Lovely Wicked

by Kari Gregg

Sammy, Mitch had decided, was the key.

  Sam would lock Liv to him like cured cement.

  If Mitch didn't fuck everything up. Now that Liv sat beside him, the scent of her fruity-flavored shampoo rolling over him as if a ten-ton bulldozer, Mitch's terror that adding Sam to their fantastically feral relationship would finally push Liv too far nipped at him with serrated teeth.

  He couldn't lose Liv.

  No matter what, he must not lose Livvy.

  "You're very quiet," she said when he wordlessly drove toward his apartment complex, "for a man who can't stand to be without me between Fridays." Mitch scrambled for the words to explain, that would explain everything. But he wasn't sure he understood it himself. Not anymore. Being with Sammy was . . . addicting. Mitch slept with him, ate with him, was fucked and sucked by him. In the past days, Sam had offered him a Shangri-La of sex: in the morning, after work, whenever Mitch wanted him in the dark of night.

  Sam still hadn't let Mitch fuck his ass.

  But Sam's candy store of orgasms was Mitch's play land.

  It wasn't just the sex, though.

  They'd played a cutthroat game of one-on-one basketball after dinner yesterday. Sam had clocked him in the chin with his elbow to make the shot. Mitch'd returned the favor by charging him, knocking him flat on his very fine ass. And they'd stopped at a pub to share a beer after.

  Sammy was easy to be with.

  Fun, in bed and out of it.

  Mitch'd had scores of gay lovers in the past fifteen years and he'd never lacked friends, but he'd never had both, not in the same testosterone-stuffed package. Not that Sam couldn't be a pain in the ass. The guy was a clean freak. Mitch wasn't a slob. Being raised in the filth and stink of Gary's trailer had taught him to appreciate fresh sheets, a sink empty of dishes, and a living space un-littered by trash and dirty clothes.

  But Sammy bought coasters. And scented candles.

  The dude just wasn't normal.

  Then, there was the food. Nothing Mitch had was good enough. Mitch's needs were basic. Coffee was coffee. Beef was beef, and if he didn't have the time or inclination to cook, the deli down the street had a nice selection of subs, fried chicken, and the best meatloaf Mitch had ever tasted. Fresh fruit? No. Vegetables were toppings for sandwiches and occasional pizzas. Herbs came in mysterious bottles best left to people who knew what to do with them.

  Not only did Sammy know what to do with them, he suggested that Mitch try buying those herbs from the produce section—like Mitch was a regular visitor of produce—or growing some in pots on his window sill. Sam had sworn that he'd never go back to dried herbs again.

  Personally, Mitch didn't give a shit.

  They'd settled that argument by agreeing Sam would do the shopping and they'd split the grocery bill fifty-fifty. And Sammy could have the kitchen windowsill to grow whatever he wanted as long as the crop wouldn't get Mitch arrested. Mitch liked him, though, liked having him around. He liked waking up next to him. Sam had been wrong about that—he didn't have to crawl out of bed early to make himself pretty for Mitch. Nope. The blond stubbled rasp of his morning beard embarrassed Sam, but opening his eyes to a sleepy, scruffy Sam unfurled something warm and wonderful in Mitch's belly. The way Sam's mind worked fascinated him, too. Why did the guy have so many shoes? Italian ones, no less. Wasn't it supposed to be chicks who went nuts over Italian shoes?

  Sam was very much a guy.

  Not effeminate.

  At all.

  So what was the deal with the frippy coffee, the bundle of leafy stems Sam insisted was basil, and the army of Italian shoes?

  Guys who clocked him on the chin to score two lousy points in a pick-up game of basketball were not supposed to give a rat's hairy ass about freaking basil. Sammy was a puzzle, one Mitch hadn't figured out.

  And Mitch was beginning to care about him more than he wanted to. He tapped the steering wheel with nervous fingers, darted a glance at Liv. "You can't know how much I need you right now. I couldn't wait—this can't wait—until Friday. It's just that there've been complications," he finally told her. Then, blew out a hard breath. Gave up. "We'll talk about it when we get home." She arched an eyebrow at him, but didn't pepper him with questions, which both annoyed and relieved Mitch. Was it so damn difficult for her to pretend to care that he'd run into problems since she'd last seen him? To show an iota of interest?

  Apparently.

  He frowned.

  Okay.

  He was being a prick. Ragged anxiety scraped his nerves and the edginess was making him snarl.

  He was glad, fervently glad, that she hadn't grilled him.

  Because no matter what he'd told Sammy, Mitch wasn't at all sure that Liv wouldn't flip out when she realized Sam had moved in with him. Sam, who cooked for him. And sucked him so sweetly and fucked Mitch into a mindless, gelatinous daze.

  Who snored.

  The Sam who had spread files and papers brought home from work across the newly cleared dining room table when Mitch led Liv into his apartment. Liv blinked and gaped at the cavernous space that used to house towers of moving boxes. "Where's your stuff? Did you get robbed?" she asked, then her dark eyes narrowed on Sammy sitting at his dining room table. "What's he doing here?" Sam turned, sexy wire-frame glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The swelling over his eye had gone down, but a rainbow of yellow, blue, and black still colored the left side of his face. His bruises mushroomed beneath the lenses of his glasses, mottling his skin from cheekbone to temple. His lips stretched to a smile. "Hi, Liv."

  Her jaw dropped.

  The shiner, Mitch hoped, would save him.

  Liv raced to Sam. "Oh my God, Sammy, what happened?" She tipped his head up, brushed his blond hair aside to examine his eye in the overhead light.

  "His roommates," Mitch said, tossing his car keys on the end table in the living room. "The nursery school teacher called his roommate's fiancé, who called his roommate and long story short, they decided Sammy was a lying bastard for never telling any of them that he was gay and a shithead for leading the nursery school teacher on."

  Her eyes rounded. "Where else are you hurt?" She tipped his jaw so she could see if more injuries were hiding from her. Seeing none, she dropped her hands to his shirt to unbutton it. "How are you ribs?"

  "I'm fine." Sam brushed her hands away. "You'll make Mitch jealous." Mitch's brows beetled.

  Like hell.

  Liv's dark eyes narrowed. "Why would he be jealous?"

  "This is your night with him," Sam said, re-buttoning the two she'd slipped free.

  "I would've left before he got back with you, but he said I should stay for a few minutes. So we could explain."

  She ping-ponged her stare from Mitch, to Sam, then back to Mitch. "What's going on," she said. The severe tone of her voice changed the question to a demand. Mitch braced himself. "Sammy moved in."

  Sam caught one of her hands, held it in his. "It's not permanent. I'm looking for another apartment."

  Mitch's heart skipped an optimistic beat when she paled, stared down at Sammy, her fingers grasping at his. "They kicked you out?" she gasped.

  "I couldn't live there anymore, not after this," Sam said, winking his wounded left eye. "Besides, they filed a restraining order against me. Legally, I'm not allowed within fifty feet of them."

  Her brows furrowed, her dark eyes sparking with indignation. "But they hit you!"

  Mitch winced. She wasn't going to like this part. "Uh . . . . Babe. It didn't quite go down that way."

  Liv tore her hand from Sam's grasp and crossed her arms over her chest. She glared at them both. "I'm waiting."

  "When I went back to my place Sunday night, my roommates and I argued." The corner of Sam's mouth curved. "One thing led to another, Jeff called me a faerie. I lost my temper. I took the first swing."

  Mitch crossed the room to pull Liv into his arms. Because he couldn't stand being away from her anymore. "And the second swing. And the third."

  "One of my roommates,
I'm not even sure which, clipped me in the eye, but I did a hell of a lot more damage to them. The cops tracked me down here and served me on Monday."

  "He's lucky they didn't file charges. I've seen them." Mitch waved at Sam's rapidly healing eye. "This is nothing."

  Liv stared at Mitch, then at Sam. Back to Mitch again.

  Oh crap.

  Dread churned Mitch's stomach.

  Here it comes.

  "So," she said, outraged sympathy leeching from her voice. Her eyes took on a glitter when she looked at Sam that made Mitch's hands shake. "You're living with Mitch."

  "Just until I find another apartment." Sam swept files and paperwork into a neat stack and stuffed them into a black leather briefcase. "Now that you know everything, I'll get out of your hair."

  She blinked at him. "What?"

  "This is your night with him. I'm intruding."

  Liv wasn't stupid so her breath caught on a gasp in the span of a heartbeat. "You only have one bedroom. One bed." She turned and stared into Mitch's eyes, hers sparkling with stunned betrayal. "You've been sleeping with him?" Mitch's stomach roiled. "Yes."

  Sam pushed to his feet. "I'll get my bag from the bedroom."

  "Having sex with him?" Her bottom lip quivered. "Without me?" Mitch hugged her closer, against his chest. Kissed the crown of her head as Sam slid by them. When he heard Sam moving in their bedroom, Mitch nudged her chin up.

  "I love you, Livvy. You know that I do."

  Tears glistened in her eyes. "Sure. That's why you're having sex with Sam. Because you love me so much." She wiped at her watery eyes. Pulled herself free of his embrace.

  Panic tightened his throat. "We agreed to share him." Her mouth twisted to a bitter smile. "I didn't know sharing him meant you'd move him into your bed, screw him every night, and I'd join the two of you as your Friday night fuck buddy."

  Fear streaked, icy cold, down his spine. "It's not like that." She sneered at him. "It's exactly like that."

  Holy shit, he was losing her.

  Sick terror rocked Mitch to the marrow of his bones.

  He couldn't lose Liv.

  Nothing— nothing—was worth that.

  "He's just a lay, Livvy. A damn good one, but that's all he is." Mitch shoved a frantic hand through his hair. "I don't love him the way I love you. If you want me to get rid of him, I will. I won't lose you over a piece of ass!" Her eyes focused over his shoulder, widened.

  When he pivoted, Sam stood in their bedroom door, his briefcase and duffel bag dangling from his fingers. His face drained of color and even Mitch, as obtuse as he could be, recognized the pain that sparked in his blue eyes.

  "Excuse me," Sam said, his gaze lowering as he walked toward the door. Oh shit.

  Mitch reached a helpless hand toward him, wishing to God he could take the words back. "Sammy."

  The soft click as Sam shut the door resounded like canon fire.

  Liv rounded on him, eyes sharply accusing. "How could you do that to him?" Mitch's jaw dropped.

  She threw her hands in the air. "Well, go after him," she demanded, pushing Mitch to the door. "You can't let him leave like that."

  "I thought you didn't want him," he said, when she yanked the door open and shoved him through it.

  She growled in frustration. "Go talk to him. Bring him back and don't you dare break his heart."

  She slammed the door in his face.

  Mitch exhaled a long breath, then turned to jog to Sam's Camri in the parking lot.

  "Sam, wait."

  "It's okay, Mitch." He shut his duffel bag in the trunk. "I went into this with my eyes wide open. I'll come back for the rest of my things while you're at work tomorrow."

  Mitch met him at the driver's side door, grabbed his arm to stop him. "I told you Liv gets shaky when I throw something new at her, remember?" Sam's lips curled to a self-deprecating smile. "She didn't look shaky. She knew exactly what she wanted. Me. Out."

  Mitch's hand dropped. "She told me to bring you back."

  "Maybe I don't want to go back." Sam glared at him. "Maybe I don't want to be your piece of ass anymore."

  Mitch winced, regret twisting his gut. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that to come out like it did."

  "You meant it. Crudely put, but you meant every word." Sam fisted his keys in his hand.

  "You want to take a punch at me?" Mitch eyed his fist. He'd seen the damage Sam had inflicted on the asshole roommates, but keeping Sam was worth a few cuts and bruises. "I won't stop you."

  "I won't hit you." Sam blew out a long breath, uncurled his stiff fingers. "I want to, but I won't. Liv'll be upset if I bust up your pretty face."

  "You're the one with the pretty face. I'm tough and dangerous, remember?" Desperate, greedy hope exploded through Mitch. He could still salvage this, still have Liv and Sam both. If he kept Sam talking, he wasn't leaving and if Sam wasn't leaving, Mitch had a chance to make everything right between them again. "You're more than a piece of ass to me."

  Sam's shoulders lifted and fell as he blew out a long, tired breath. "You love her. She's your first priority. Your first, last, and only priority."

  "I care about you, too." Mitch's shoulder jerked to a shrug. "More than I should." Sam's mouth curved. "But not enough."

  "You're too straight to want the happily ever after with a guy. Don't act like you want it with me when we both know that's a lie." Mitch frowned at him. "I hurt you and I'm sorry for it. I stomped all over the rosy fantasies you've been building. But the only reason you're mad is because you see too much of yourself in me. We're too alike. Cocks are for fun, but cunts are forever."

  Sam grimaced at the crudity. "What you said hurt because it isn't all fantasy, Mitch. You're right. I don't want you forever, but I need to be more than—"

  "You are." Mitch stared at the gritty cement of the parking lot. "It isn't all fantasy for me, either."

  Sam sighed. "I'll come back inside."

  Wild joy streaked through Mitch's heart, forced his gaze up and a wide smile to his lips.

  "But you have to tell her you have feelings for me, too," Sam said, his blue eyes steely. "I won't be a piece of ass to either one of you." Mitch's throat tightened. "All right."

  Chapter Twenty

  Not only did Sam come back inside.

  He returned to their apartment, where Sam and Liv banished Mitch to the living room while they huddled in the kitchen, ostensibly to cook dinner, but mostly to talk in hushed murmurs Mitch couldn't make out. Sam's low voice and Liv's soft soprano competed with clanging pots and the crackling snap of something frying on his stove. Mitch sat, alone, in his recliner.

  Unwelcome.

  Though not unwanted.

  His lovers talking about him when Mitch wasn't there to defend himself didn't bode well, but at least they'd stayed. They were together. All three of them. Exactly as Mitch wanted.

  The smells coming from the kitchen were fucking fantastic, too. Mitch's stomach rumbled at the fragrant mix of tomato and melted cheese that wafted to him. Pizza. Or maybe some fancy kind of spaghetti.

  Liv shot a glare at him when she carried the Fiestaware to the dining room table, and Mitch figured he was in for a rough night, but Sammy winked when he followed her, flatware in hand, linen napkins draped over his arm and a basket— where had the man found a basket?—of crusty garlic bread that smelled so good Mitch's mouth watered. Liv darted back into the kitchen, returning with a large wooden bowl. She slapped a thick pad of potholders at the table's center just in time for Sam to emerge with a bubbling glass, baking dish of—

  Mitch nearly wept.

  Lasagna.

  They'd made fucking lasagna.

  Oh my God, Liv and Sam could yell at him all night, shoot him in the head, rip his arm off, and beat him with it. Mitch didn't care. As long as he got a thick slice of lasagna first.

  "Mitch?" Liv called.

  He pushed from the recliner, walked to the table, and then froze when his gaze ripped from the food to sweep the place settings.


  Liv and Sam stood to one side, watching—waiting—for him.

  Okay.

  They were pissed.

  The table was a discard from his last marriage. Days before Andrea left, he'd taken delivery on a custom dining room suite she'd ordered and subsequently won in the divorce. But with expensive new furniture to preoccupy his ex, their old trestle table had been one of the few good pieces Mitch had managed to hang onto. Solid, with a knotty pine finish that warmed under Mitch's appreciative fingers, the table stretched to seat eight and spilled out of the tiny space of his apartment's dining room. Liv and Sam had set the table with a single setting at one end, twin settings clustered at the other, and the long stretch of table between.

  Did they plan on banishing him to the Siberia of the lonely end of the table?

  Make him choose who'd sit with him at the other?

  Mitch's jaw clenched. "Fuck that." He stalked to the single setting, snatched the plate, placemat and silverware. He marched to the other end, shoving the extra setting in place so a pair of settings bracketed the third at the table's head. Where he sat and glared at them both.

  Sam arched an eyebrow.

  "Sit," Mitch said through gritted teeth.

  Lips thinned to a line, Liv sat to his right while Sam settled at his left straightening the sloppy work Mitch had made relocating the plate and cutlery.

  "Do you understand the difficulties of what Sam tells me you propose to solve our little problem?" Liv said, snapping out her napkin to lay it gently in her lap.

  "I understand that you're making it more difficult than it needs to be," Mitch said, spine stiffening. He pointed to the now-empty end of the table. "You put the place setting there. Not me."

  Sam snagged Mitch's plate and scooped a fat slab of lasagna onto it. "And when she wants a night alone with you? Or I do? What then?"

  "We're reasonably intelligent adults. Most of the time." Mitch scowled at them.

  "We'll figure it out."

  Liv frowned at him and dumped a heaping pile of salad next to the lasagna on his plate. "We shouldn't have to—"

  "Every relationship requires work, Liv. It doesn't happen because of wishful thinking. Everybody works together, compromises a little—"