Then there was Randy’s mouth—thin, wide, hitching on the right side, the tiny scar that curled into the left. Tiny, but it was there. The cleft of his chin. The slope of his neck. The taut pebbles of his nipples.
Those nipples were inches from Ethan’s face, moving, moving, moving, teasing him, brushing against his mouth before Randy stepped off the couch. Still swaying and dancing, he pushed his underwear down and stepped out of them. Bracing his hands on the wall behind Ethan’s head, he knelt and began to dance again.
His cock was visible now too. His fat, long cock, rough and uncut like the rest of him. Thick and full of veins, it had been the source of hours of fascination for Ethan. He’d never touched an uncut penis before Randy, and Randy was happy to let him play with it at any and all times. It was a very erect cock now, and the head of Randy’s penis pushed out through the sleeve of his foreskin, bulbous and pink and straining. Ethan liked best to grip it, to hold it tight and feel the skin shift under his hand, a membrane between himself and Randy’s organ, a veil that never lifted—except for when the head came through, peeking out to wink its hello.
Mine. My Randy.
As if to make the claim for the benefit of their silent viewers, to let them know this cock, this man, this sensual creature was his, Ethan took the shaft in hand and drew it smartly into his mouth.
Randy pushed himself into Ethan’s throat until Ethan grabbed those hips and forced him into his own rhythm. He held Randy’s thighs, ran his hands up that stomach, to his chest, teasing those nipples, lingering there to pinch and roll them because he knew it made Randy go a little crazy. When Ethan pulled back from his lover’s erection, Randy slid down Ethan’s body, down his shirt, settling on the tent of Ethan’s cock through his trousers, his naked body humping insistently against Ethan’s clothes.
All Ethan’s hesitation was gone, or at least no longer piloting the ship. He didn’t understand how Randy could see him come so unglued and then so easily yield to him mere moments later, but that had been happening between them since they started.
Ethan undid his pants, and Randy, reading his mind, finished the job, taking Ethan’s cock out and nesting it beside his own. It reminded Ethan of the other night, when they’d begun this way and ended with Sam paddling Randy while he crouched over Ethan. It made him want to press Randy into the couch and hump against him until they were both breathless and gasping, come spraying everywhere between them.
Gripping the sides of Randy’s body, Ethan did just that.
They needed better friction. Ethan fumbled with Sam’s duffel, turning it inside out as he searched for lube, lotion, shaving cream—anything. He found a bottle of something that said NOMAD, expensive-looking and with a camel on it, but it was creamy, and he fumbled until he had a dollop of it in his hand.
“Fuck me, Ethan, fuck me.”
Ethan glanced briefly at the tube, something catching his eye, and then Randy stuck his tongue in Ethan’s ear. Shivering, Ethan dove at his lover’s mouth again. Their hands warred over their cocks until they were tugging them together, their chests rubbing hard and tight, nipples brushing nipples and hair and muscles. Ethan pressed their groins together, humping faster until he felt Randy ready to release—once he began, Ethan let himself go too. They collapsed, shuddering together, grinding in a sort of aftershock.
“Baby.” Ethan kissed the nape of Randy’s neck.
The door opened, and Ethan knew they should pull apart and be shocked, but he couldn’t manage it—he was too spent. Then he saw who had come in, and he went still.
For a minute he thought he was hallucinating, because there in the doorway was something between a man and a woman and a bird. Butterfly, his brain corrected him, but it hardly mattered. This was like nothing he’d ever seen. Slight, rounded, beautiful, full of wings and sequins. Man? Woman? Angel? Insect? Beautiful and handsome, exotic and sexual and innocent all at once, eyes round and rimmed with dark lines and glitter, hair hidden by a headdress. Huge wings flanked either side of the skintight body suit.
“Oh.” The butterfly glanced back out the door. “Don’t go in. They’re—You can’t go in.”
It was only then, when he recognized the voice, that Ethan figured it out. “Sam?”
Randy sat up too, reaching for his clothes but unhurriedly, though when he caught sight of Sam in the doorway, he stopped short. “Peaches?”
Sam came in and shut the door.
The young man Ethan had come to know and love was nowhere in this creature. No man or woman was, either. This had to be the costume Caryle had been speaking of.
It was fucking brilliant.
Sam seemed stunned, in some sort of shock, barely holding himself together. “Crabtree called. He has the headliners.”
“Oh?” Ethan zipped himself discreetly, pretending his shirt and pants weren’t sprayed with spunk. “Who is it? Wait—headliners? More than one?”
“One for each night. Some friend of his knows a whole bunch of performers, so we have someone for each night. He found three s-s-singers.” Sam sank against the door. “They’re all Australian. Because the friend is Australian.”
Randy had climbed into his underwear and had his shirt over his head, but he watched Sam with concern. “Peaches, you okay?”
“Missy Higgins, some singer named Missy Higgins. She’ll be the third night.” Sam took a deep breath then let it out slowly. “And then Olivia Newton-John. She’ll be the last night.”
Ethan’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. “Sam—my God, that’s wonderful.” How the hell had Crabtree done that? Ethan had heard she wasn’t even touring anymore.
Sam shook his head, and when he spoke, it was only in a whisper. “The first night—” His eyes were wild, almost crazy, full of wonder and hope and disbelief and utter, utter terror. He began to slide slowly down the door, a Technicolor butterfly melting slowly toward the floor. “The first night is Kylie.”
Kylie: Sam’s Kylie. Sam had given Ethan quite the education in the past few weeks about Kylie Minogue. She was on a level with Madonna everywhere but in the United States, and to many here too she was as big or bigger. Crabtree had scored her?
Randy laughed and went forward, still only half-dressed, to collect Sam off the floor, and Ethan took in the dazed wonder on the younger man’s face and realized it didn’t matter. However this had happened, it had happened. It was going to happen. Butterfly Nights was going to happen.
It was going to be fantastic. And worth every bit of pain and doubt and crazy it took to carry them there.
ETHAN HAD THOUGHT it’d be impossible to get anyone on such short notice, so the idea that Crabtree had gotten anyone of any quality at all wasn’t something he’d considered. He’d been seriously impressed by the inclusion of Olivia Newton-John. He’d almost gone to see her once a few years back when she’d been on tour and stopped in Provo, but it hadn’t worked out. He’d wanted to go with Nick in fact—he couldn’t remember, but he thought Nick had backed out at the last minute, and he hadn’t wanted to go alone.
Now she was coming to “his” casino.
He still didn’t understand how Crabtree had gotten Kylie. Even Billy seemed impressed.
“Kylie Minogue? Shit, she came through here a year ago, and the show sold out right away. You see video of that bird in concert? She is hot.”
Ethan had not seen any videos of Kylie, and Sam was only too happy to supply them. When Ethan watched the beautiful woman glide across the stage in elaborate showgirl costumes, he had to admit it didn’t get much more classic Vegas than that. She was amazing. She was stunning.
She was far, far too good for a place like Herod’s.
“Crabtree knows her manager, I think,” Randy confided as they sat at a poker table at Herod’s two days before opening night, waiting for the dealer to break in a new deck. “Really, I’m not surprised. He knows everyone.”
“But how did he get so many good performers on such short notice?”
“Bribes and called-in favo
rs, I assume. The usual. He likely got a list of possible candidates and started pulling strings. Though he knows about Sam and Kylie. That one was a gift, and probably cost Crabtree something big.” He winked at Ethan, nudging him with his elbow. “Go on, Slick. You’re the big blind.”
Ethan tossed his chips into the pot, turning a ten-dollar chip over absently in his fingers, the glittering Billy’s! logo flashing. When the betting came around to him again, he tossed his 3 and 2 offsuit into the muck, sat back, and let his mind wander.
The day before, Billy had announced he’d fired the vacationing casino manager and was making Ethan official. “I’ll have the boys move your stuff down by morning.” He thought it would look better, he’d said, to have Ethan there by the time the buyer showed up.
Then he’d winked at Ethan, and Ethan had to go play craps to calm down.
Moth to a flame, every now and again he stopped by the roulette table and bet on black. Sometimes he won, but never regularly, and overall, he lost money. It was, he decided, just a bad game—for the player. For the casino, it was a gold mine. People couldn’t seem to resist the wheel, couldn’t help themselves from betting on black and red and even and odd and their grandmother’s birthday and their anniversary. People always thought they were due, that it was their turn.
Craps, now. Craps was still iffy, but it was a lot more fun, and he came out ahead more than he did behind. He found he did better if he took a lot of money to the table. He would lose two hundred dollars steadily over the period of ten minutes, then abruptly shoot up four. So long as he only bet what he could afford, it really was a game.
It was the same with Butterfly Nights. Now that half of Vegas was caught up in the intrigue and the mystery and the outrage of a tournament going up against the World Series of Poker—once they put in their ante, they got lost in the bluff same as everyone else. They placed their bets, someone rolled the dice, and they forgot they might lose everything they’d placed on the Pass Line, forgot the seven could come anytime at all.
Randy nudged Ethan’s arm and brought him back to reality, as the hand had ended and Ethan had the button. He also had the ace of spades and king of spades: Big Slick, with a little something extra. He kept his cool as the flop came down 5 of spades, 6 of spades, 2 of spades. He drew the bettors in casually, like it didn’t matter, because really, it didn’t. He had nuts on this hand. He was going to win, especially after 9 of hearts and jack of clubs came down. Eventually the pot was so high it was obscene, and everyone folded, everyone but him and Randy.
Randy studied him, but Ethan looked at him blankly and waited for him to call. Because Ethan knew he would.
“All right, wise guy.” Randy tossed in his chips. “Call. Let’s see how your bad boys do with mine.”
Randy laid down 3 of diamonds and 4 of diamonds. He had a straight.
Ethan laid down his cards, completing his high flush, and blew Randy a kiss.
Randy grunted, but Ethan caught his grin too.
When they were alone, Ethan let his anxiety out, and Randy took it, spun it out and sent it away, making him laugh, making him moan. Home with Randy was an oasis and asylum—nothing made him feel stronger or more secure than curling up naked in bed beside him and falling asleep as the cats arranged themselves around them. It was a waiting time, and it felt safe. Good.
Then it was over, because the Butterfly Nights began.
OPENING NIGHT, RANDY decided, was a pretty clever gig, especially considering “night” began at noon.
Caryle had a huge black canvas tent set up over the sidewalk and all the open parking in the casino’s lot. Once inside, guests were amazed by the twinkling light show and occasional glitter storm that tumbled over their heads. Even with the portable air-conditioning units she’d brought in, the place was still scalding, but nobody cared. It was cool in a much more important way, and it was exclusive—sort of. There was a steady business of forgery for the passes down the street in a back alley, and several people snuck in through a gap in the canvas. Caryle instructed the staff not to notice this.
Inside on the casino floor, Mandy—hired away for the night from the Golden Nugget—was doing a bang-up job as the floor manager. She kept the tables rolling and the waitstaff hopping, and she gave every guest a smile as they passed that assured them they were aces in her book. She also gave out a few special golden chips Caryle had devised as a promotion, which sent certain customers up to the VIP lounge. In reality, this was nothing more than a high-priced bar with butterfly lap dances available for fifty dollars. Nobody showed any skin, but everybody wanted one of those golden chips. There were even more counterfeit golden chips than there were fake VIP passes. By the time the fireworks went off at dusk and the general public was allowed in, there’d barely be room to move.
Ethan beamed as he and Randy watched from the bar. “It’s so much better without the slots, don’t you think?”
That had been Ethan’s last, most daring move, one Billy had balked at hard. Every casino knew the slots were where the money was made these days, he argued. Ethan, bless him, had argued like Randy had never seen him argue but hoped to see him do many, many times in the future.
Billy had still looked ashen when they’d hauled the slots out, put more than two-thirds in storage and the rest in the old poker room in the back. The poker tables were now out front, right as you came in the door—all but Billy’s Room, which remained exactly where it had always been, and where it stayed sealed, because Crabtree wasn’t in town.
That would change, tonight—in under an hour, in fact.
“How’s Sam?” Randy passed Ethan a bottle of water. Slick wasn’t having anything to do with alcohol tonight.
Ethan sipped at it. “He’s backstage, talking to Kylie.”
“He didn’t garble when he met her? That’s good.”
“He was polite, and she was charming. He kept saying he didn’t want to bother her, but she just said no, he was no trouble at all, and got him talking. When I left, they were discussing the heart graffiti photos she apparently posts on Twitter.”
“Any word on Mitch?”
“Possibly by the show tonight. Sam says he’s being cagey, but he’s past caring about that now.”
Randy sipped at his Dirty Whiskey. “And you, Slick? You ready for your big game?”
Ethan looked a little stiff. “I wish I knew what he was planning. I don’t want to look like a fool.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Randy downed the last of his drink then nudged Ethan with his knee. “What do you need me for, baby? How can I help?”
Ethan nodded at the poker tables. “Mandy says people are starting to play, but the head dealer has several people singled out who don’t know how to play but seem to want to. Could you run the beginners’ table for a while? Build up their confidence so they move to the five-dollar tables?”
“Sure thing, Slick.”
He started to rise, but Ethan caught his arm and brushed a kiss across his cheek before letting him go. “Thanks, Ace.”
Then he was gone, off to check out more of his Butterfly Night.
The beginners’ table had been Randy’s idea, but Slick was the one who had expanded it into Poker 101. The newbies played for money, but just penny chips. For five dollars, you could have a shadow help you through your hand. For twenty dollars, you could participate in an open-hand game where an expert explained what the good plays were and how each hand should have proceeded according to convention. It was a popular table, and for the next hour it was Randy’s.
Sure, a lot of the people were thick as posts, but they were nervous, and everyone expressed that in different ways. Randy enjoyed getting them all to relax, to begin to see their strengths and to find their feet in the game. None of them would be experts anytime soon, and some would never amount to anything. But they went to the five-dollar tables in droves every time he dismissed them from their round, and they didn’t go as live ones. It felt good.
The best thing about working o
n the floor was that Randy got to see the flash mobs. That had been Caryle’s brainchild. There would be shows on the stage every hour, amateur stuff that was heavy on drag queens and had a lot of Cirque du Soleil rip-offs, but it was still a free show. In the meantime, spontaneous shows would break out all around the casino floor. A song would play, and dancers would come out, and waitresses and players would dance. No dealers, because that was too confusing, but a lot of them started to wiggle along because it was fun. When Randy’s shift was finally over, he was disappointed, because they were just starting “Xanadu”.
Sam fell into step beside him as he headed off the floor. “I think your uncle would be proud of you.”
Randy punched him lightly in the arm. “How was Ms. Minogue?”
Sam’s expression turned rapturous. “She’s so perfect. That was so sweet of her, to talk to me. I can’t wait to see her perform. But I wish Mitch would get here.”
“Go call him again. I’m sure he’ll be here soon, but call him anyway.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. But I’m going to go upstairs. It’s too loud in here, even with the slots gone.”
Randy headed to the bar.
It was packed, which despite the fact this was good for Ethan, annoyed him. He liked having the River to himself, and he resented that there was only one stool left and that it was way down on the end. Sighing, he slid into the empty space and signaled Scully for a drink.
A man sat beside Randy, tucked as far in the corner as he could go. God, but the guy was a case. He wore a suit and tie, which on Slick looked really good, but on this guy just made him read like an uptight insurance salesman. Cheap tie. Cheap shirt. He should be directing the Presbyterian choir. He seemed scared too, though he was trying to cover it by appearing aloof. It wasn’t working.
Randy, in a good mood but still ticked about the full bar, decided to fuck with him. He leaned over with a mildly leering grin. “Having a good time, buddy?”
The man recoiled, but Randy caught a flicker in his eye that was more than fear. Oh-ho. He had himself a closet case.
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