been, and if this place is going to survive, where it needs to return. Back to the tables too, not those damn slots. They make me crazy. I want to see people at craps. I want to see them at roulette and at blackjack. Above all, I want to see them at poker. I want them in here spending their money. I want to make Bellagio nervous because they’re losing players to us. I want this place to work again.”
Caryle gave him a funny look. “I thought you just wanted to get a quick sale?”
Ethan paused, then pressed his lips together. “Yes. Well. Yes.”
She pulled another paper out from the bottom of the stack. “I can get you more dancers, if we want a bigger show. I can get you more waitstaff too, who will do their jobs but be a sort of performance of their own. I think you want to keep the dealers professional, though—don’t dress them up. I know the owner has visions of them tricked out in skimpy things, but you don’t want people in charge of that much money distracted. Leave that for my people. Keeping in mind the spirit of the evening, I’m instructing them all to flirt generously with both sexes.”
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