Chapter Seven
The next week was almost a letdown considering the drama of the previous. He went back to work, still healing. Neither of his employers were pleased at the idea of him serving customers with a black eye, but when he told them what happened, they were understanding. Sandra, the manager at the diner, let him switch to washing dishes for the week. Alan, at the bar, had joked he added character to the establishment and gave some well-meant advice about staying safe in the city. He walked home the longer route, along the main streets, and he didn’t encounter his attackers again. That, more than anything, told him it was just a random occurrence.
He and Sam were back to running into each other at odd hours, but now they made a point of stopping to talk and sharing a meal now and then. Matt called over once during the week but then seemed to disappear again.
It was Friday afternoon when Sandra called him into the back. She didn’t beat around the bush.
“I’m sorry, Drew. It isn’t working out. Here’s your paycheck for all your hours worked this week.”
She handed it to him in an envelope with a nervous smile.
“I… I see. I mean, I know I didn’t get off to a great start coming in all bruised up my second week.”
“No, no,” she said, “that wasn’t—” She stopped herself, pursing her lips. “It didn’t come from me, Drew. It came from the owner. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks for giving me a chance, Sandra.”
He didn’t linger, grabbing his jacket, and setting off home. As soon as he opened the door, he knew he wasn’t alone. Sam was working a shift so the presence of someone in the apartment had him on edge, one hand on his cell phone, the other on the apartment door, ready to take off if he was right, if it was Russell—
“Hey.” Sam stuck his head around the corner, giving him a puzzled stare. “Are you going to stand there all day?”
He wandered over to the couch, his back to Drew, so he didn’t see Drew’s shoulders sag or how his hands shook as he shut the door.
“You’re home early.”
Sam didn’t reply, and it was enough to draw Drew across the room to where the other man sat. He was clued in quickly, with the can of beer in Sam’s hand and the two empty cans on the coffee table. So far, he hadn’t seen Sam drink more than one at a time and never when he had work the next day.
Circling around, he sat down on the couch beside him.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Is everyone okay?” He knew the risks that came with the kind of work Sam did.
Sam seemed surprised at the question. “Yeah, the team’s okay. A little rattled, but okay.”
“But it was a hard call?” If no one was hurt, then either it was something they’d seen or something they’d been forced to do.
Sam ran a hand across his face. “In more ways than one. But we did our job and people are safer for it.”
And in the end, that was what mattered. At least, so everyone said. They probably weren’t counting the cost for people like Sam.
“Is there anything I can do?” It didn't seem like he wanted to talk about it.
Sam gestured to the beer in his hand. “Just trying to take my mind off it.”
“Is it working?”
“Hell, no,” Sam replied, setting the can down on the coffee table. “Tell me something about you, Drew. Something that’s real, that means something to you.”
Sam turned to him, meeting his eyes, and not looking away. What had the other man said, the last day they’d spoken like this? Something about making a connection.
He stayed silent so long, Sam turned away, reaching for his beer again and in desperation Drew blurted out something he shouldn’t have.
“I haven’t gambled since they day I left home five years ago.”
It was stupid but Sam’s opinion meant something to him. He didn’t want him to think he was just some addict, stuck in a never-ending spiral.
“Logan said—”
“I told him I was in trouble. He assumed the rest, and I didn’t correct him. Better the devil he knew about than the one he didn’t.”
“You were protecting him?”
“I guess.” That wasn’t really what he wanted to talk about.
“Care to tell me what you’re protecting him from?”
He shook his head, looking down at his hands.
“Here, you want to finish this?” Sam held out his beer. Drew took it and swallowed a mouthful, grateful for the reprieve.
“So why’d you stop gambling?”
“I think the better question is why I started.” He took another sip of beer, savoring the taste of the warm liquid on his tongue.
“With things at home, I was miserable. I couldn’t win, not with my dad. Logan was already overseas, serving his country, and nothing I could do was right. The games, the gambling, was something I could win, something I was good at. Except when I wasn’t. Logan came home on leave and bailed me out. Dad found out, kicked up a fuss, threatened to throw me out on my ear. Only relented when I dropped out of school and got a job. But no school meant no chance of college. Dad was mollified, but he wanted me to enlist like Logan. He kept upping the pressure, and I was reaching breaking point.”
“And Logan?”
“Deployed. Fighting for our freedom.” He wasn’t being facetious. He was damn proud of Logan and everything he’d done. But he could see the irony in his brother fighting for the country’s freedom while he became progressively more trapped in their family home.
“How old were you when you left?”
“Nineteen. I realized if I didn’t get out then, I never would.”
“And you’re twenty-four now. Five years of odd jobs?” Sam asked quietly, his eyes on the space between them and not Drew. Damn it, he knew, or he guessed at least.
“That’s a whole other story.”
“Alright, I won’t push.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes and Drew could see Sam’s thoughts were returning to his day and whatever bad thing that had happened. He didn’t want Sam going back down that path but he didn’t know how to keep him from it without spilling secrets he wasn’t willing to divulge.
Setting down the can, he kicked off his shoes and drew his legs up under him, turning so he was facing the other man.
“I’d suggest a game of spin the bottle, but there’s only two of us and cans don’t spin nearly as well.”
Sam twisted so he was facing him, one knee bent and his hand tucked under it.
“I think we’re a little old for games, don’t you?”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Drew replied, leaning forward, bracing himself with one hand pressed between them. He stopped inches from Sam’s face, leaving it up to him to make the next move.
Sam’s hand found his cheek, fingers ghosting across his skin.
“You’re almost healed,” he murmured, tracing a thumb across Drew’s lip. Drew let his eyes close, just letting himself feel. Sam’s hand tipped his head up, then his lips were on Drew’s, gentle at first, as if sounding him out, then urgent, needy, his hand slipping behind Drew’s head to urge him closer. Drew parted his lips, giving way to Sam’s tongue as it pushed against his.
Sam pulled back with a groan, resting his forehead against Drew’s. “I don’t sleep around,” he insisted.
Drew pressed his mouth to Sam’s ear. “This isn’t sleeping around, it’s kissing. Just kissing.”
He pressed his lips against the soft skin in front of Sam’s ear, just brushing the light stubble on Sam’s cheek. Sam’s hand slipped lower to cup the back of his neck, his palm hot against Drew’s cool skin. Drew took that as agreement, dragging kiss after kiss across Sam’s face until they were lip to lip again.
“Just kissing,” Sam murmured, before his mouth found Drew’s again, insistent, wanting. Then Sam’s arms were around him, moving lower, shifting both their positions until Drew was on his back on the couch, Sam above him, their bodies pressed together just as surely as their lips.