In the midst of the orgasm, Blay happened to glance up. In the big old-fashioned mirror that hung between the two windows across the way, he saw them both, knew they were joined…and it made him come all over again.
Eventually, the thrusting slowed. Heart rates went down. Breathing grew easier.
In the leaded glass of the mirror, he watched as Qhuinn shut his eyes and tucked his head downward. Against the side of his throat, Blay felt the softest of brushes.
Qhuinn’s lips.
And then the male’s free hand drifted upward, pausing to stroke across Blay’s pecs—
Qhuinn froze. Jerked back. Removed his lips, his touch. “Sorry. Sorry, I…know you’re not into that with me.”
The change in the guy’s face, that return to the cynical normal, was like being robbed.
And yet Blay couldn’t tell him to come back in close. Qhuinn was right; the instant that tenderness appeared, he started to get panicky.
The withdrawal was quick, too quick, and Blay missed the feeling of fullness and possession. But it was time to end this.
Qhuinn cleared his throat. “Ah…do you want to…”
“I’ll take care of it,” Blay mumbled, replacing Qhuinn’s hand over the crumpled boxers at his hips.
During the sex, the silence in the room had been about privacy. Now, it just amplified the sounds of Qhuinn pulling his leathers back on.
Shit.
They had gone down the rabbit hole again. And while it was happening, the sensations were so intense and overpowering, there was no thinking of anything other than the sex. In the aftermath, though, Blay’s body felt too cold in the seventy-degree air, different places throbbing from use, his legs loose and wobbly, his brain fuzzy…
Nothing seemed secure or sure. In the slightest.
Forcing himself to get dressed, he piled the clothes on as fast as he could, right down to his loafers. Meanwhile, Qhuinn was the one who returned the sofa where it belonged, carefully putting the feet of the legs back in the divots they’d made in the carpet. He also rearranged the throw pillows. Straightened the Oriental.
It was like it had never happened. Except for the boxers that Blay crushed in his fist.
“Thank you,” Qhuinn said quietly. “I, ah…”
“Yeah.”
“So…I guess I’ll go now.”
“Yeah.”
That was it.
Well, other than the door closing.
Left alone, Blay decided he needed a shower. More food. Sleep.
Instead, he stayed in the second-story sitting room, looking at that mirror, remembering what he had seen in it. In his mind, he had some vague thought that they couldn’t keep doing that. It wasn’t safe for him emotionally; in fact, it was the equivalent of holding your palm above a lit burner over and over again—except every time you put your hand back above the flame, you lowered the distance between your flesh and the heat. Sooner or later? Third-degree burns were the least of your problems, because your whole goddamn arm was on fire.
After a while, however, that self-preservation thing wasn’t what he dwelled on.
It was what had started the whole thing.
Make it stop.
Blay drew a hand through his hair. Then he looked at the closed door and frowned, his mind churning, churning, churning…
A moment later, he left in a rush, walking quickly.
Before breaking into a jog.
And then falling into a flat-out run.
FORTY-ONE
It was around ten in the morning when Trez headed over to Sal’s Restuarant. The trip from the apartment at the Commodore to his brother’s fine-dining establishment wasn’t long, only ten minutes, and there were plenty of free parking spots in the lot when he got there.
Then again, the place didn’t open, even to the kitchen staff for prep, until one in the afternoon.
As he walked over to the entrance, his boots crunching in the snow, he half expected the code that unlocked things from the outside not to work: iAm hadn’t come home at the end of the night, and assuming those cocksuckers at the s’Hisbe hadn’t taken the guy for collateral, there was only one place his brother could be: After two pots of coffee and a lot of checking his watch, Trez knew that if he wanted to make peace, he had to head across town.
Cool. The combination hadn’t been changed.
Yet.
Inside, the place was old-school Rat Pack done right, a modern interpretation of the era that had spawned the likes of Peter Lawford and the Chairman of the Board: An entryway with black-and-red flocked wallpaper took you to the receiving area, where the coat check, retro hostess stand and cashier’s desk were. To the left, and to the right, there were two main dining rooms, both done in black and red velvet and leather, but they weren’t where the local made guys, politicians, and wealthy types hung out. The sweet spot was the bar up ahead, a wood-paneled room that had red leather banquettes set against the walls and, during regular hours, a tuxedoed bartender behind a thirty-foot oak stretch serving nothing but the best.
Striding into the bar’s dim expanse, Trez headed around the far end of the five-tiered display of bottles and hit the flap door. As he pushed his way into the kitchen, the scent of basil and onion, oregano and red wine, told him just how stressed iAm was.
Sure enough, the guy was facing off at the sixteen-burner stove on the far wall, five huge pots simmering in front of him—and what do you want to bet there were things in the stoves, too. Meanwhile, wooden cutting boards were lined up on the stainless-steel counters, the dead heads of various kinds of peppers lolling around next to the very sharp knives that had been used.
Ten bucks to guess who the guy had been thinking of when he’d been chopping stuff.
“You going to talk to me at all?” Trez said to his brother’s back.
iAm moved to the next pot, lifting its lid with a white dishcloth, a big slotted spoon going in and stirring slowly.
Trez leaned to the side and pulled over a stainless-steel stool. Taking a seat, he rubbed his thighs up and down.
“Hello?”
iAm went to the next pot. And then the next. Each had a separate spoon for flavor flagellation, and his brother was careful not to cross-contaminate.
“Look, I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you came by the club tonight.” Every evening, iAm headed over to the Iron Mask for a check-in after Sal’s closed. “I had some business to take care of.”
Shit, yeah, he did. Baby girl with the bouncer BF had taken forever to get out of his car when he’d gotten her to her house—eventually he’d walked her to the door, opened the way in, and all but toastered her through the jambs. Back at his Beamer, he’d hit the gas like he’d planted a bomb in the walk-up, and as he’d steamed over to the Iron Mask, all he’d heard in his head was iAm’s voice.
You can’t keep doing this.
iAm turned around at that point, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the stove. His biceps were big to begin with, but cranked like that, they strained the bounds of the black T-shirt he was wearing.
His almond-shaped eyes were half-lidded. “You actually think I’m pissed off that you weren’t around when I got to the club? Really. It’s not because you left me to deal with AnsLai or some shit.”
Annnnnnnnd they were off to the races.
“I can’t see any of them face-to-face, you know that.” Trez lifted his hands, all what-am-I-gonna-do? “They would try to force me to go back with them, and then what are my options? Fight? I’d end up killing the son of a bitch, and then where would I be?”
iAm rubbed his eyes like he had a headache. “Right now, it appears as if they’re taking a diplomatic approach. At least with me.”