Double Blind

by Heidi Cullinan

  Ethan redeemed himself when he led them to the poker room. “I want to know about the other games. How do you play them?”

  Randy pointed to the tables as he spoke. “They’re all different. Pai Gow, Seven-Card Stud, Omaha Hi/Lo—that’s about it. Mostly it’s Hold ’Em, limit or no-limit.”

  “And what’s the room back there?” Ethan indicated an ornate set of doors beneath a stained-glass window depicting men with cards.

  “Billy’s Room. Billy Senior, mind you. Invite-only in there, Crabtree issuing. The rake alone can bring in more than the rest of the casino some nights. Big, big games happen there. Thousands of dollars a hand.”

  Ethan stared thoughtfully at the door. “Billy didn’t mention it this afternoon. Have you been there?”

  “God, no.”

  Ethan raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t want to?”

  “If I had that much money, I wouldn’t play poker with it.”

  Ethan elbowed him gently. “You haven’t answered me about the bet.”

  “You mean about the statue?” Randy rolled his eyes. “Sure. What’s the bet?”

  “That I can get the fountain back.”

  “By when?”

  Ethan considered. “A month.”

  It wasn’t going to happen, ever, but Randy was feeling particularly sadistic. “Two weeks.”

  Ethan smiled. “Done.”

  Why was the smile getting to him so much tonight? “Terms, Slick. What are we betting to win?”

  Ethan frowned. “I don’t know. Money?”

  “Money is so boring. How about a lap dance for the winner, from the loser?”

  Ethan’s gaze hooded. “That sounds acceptable.”

  Yeah, because we both win no matter what. Talk about getting the best of it. Randy held out his hand, Ethan shook it, and the bet was made.

  “Where did Mitch and Sam go?” Ethan glanced around. “I thought they were with us.”

  “We headed toward poker, and they figured it was time to entertain themselves. My guess would be the River.”

  “The bar.” Ethan stuck his hands in his pockets and rolled on his heels for a second, thinking. Then he looked at Randy. “Well. Do you want to go find them?”

  Randy shrugged. “I’m just following you around, Slick, waiting for orders.”

  Ethan’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, is that how it is? Why didn’t you say so?” He took Randy’s arm and led him through the tables.

  “Where are we going, Ethan?” Randy asked, his voice full of warning.

  “To play a game, Ace.”

  “I’m not playing craps.”

  “No, you’re playing roulette.”

  “The fuck I am.” Randy tried to pull away.

  Ethan didn’t let him go. “You’re playing. I’m buying the chips. And you’re playing.”

  Why the hell did Ethan have to get all dominant over this? Why couldn’t he be ordering them back to the house for something interesting? But no, they had to play roulette.

  Adding insult to injury, they sat at Tyler’s table—the same dealer who had taken Ethan’s last five dollars. Ethan didn’t seem to care as he placed two hundred stacks on the table and ordered, with an authority that made Randy sit up straighter, two colors. Tyler even added a “Yes, sir,” as he scooped up the regular casino chips and traded them out for blue and yellow roulette tokens.

  Randy took up the yellow. “I want it noted I’m here under duress.”

  Ethan patted his hand. “Yes, dear.”

  Randy had to work not to shudder. There was no fucking way he could let Slick know how those little endearments got to him.

  He clinked the chips in his stack for a few seconds before pulling off a third of them. Ten dollars on the third twelve, ten on odd, and then in afterthought tucked the rest of what was in his hand on the six line of 19 and 22.

  Ethan, who had put twenty dollars on the first twelve and twenty on black, raised his eyebrows at Randy’s choices. “You just bet against yourself. Either 19-24 or 25-36 is going to lose.”

  “Oh, they’ll probably both lose. It’ll be 14 red. You’ll be out, and so will I. And there goes the better portion of two hundred dollars.”

  “Yes, but it’s Billy’s money.” Ethan leaned on the rail and looked curiously at Randy as Tyler let the ball fly. “It’s that you hate to lose, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t like anything where you can’t get the best of it.”

  “In other words, a game you don’t control.”

  Randy had to admit it was the truth. He shrugged and stared at the wheel, clinking his chips again as he waited for the ball to land.

  Ethan paid the wheel no attention. He spoke quietly into Randy’s ear. “So when you told me what you told me earlier—was it to gain control?”

  Randy’s nervous fingers stopped. The whole room seemed to stop. His chest felt heavy, like someone was sitting on it. Fucking hell, this question was the trap. He scrambled to come up with a safe answer, but mostly his thoughts banged around, a dozen ostriches fighting for the same hole to stick their heads in. This isn’t a game was the best he could come up with, but it would buy him a few seconds while Ethan rephrased. He knew what Ethan asked, and why. And he knew he couldn’t let Ethan think he’d said the words to try to control him.

  The ball bounced around the wheel as the wheel spun on and on and on.

  Randy ran his thumb along the silver ring, and then, because he didn’t trust himself to speak, simply shook his head.

  The ball landed.

  “32 red.” Tyler placed the dolly.

  Ethan leaned closer and brushed a kiss against Randy’s ear. It was the barest of touches, but it made Randy’s whole body tingle, and he had to briefly shut his eyes.

  Ethan slid onto his chair. “You won.”

  Randy snorted. “Yeah. One bet, at two to one. I lost the five to one and the even odds. I made twenty but lost twenty-five. And you lost forty. No black again, either, I might point out.”

  “It’ll come around.”

  “It doesn’t have to.”

  Ethan gave him an enigmatic smile. “But I’m fairly sure it will. Eventually.” He nodded to Tyler and rose from the table.

  Randy followed. “And in the meantime, how much money are you going to lose for even odds?”

  “How much fun are you going to deny yourself because you hate to lose?”

  Randy waved an irritated hand at him and stormed away.

  It was a stupid, dramatic exit, and he knew it was stupid the second he did it, but the hell if he was going to sit there and let Tyler gloat. It didn’t help that Ethan’s little jibe had caught. It had caught and torn, and it felt like every step he took away from Ethan exposed the raw panic he’d been denying ever since the limo. It was still there, buried under irritation and denial, and he couldn’t run from it, not even inside the casino.

  So he stopped next to a line of video poker machines and waited. It didn’t take long. Ethan didn’t say anything as he came up behind him, simply put a hand on his arm.

  Randy glowered at the blinking lights of the machine in front of him. “You know, just because Crabtree’s run off doesn’t mean you need to take his place as the resident manipulator.” Ethan still didn’t say anything, which was all the more annoying. Randy nodded over his shoulder at the tables. “You look pretty stupid sitting there championing fate and risk at the very table where you bet your last dollar before you were going to go out to your car and blow your brains out.”

  The thought, as always, made him feel sick and cold, and he stopped talking.

  Ethan stroked his arm. “I didn’t know what I was supposed to do, having figured out I wanted to live after all but with nothing left except the car and the gun.”

  Randy twitched, shaking Ethan off. “Don’t. Don’t even talk about it, Slick. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry I did.”

  “I’m not.” Ethan reclaimed his hand. “I was sitting there wishing—praying, even—that something would happ
en, so I wouldn’t have to go through with it.”

  Randy let out a shuddering breath and tipped his head up toward the ceiling, which was suddenly blurry. He didn’t say anything, but when Ethan’s hand squeezed his, he squeezed back. “Let’s go home.”

  Ethan led him to the River, where they collected Mitch and Sam and headed to the limo. Mitch and Sam seemed to have picked up on the shift in the tenor of the evening—Sam played quieter music, and they sat in the same seats they’d begun in, Sam snuggling next to Mitch, Randy sitting rigid next to Ethan, softening when Ethan began rubbing gentle circles in the small of his back. He didn’t linger at the curb, though, when the limo stopped—and after saying hello and goodbye to Mandy—he headed for the bathroom.

  He washed his face and brushed his teeth, the usual before-bed rituals, avoiding his own reflection while he did it all. When he was done, he shut off the light and went into his room, peeled off his clothes, put on a pair of knit pants, and climbed into bed, where he drew the covers to his waist and stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t know what everyone else was doing or what they’d think of his absence, and he didn’t care.

  Much.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed. All he knew was that the door, which he hadn’t fully shut, opened, and he turned, defensive and ready to face whoever it was. But no one stuck their head in. Randy was frowning and trying to decide what the hell that had been about when there was a soft rip, rip beside his bed, and he turned in time to see Salomé appear beside his head.

  She mewed in inquiry, then came forward, purring.

  Randy turned on his side to stroke her head. “Hey, sweetheart. What are you doing in here?”

  She mewed again, purring louder as she nuzzled his hand. When he stopped petting, she reached out and nudged his nose with her paw, then, in afterthought, came forward and licked it too.

  Unable to help himself, Randy laughed and held still, enjoying it in a weird little way.

  They held a quiet communion for a while, Randy petting, Salomé purring and licking, and then she began to nest on his pillow before curling up right next to Randy’s face. She tucked her nose into his neck and her legs on his chest and went to sleep.

  Randy petted her for a few minutes before following suit.

  He woke briefly to find the room fully dark, no light coming in from the hall, the house silent. The bed behind him dipped, and Ethan’s long, warm body slid in against his. He tried to give Slick some room, but at the same time he murmured, “Don’t wake the kitten.”

  Ethan stroked his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Ace.”

  Randy did, a part of him he didn’t even know was tense easing as Ethan wrapped first his arm and then his leg around Randy. He fell, easily and deeply, into the sleep of kings.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ON MONDAY RANDY came into the kitchen to find a Sam he’d never met before.

  His normally sunny and affable friend looked jagged and unsteady—his hands shook around his coffee cup, and when Randy tried to comfort him, he only shook his head, refusing to engage. But what really unnerved Randy was how still Sam was. He had it all packed away, but it was clear Sam was a floodwall holding back a tide that hadn’t even come close to cresting.

  Eventually he gave up trying to crack Sam back open and hunted down Mitch, who wasn’t a whole lot better. He sat on his bed with a cell phone in hand, staring unseeing at the wall in front of him.

  “I have to leave for Kentucky tomorrow. I’m going to miss Sam’s therapy. And I can’t get out of it.”

  Randy eased onto the bed beside him and rubbed Mitch’s back. “It’ll be okay. We’ll make it work.”

  Mitch put a heavy hand on Randy’s leg. “Skeet—will you take him? He has his first appointment today, and I can’t go and get ready for the run too.”

  “No problem. I’ll take off work a few days, to be sure I’m around.”

  Mitch kept his eyes downcast. “This isn’t the way I wanted it to happen. Any of it.”

  “I know.” Randy squeezed Mitch’s shoulder. “I’ll take care of him, Old Man.”

  Sam, however, wasn’t mollified. When Randy told him he’d be going along, Sam broke out of his trance, but only to be angry. “So you’re my babysitter?”

  “Yeah. And it’s not negotiable, Peaches, so just accept it.”

  Ethan came into the kitchen, showered and fully dressed in some of his nicer clothes, Salomé trotting along beside him as he headed to the coffeepot. Randy frowned at him. “Where are you going so dressed up?”

  Ethan sipped at his coffee before answering. “Herod’s. I thought I should get started.” He glanced at his wrist, which was bare, and grimaced. “I should go shopping later today too. I need a few things, and I wanted to pick up a book about cat training.”

  Randy snorted. “You can’t train a cat.”

  Sam straightened in his chair. “I’ll look up some websites for you, Ethan.”

  “That would be lovely, Sam, thank you.” Ethan squeezed Sam’s shoulder as he addressed Randy. “You said you had some books on poker I could read. Do you have some on Las Vegas as well? On casinos? Or should I pick them up when I go for the cat-training book?”

  Randy felt dizzy. “I’ve got some stuff. But let me take you shopping.”

  Ethan smiled, making Randy a little dizzier. “Sure. What time do you want to meet up to go?”

  Randy pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Ethan. “I’ll call you when we know more. We’ll get you your own phone this afternoon. In the meantime call me at Sam’s number.”

  “Thanks.” Ethan pocketed the phone, put down the coffee cup and reached for his keys. “I’ll see you later.”

  “What, you’re going now? You haven’t eaten.”

  “I’ll grab something on the way.” Ethan patted his pants and gave Randy a rueful look. “Could I borrow a bit more cash? Last time, I promise. I spent the little I had the other night.”

  “Doesn’t have to be the last time.” Randy pulled a wad of twenties out of his wallet. “That do?”

  “More than enough. Thank you.” He leaned forward and kissed Randy’s cheek, hesitating before catching his lips too.

  Randy had to keep himself from leaning into the kiss as Ethan drew away. “What about your cat? You’re ready to leave her alone now?”

  “No.” Ethan scooped her up. “I’m taking her with me.”

  Randy was going to make all kinds of noise about the kitten in the casino, and then he realized with Crabtree’s history, nobody would blink. “Hold on a minute.” He took a travel mug from the cupboard, poured Ethan’s coffee into it and passed it to him. “For you.” He grabbed a Rubbermaid container, put some of the kitten’s food inside and tucked it into Ethan’s pocket. “For her.”

  That earned him one more kiss and a smile, and he watched them go, feeling all jumbled up inside, and he didn’t know why. He turned to Sam to vent some of his agitation, saw the look on his face and gave up. “Tell you what, sweetheart. You finish eating, and we’ll take a bike ride before your appointment.”

  Sam perked up despite himself. “Where to? Zion?”

  “Don’t have time enough to get there and back before your appointment. But…” Randy glanced at his watch, “…if we hustle, we could swing around on 147 past Lake Las Vegas and come in on the 564. What about that?”

  Sam grinned, pushed aside his bowl and stood in one motion before kissing Randy squarely on the cheek. Randy grunted and headed to the garage, calling, “Rinse your damn bowl out,” over his shoulder as he departed.

  They went down Carey Avenue and into the desert. The sun was bright and hot, and the land opened up before them. Randy needed the speed, the wind and the peace, the strange comfort that was Sam’s arms around him. He didn’t often have anyone riding with him, and now he’d had both Ethan and Sam in the same week. It was funny how different it was to drive them. With Sam behind him, he was a shelter, the man who blocked the wind and Sam held on to, the protector. With
Ethan he felt different. An equal, even when Slick was weird and quiet.

  An anchor. With Ethan on the bike, he was an anchor.

  The drive was beautiful. Sam always grumbled about how ugly the desert was, how he missed trees, but Randy loved it. It wasn’t barren but full of life, most of it rough and wicked and tough as shit. Las Vegas was an oasis too, always had been. Vegas meant meadow in Spanish. Vegas had lakes and little creeks and rivers. Even Sam, who missed his green grass and rolling fields, would admit those parts were beautiful.

  It was so much better to take this ride with someone along. He thought of how full the house had been this morning, everyone wandering in and out for breakfast, and how tomorrow there would be one less, with Mitch leaving. The thought was like a cloud passing overhead.

  He frowned and gunned the engine, willing speed to slough off the pang of loss.

  Sam’s counselor was on Paradise Road, almost literally in the shadow of the Stratosphere Tower, which seemed a good omen to Randy. He parked the bike and smiled up at the tower, wondering if it would at all be possible to sneak over there and have a look-see off the observation deck, when Sam grabbed his hand.

  “Randy, I want you to come with me.”

  “Sure, Peaches. I’ll be right there in the waiting room.” He could go up the tower anytime.

  But Sam’s hand tightened. “No. I want you to come in with me. To the therapist. Into her office with me.”

  Whoa. “Sam, listen—”

  “Mitch said he would. He said he’d go with me the first time, and now he’s not here. He said he was sorry, and I understand, but I still don’t want to go alone. I want you to go with me, Randy. Please.”

  Oh, fuck. Mitch, you fucking bastard. Randy wiped his mouth with his free hand. “Sure, Peaches. Sure.”

  Sam relaxed visibly, but he kept his hand in Randy’s all the way until the door. They checked Sam in and settled into a pair of chairs along the far wall, and as they waited, Randy indulged in some panic.

  Randy did not like therapists. They were fine for other people, but he did not care for them himself. He had seen exactly one, once, when he was ten, and while he would admit the woman had been nice, even kind, he’d left swearing he would never, ever go again. He’d managed to keep that vow all the way up until this moment. It didn’t matter this was for Sam, not him. He was in the fucking office. He was going to go sit in the fucking room.