PROLOGUE
1987
In a dim room rests a lone crystal glass, its contents emitting the faint aroma of juniper. Behind the glass is the jewel-bedecked hand of an indistinct figure, little more than a silhouette in the darkness.
The man brings the glass to his lips, then sets it down again. The sound echoes hollowly across the room. Its spacious interior is nearly empty, devoid of all its furnishings save for the single, small table where the man is sitting.
“So, twenty years to the day,” the man murmurs. “I thought I’d feel different, somehow… but it’s just a day like any other.”
He says the words aloud as if he’s addressing someone, though the chair across from him is empty. The man, however, is not quite alone. A large bird is perched on his lap, its plumage spilling sumptuously from its back and draping across the floor like an elegant cape. The man strokes its neck, and the creature reprimands him with a low trill, ruffling its feathers indignantly at the disturbance.
“I suppose I’d look different to you, though. We must be around the same age, now. Isn’t that strange?”
He gazes down at the creature in his lap, but the bird doesn’t seem to find anything strange. It has no concept of strange. It has no concept of time, either, for that matter, aside from feeling that it has already spent more than enough of it on the man’s lap, and it would very much like to wriggle out of his hands.
The man holds fast, however. His hands are too strong to fight, and eventually the quivering creature abandons its bid for freedom, at least for the time being.
“Maybe you’d be pleased to know that I’ve aged well. Or you wouldn’t care… no, I’m sure that you wouldn’t.”
Having decided this, the man chuckles to himself, picking up the crystal glass again and swirling it idly. Its facets catch the amber light spilling from around the corner of an annexing hallway. Briefly, the reflection dances across the man’s face. His features are handsome, though not quite human-- his ears are ringed with white fur, matching the numerous ashy streaks that pepper his graying hair. When he takes another swig from the glass, there’s a flash of sharp canines before the glass is returned to the table, taking with it the flicker of light.
“You know, I was right about one thing. I never did find anyone else who could satisfy me. And you… well, you were right about the rest. I guess I always knew you would be.”
The man sighs wearily and shakes his head. His fingers burrow deep into the bird’s plumage, undoing whatever careful preening it might have taken to arrange its feathered garb so neatly. The creature trembles, but does not fight him. Perhaps if it behaves, the man will let it go.
The man, however, is paying little mind to the creature’s behavior. His gaze is fixed on the empty chair across from him, or somewhere beyond it. In a practiced tone, he addresses that vacant space again, as he has likely done many times before.
“We’ve been doing renovations on the casino, lately. You’d hardly recognize the place. Most of the peacocks are long gone by now.” The man sighs, pensively regarding the creature in his lap. It seems there are no others; like the man, it is alone.
“It’s probably for the best,” he continues. “I remember how it used to bother you, seeing them here. ‘Birds don’t belong underground,’ you’d say. I suppose you were right about that, too.”
The man’s chair creaks as he leans backward, his fingers moving contemplatively over the bird’s plumage. A feeling of pity seems to have come over him, for he treats the creature more gently this time, his touch light and courteous. In response, the bird issues only the softest complaint.
“I’ve been holding on to this suite, though. Haven’t touched it. It didn’t feel right, having people stay here. Didn’t feel right living here, either.”
He pauses and raises his glass in what appears to be a silent toast to the vacant space before him, and in a single gulp, he finishes the contents and sets it down again.
“Mostly, I just come up here to pay my respects.”
He peers curiously into the bird’s eyes, then, as though he hopes to find something in them. But the creature’s eyes are dull and indifferent, and the soul within them is the innocent, uncomprehending soul of an animal. The man sighs despondently and the room falls silent again, save for the creak of the table and chair and the quiet tittering of the bird as the man runs his fingers through its plumage again. His eyes are closed. He appears to be imagining something else--someone else-- in the space between his fingers, clinging to the bird as he clings to that faded memory. Slowly, he moves his hand up the creature’s body, and his fingers close around its neck.
“Say hello to him for me, won’t you?”
This time, his question is only intended for the creature in his lap. Without another word, the man twists his hand. A sickening crack echoes across the paneled walls.
Afterward, there is only silence.
PART I
Chapter 1. Reveal
It was 1962, toward the tail end of Las Vegas’ summer tourism season, when the crowds at the Peacock had begun to dwindle. The casino had been strangely subdued that night, the usually heavy curtain of cigarette smoke thinning to a sheer haze, the once cacophonous chorus of voices and racket of slot machines diminished to a low hum. It was on this particular night, as the bustle of summer faded into the slow, quiet weeks of autumn, that Calder had first met him.
Perhaps it had taken the quiet to notice him there, in the darkest corner of the high stakes poker tables. Otherwise, he might have been hard to detect. Handsome as he was, this stranger seemed to take on the quality of the shadows around him. Like a rare bird shrouded in foliage, he appeared to observe all from his hidden corner, smartly dressed in an ensemble of dark, neutral tones, distinguishable only by the accents of blue that flashed out from the darkness, matching the iridescent shine of his feathered hair. From beneath the shadow of his black stetson, the stranger’s eyes shone brightly outward. There was a perceptive gleam in them, and when they fell on him, Calder had the feeling that the stranger’s curious gaze had not merely scanned his exterior, but had permeated deep down to his very soul.
It had been a perfectly ordinary encounter, a chance meeting of seemingly little consequence-- or would have been, had Calder not been the sort of person to doggedly pursue his interests to their ends by any means necessary. That night, the means happened to be a thousand dollars in cash. Normally, Calder didn’t bother himself with the high stakes tables at his father’s casino; there was plenty amusement to be found elsewhere, and in Las Vegas, the thrills came cheap if one knew where to look. But from the moment Calder first glimpsed this stranger, something in him knew that he was prepared to do whatever it took to turn those bright, inquisitive eyes his way, and to keep them there, even if it set him back a grand.
Of course, Calder was hardly concerned when it came to money. He’d always been careless with his spending, and had no reason not to be. The money was his father’s, after all, so there would always be more at the source. With reckless abandon, Calder had long supplied himself with the many fleeting comforts money could buy-- luxurious food and drink, a flashy wardrobe, a trendy pad, and entertainment-- a term which he had the tendency to define very loosely.
Tonight, however, there was no certainty that anything would come of his sizeable investment. His money had only bought him a seat at the table, a chance to briefly share a space with this stranger while the cash he wagered drained away to nothing. But if he was being honest, Calder hardly cared whether or not he won the game on the table. He was playing a different game-- a game with an outcome that would depend just as much on subtle gestures and glances, on reading his opponent and allowing himself, in turn, to be read.
Calder was decent enough at poker, a skill he’d honed after years of wandering around casinos in search of diversions. At this table, however, he quickly found himself out of his league. The high stakes tables were a much different affair than the casual games with run of the mill drunks and naive tourists he’d preyed on in the past. These men were professionals -- at least, one of them was.
From the moment Calder had first taken his seat across from the stranger, he’d found himself transfixed. Of course, the man was handsome, but he was handsome in a singular, uncommon way that most men weren’t. And Calder considered himself to have some measure of authority on the matter-- this stranger had been hardly the first man to have caught his eye. Still, there was something about him that made the other players and the casino around them melt into his periphery, that made the game seem like it was only being played between the two of them. When it came to the cards, he was near impossible to read. But the man was playing two games, just as Calder was. In time, he was pleased to find his purposeful glances returned with a vague smile in his direction, those bright eyes flashing playfully back at him from the shadows. A man whose trade was won by reading other people couldn't possibly have missed his intention.
He was cautious; Calder could discern that much from his style of play. And though he didn’t exactly look it, this stranger was definitely quite a bit older than Calder-- old enough to have a family, he guessed. Still, he'd clearly spent years perfecting his craft to be as good as he was, and no man with a happy family would dare to spend so many hours at a poker table.
Though his supply of chips was waning, Calder found himself feeling strangely hopeful, his confidence bolstered.
This was a game he wagered he could win.
Sure enough, as the last few rounds played out, the remainder of his chips found their way to the stranger’s copious piles all too easily. He seemed to have an almost magnetic propensity for them; the other players at the table had surrendered their chips nearly as quickly. Calder could hear them grumbling amongst themselves, gathering their empty glasses and bemoaning their empty wallets as they slowly dissipated into the depths of the casino.
Calder lagged purposefully behind, taking his time to gather himself up as the others slipped away. The stranger was lingering too. As he slowly made his way to cash out his winnings, Calder sidled coolly alongside him.
Though he’d waited for this moment all evening, Calder found his companion had become strangely timid now that the two of them were alone. Feeling a little foolish, he realized that throughout their time at the table, the two of them had hardly exchanged a word-- an oversight he decided he would promptly amend.
“Good game,” Calder remarked in his most sportsmanlike tone, casting the man a reassuring smile. To his relief, the man seemed to relax, chuckling amiably as the two of them meandered across the casino floor.
“Not a good game for you , though, was it?”
Calder shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I was hardly paying attention.”
“I noticed.”
The man’s bright eyes glimmered as he looked Calder over again, betraying nothing more than an astute smirk. As the two of them reached the payout counter, Calder turned aside politely and waited for the man to finalize his winnings. Soon, he rejoined Calder with a thick envelope in his hand, waving it teasingly before stashing it in his pocket. “Let me offer you a drink,” he proposed, gesturing to the cocktail bar that lay in a neon-lit corner just ahead. “As consolation.”
“Glad my money's being put to good use,” Calder joked, knowing full well that the money had hardly been his to begin with. His new companion seemed just as doubtful about the origins of his apparent wealth.
“You certainly don’t seem all that torn up about losing it,” the man muttered quietly, a note of skepticism in his voice. And he was right to be skeptical, Calder supposed-- to the uninformed, Calder probably looked a little too young and far too cavalier to have just lost a thousand in cash.
“You’re right,” Calder admitted, “I’m not.”
When the man cast him an incredulous look, he grinned loftily and lowered his voice, leaning toward the man with a conspiratorial finger to his lips. “The name’s Calder Dimaggio,” he murmured, “if that rings any bells.”
Calder watched the stranger’s face for a reaction as the two of them approached the bar. He looked concerned, though he tried not to show it. It was a reaction Calder had witnessed many times before. His father was notorious in these parts; it would be impossible not to have heard his name. He owned half the property in town, and was a dangerous man besides, for those unfortunate enough to find themselves on his bad side. Calder had certainly made a habit of testing his father’s patience himself. He and his father had never been on friendly terms, due, in no small part, to the fact that he viewed Calder’s birth as the first in a long line of personal errors.
“Dimaggio, huh?” the man said at last, looking him up and down again with a smirk that didn’t quite hide his suspicion. “You’re joking.”
“I’m not.” Calder grinned. “Don’t you see the resemblance?”
“I wouldn’t know,” the man said cautiously, “I’ve only ever heard the name.”
As the two of them reached the bar, the man found them an empty corner and seated himself with a practiced slouch, motioning for Calder to join him. He was very close now, those bright eyes poring over Calder with renewed curiosity. Despite the layers of garments between them, Calder felt strangely exposed, not that he particularly minded. The man could take a good, hard look if he wanted to, and he certainly couldn’t blame him for looking. For the moment, however, the man seemed more interested in the shape of his ears. He was eyeing them curiously, his expression puzzled and vaguely amused.
“I’ll take it those aren’t from him.”
Calder chuckled, cocking his head to the side to give the man a better view. “A fact that greatly pains my father, I assure you.”
“And yet, you make no effort to conceal them.”
“Yes, that pains him too,” he added, with a note of pride. “That, and they’re handsome. What reason do I have to hide them?” He brushed his fingers lazily around the white-furred rim of his ear, casting the man a self-satisfied smirk. “I'll assume family isn't your favorite topic either?”
Though the tone of the man’s voice remained amiable, his expression darkened. “Why do you say that?”
“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?”
The man glanced vaguely at their surroundings. All around them was a sea of loners-- desperate, unblinking eyes trained on slot machines, cigarette-stained fingertips, parched lips that seemed to remain unsated, drink after drink. The season of noisy tourists and lovesick young couples had come to an end, and the crowd that remained for the casino’s quiet, autumn weeknights was lean and hungry-- for money, for distraction, for the fleeting reprieve of a stranger’s touch. Calder’s point, it seemed, had been well taken. The man sighed and gazed down at his hands, notably bare and absent of any sign of a ring, as Calder was pleasantly surprised to discover. This fact seemed to bring the man little comfort, however. When he noticed Calder’s eyes on his ringless fingers, he withdrew them quickly, adding curtly, “I'm divorced.”
His companion seemed disinclined to elaborate beyond this statement, and had become suddenly focused on the task of rifling through his pockets. At last, he unearthed a pack of cigarettes, which, Calder thought, didn't look nearly expensive enough for a man who seemed to routinely rake in thousands at the poker table. He slid one out, then passed the box to Calder.
“You smoke?”
“...On occasion.”
Calder lifted a cigarette from the box politely, watching the man light his own before offering the flame to Calder. He leaned in, close enough to breathe in the mix of ash and cologne from the man's vest along with the newly lit cigarette. It hardly mattered that the brand was incredibly mediocre—it was more about the unspoken intimacy it offered; an instrument held between his lips, the passing of a flame from one man to another.
Calder leaned back contentedly, casting the man a sideways glance. “Family can be... complicated . My father doesn't like that I use his name, either.”
“I'd imagine that's all the more reason for you to take it.” The stranger took a long drag from his cigarette, eyeing him shrewdly. “Though I gather his money is less of a problem.”
“My father, despite his many flaws, has a strong sense of responsibility. He believes in atoning for his sins.” Calder chuckled bitterly. “He doesn't acknowledge me otherwise, mind you. He thinks if he gives me enough money, I'll stay out of his hair.”
“Well, he’s clearly not giving you enough, then, is he?” The man tapped his cigarette over a nearby ashtray and flashed him a discerning smile.
Calder grinned. “No amount would be enough.” He drew his cigarette to his lips again and exhaled slowly, locking eyes with the man through the haze of smoke. “Speaking of names, you still haven’t given me yours.”
“Maybe I thought it'd be better for both of us if you regarded me as 'the mysterious stranger who offered to buy you a drink.'” The man raised his hand to flag the bartender over, not missing a beat. “What are you having?”
“I'll have a Manhattan, but don’t think I’ve given up so easily. You can’t buy your way out of anything with me.”
To this, his new companion only sighed and shook his head before turning to the bartender to order their drinks. Calder watched him pensively, propping his elbow against the bar with half-lidded eyes. He had a feeling the man wasn’t going to make it easy to get to know him, but beyond that distant facade, Calder was sure the other man was just as interested as he was. And how could he not be? Regardless of whatever personal hangups he had, a middle-aged divorcee would be hard-pressed to find a young, eligible bachelor who shared his sexual inclinations in a place like this-- on a night like this. Calder was well aware of his worth, and he worked hard to maintain it. Flirtation was an art he considered himself more than proficient at, a skill he’d polished with the intent of drawing in such men as the one currently buying his drink.
Calder tried to look bored and sultry as they waited for their drinks in silence. He ran his fingers absent-mindedly through his hair, which, unlike the other man, he kept immaculate. He had it trimmed and shaped regularly, slicked back to show off the white streaks that highlighted an otherwise jet black head of hair. Like his ears, the streaks were proof of his mother’s lineage, and because his father so detested these conspicuous reminders, he’d grown to like them all the more.
Calder’s vanity, he maintained, was an act of defiance, and one that he took very seriously-- likely because there was little else in his life worth taking seriously in the first place. He was unemployed, unattached, and had no hobbies other than cruising casinos and bleeding his father's money wherever he went. He called his father's money a “trust fund” to be polite, though when it came to his relationship with his father, there was very little in the way of trust involved. The money served as a distraction more than anything else-- and it worked, mostly. Calder was more than efficient at amusing himself. He was also painfully ambitious, and painfully directionless, which tended to result in an excess of frustration that he let off in the only avenue he currently had: sexual venting.
In truth, he was likely just as lonely as the man stewing quietly beside him-- a situation he intended to rectify as soon as possible for the both of them.
When their drinks arrived, Calder leaned toward his companion and placed his hands lightly over the two glasses before either of them could be consumed. A plan was quickly forming in his mind, one that he was sure would play to his advantage.
“Want to play a game?”
“Haven’t we already?”
The man eyed him dubiously, looking more than a little impatient to sample his drink.
“Well, a drinking game, if you’ll indulge me.”
The man raised his eyebrows, but made no further protests. Calder grinned slyly and went on, the two drinks remaining captive in his grasp.
“We’ll take turns,” he explained, lowering his voice beneath the sluggish ambience of music and scattered voices around them. “Each time, one of us will ask the other for something we desire. Whether or not our request is granted will be determined by the first person to finish their drink.”
The man cocked his head curiously and took a pensive drag of his cigarette. Calder’s own cigarette lay half-smoked and forgotten in a nearby ashtray, abandoned in the interest of greater pursuits.
“Alright then, I’ll bite,” the man said at last, his keen eyes sparkling in the low light. “What are we wagering?”
Calder smiled. “Why don’t we start with your name? If I finish my drink first, you have to give it to me.”
“ Oh? ” The other man smirked. “I have to?”
“Yes.” Calder nudged the man's drink toward him playfully. “But if you finish yours first, you remain anonymous.”
“If you insist,” the man sighed, taking hold of his glass a little too slowly.
A word of confirmation was all Calder needed. Before his companion could stop him, he’d tipped the entirety of his drink into his mouth with practiced finesse, leaving it empty, save for its cherry garnish. Beside him, the man had barely started on his own drink-- a conservative gin and tonic-- when Calder loudly placed his empty glass on the bar with a triumphant clatter.
Calder waited for the man to finish, toying with the stem of his cherry between his teeth. Slowly, his companion drained his drink until all that remained was a bed of ice, before returning his glass to the bar with graceful admission.
“That wasn’t quite fair, was it?” The man scolded, waving an admonishing finger in Calder’s direction. “You’ve clearly played this game before.”
Calder winked. “Live and learn. You still owe me your name.”
The man sighed, gazing down at his hands, where the burning stub of his cigarette remained between his fingers. He brought it to his lips a final time, the smouldering embers giving off a last, reluctant glow before he plunged its remains into the ashtray alongside Calder’s half-finished cigarette.
“The name's Avakian,” he murmured at last, his bright eyes shadowed beneath his lashes. It wasn’t much of an introduction, Calder thought, when the man’s mind was so clearly elsewhere, his eyes still fixed on the remnants of his cigarette.
“No, I meant your full name,” Calder smirked, reaching across the bar to slide the offending ashtray away from his companion’s line of sight. “I intend to be on a first name basis with you, after all.”
“ Do you?”
The man flashed him a strange look, and though his lips twitched partway to a smile, his tone was almost reproachful. “You don’t know a thing about me.”
“Well, I’d like to,” Calder countered, undeterred. He held an expectant hand out to the other man, and to his relief, his invitation was accepted with only the faintest measure of reluctance. The man grasped his hand and shook it with unexpected force, his hold lingering a moment longer, his fingers sliding against Calder’s hand in a way that implied something beyond innocent camaraderie.
“You can call me Ansel, then.”
The man smiled furtively, the slightest flush spreading across his face before he quickly withdrew his hand, the dark, feathery curtain of his hair falling abruptly back into place. There had been something simultaneously warm and desolate in that smile, perhaps because it had been the first real smile Calder had seen from the man all evening. The rest had been little more than pretense-- ambiguous laughter, cautious jesting, a veneer of ambivalence that maintained a measure of plausible deniability. But something else had slipped through in that moment, and they’d both sensed it; a glimpse of the person beneath the cloak of vagaries, the person who had given Calder his name, and with it, a certain awareness that could not be so easily refuted.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Calder nudged his companion’s elbow amiably, but the man had become quiet and rigid again, shifting course from his momentary lapse in familiarity. His eyes were turned to the ceiling, where the gauzy haze of smoke dulled the sharp, bright edges of colored neon lights that arched above them.
Calder watched him restlessly, toying with his empty glass. Ansel was like an unmoored boat; the man would just as soon drift away again if he didn’t do something to reel him in. At least he had his name-- and it was only a matter of time, or, more likely, a matter of liquor, before he had the rest of him. Calder edged closer, his voice low and steady in his companion’s ear.
“So, Ansel . What do you say to another round?” He tipped his empty glass onto its edge and rocked it playfully from side to side, his eyes drifting expectantly toward the bartender.
Ansel seemed to balk at his sudden proximity, but he quickly smoothed the reaction over, looking apologetic and a little sheepish. Then, he nodded, hurriedly turning around to summon the bartender with a wave of his hand.
“More of the same?”
Calder paused to consider. “Well, if you want my advice, you might want to try something without ice this time.”
Ansel cast him a sly look, his eyes gleaming in understanding.
“Two more of whatever he’s having.”
The bartender nodded and hurried away to mix their drinks, and Ansel slumped back against the bar, apparently either deep in thought, or too nervous to meet his eyes. Calder tactfully pretended not to notice.
When their drinks arrived, Calder cleared his throat.
“It’s your turn, you know. Have you decided what we’re wagering?”
“I’m thinking.”
Calder watched him as he reached for his glass, gazing pensively into the deep auburn liquid as he swirled the contents around in his hand.
“Alright,” he said at last, his voice so low that he was barely audible above the tinny bossa nova that was playing over the casino bar's speakers. “How about this? The loser has to undo the first two buttons of his shirt.”
He was watching Calder keenly, his gaze flickering daringly over the sliver of skin beneath his shirt collar. This came as a pleasant surprise. Calder almost hadn’t expected the man to come around so quickly, but he appeared to have worked past whatever reticence had been holding him back.
“ Only the first two?” Calder grinned, sliding a finger teasingly down his collar.
Ansel clicked his tongue in disapproval.
“Giving in so easily? We haven’t even started yet.”
He slid Calder’s glass toward him and waited until both drinks were in hand, and then, with a blithe salute and a tip of his glass toward Calder, he brought his glass to his lips.
Calder followed suit, starting on his own drink quickly, then gradually slowing to little more than a long, drawn out sip as he neared the end. It hardly mattered to him whether he won this round or not; revealing a little skin hardly mattered when he had his sights set on much grander conquests. He caught Ansel's eye as he finished the last of his glass, and was surprised to find that he’d apparently had the same idea-- the man still had half of his drink left. Calder placed his emptied glass back on the bar with a resigned sigh and a shake of his head as he waited for Ansel to finish. He wasn’t sure if he felt more perturbed or delighted, or perhaps a little of both-- whatever it was, the man’s strategy was certainly working.
“Oops.” Ansel smiled slyly as he finished the last dregs of his drink, delicately sliding his glass alongside Calder’s. “Looks like you won again.”
Without hesitance, he reached for the thin, blue scarf that had been tucked neatly into his vest and loosened it until it was hanging freely from either side of his neck. His movements were steady, casual; to the outside observer, there was nothing untoward about any of it, but Calder had the distinct knowledge that the man was putting on a very private show for him. With dutiful ceremony, he slid a finger slowly down his throat, taking his time as he unbuttoned exactly two buttons, glancing up at Calder triumphantly when he’d finished.
In the heat of that gaze, Calder realized he was a little flushed, himself-- if not from drinking on an empty stomach, then certainly from his proximity to a man who seemed to know exactly how to beat him at his own game. He almost wished he’d thought to drink his last glass a little slower, if only for the excuse to loosen his own shirt collar, but then, he realized, he needed no excuse. He could unbutton his own shirt whenever he pleased, after all.
With a furtive glance to his side, Calder did just that. He matched the subtle movements of his companion, adding in a few of his own. Ansel was watching him with eyebrows slightly raised, but he made no complaints, his eyes tracing Calder’s fingers with vague interest as they unfastened one button, then another. Calder smirked up at him, daring to reach for a third, but this, it seemed, was a step too far for his companion, who shook his head in silent reproach.
“Leave some to the imagination,” he murmured, his eyes darting warily around the casino before he leaned back to Calder. “We’re in public, if you recall.”
Of course, Calder needed no reminder of this fact. To him, their environment only added to the thrill of the game. He liked to see how much he could get away with, to walk the thin line between acceptability and deviance. He’d readily do far worse than a half-unbuttoned shirt, as far as the public eye was concerned-- and he had, on occasion. But his companion seemed less willing to take such risks, to subject himself to the censure of the world around them-- for even a place as wild and lawless as Las Vegas was not without its judgements. Calder sighed in resignation and abandoned his efforts. If he had his way, Ansel would be seeing more of his skin soon enough.
“Very ill-defined rules, this game of yours,” Ansel observed, flashing him a surreptitious smirk as he fiddled with the residual cherry in his glass. “I was hoping for another drink, if you haven’t run out of ideas.”
“I’m sure I can think of something,” Calder replied, trying to look pensive, as though he wasn’t already certain of his next move.
Ansel nodded, quickly hailing the bartender to put in a third order of drinks. Even in his cautious way, he seemed to be finally enjoying himself. As they waited for their next round, Calder realized that his companion’s eyes were no longer turned demurely away. Between watchful glances at their surroundings, Ansel was inspecting him keenly, his chin propped lazily against one hand as he tapped against the polished surface of the bar with the other to the rhythm of the music. He was undeniably charming like this, Calder thought, still sweating despite his loosened collar. He was beginning to envision how those deft, weathered hands would feel on his skin, when he realized two more glasses had already appeared before them, and his companion’s eyes, still fixed on his own, had begun to show an air of impatience.
“Well?” Ansel prompted, reaching for his glass in anticipation. “What are we wagering?”
Calder scrambled for his drink, raising it solemnly. He’d known all night what he wanted; with his voice barely above a whisper, he mouthed the words.
“A kiss.”
Ansel's expression darkened. “Not here.”
“Oh, of course.” Calder laughed a little too sharply, quickly drawing back from the other man. “ Obviously. ”
Ansel swirled his drink restlessly. “Then what are you proposing?”
“I don't know,” said Calder, without really thinking. “Your place or mine?”
Ansel put down his drink and frowned. “Are you in some kind of hurry?”
Calder swallowed, briefly wondering whether he’d spoiled the whole night by appearing overeager. But he hadn’t misread Ansel’s intentions-- of that much, he was certain. He cast a careful glance to either side of them before he inched closer again, his lips very nearly brushing against the edge of that dark, feathery hair. It looked soft and silky; though he’d been desperate to touch it all night, he held himself back from moving any nearer. If he could manage to be patient now, he’d get his chance soon enough.
“Wouldn’t you like to continue this somewhere a little more private?”
“Do you try those lines on everyone?” Ansel smirked, his expression almost mocking as he slid away from him. His hair flashed a luminous blue in the neon light, giving him the appearance of an elusive bird dancing just out of reach. “That routine of yours could use a little work.”
“Could it?”
Calder set down his drink with a sportive smirk. He was hardly deterred; the interest in Ansel’s eyes had only deepened.
“So, tell me,” he inquired, returning his companion’s gaze with a flirtatious glance of his own. “How would you improve it?”
Ansel raised his eyebrows, looking him over with the air of a mentor assessing a new pupil.
“Well,” he replied, “you could certainly do with a little more subtlety. And patience-- a lot more of that. It’s no wonder I bested you so easily at cards.”
Ansel smiled faintly, casually taking up his glass again.
“But you weren’t all that bad, you know. You still got what you came for.”
Without a moment’s pause, Ansel brought his glass to his lips and swallowed the contents in an instant, placing it roughly back on the bar with a victorious smirk. In that single move, he’d secured his prize and sealed their fate-- for the night, or perhaps much longer-- at that moment, Calder hardly knew or cared which. It mattered only that he’d caught his quarry, even if, in doing so, he’d become entangled in his own net.
Ansel must have been more impatient than he’d let on. With his drink finished, he scrambled to his feet, lurching clumsily toward Calder in a way that depicted the influence of extreme inebriation. He wasn’t that drunk, Calder knew, but the effect was convincing enough to the outside eye. As he made to right himself, Ansel briefly balanced his weight against Calder’s shoulder, his other hand daring, for just an instant, to graze against his thigh.
“I'm staying in Mars, room 402,” Ansel murmured, the unshaven texture of his jaw brushing slightly against Calder’s cheek before he regained his balance and pulled away.
Calder had almost forgotten how tall he was while the two of them had been sitting, due in part to the man's lousy posture, but now, Ansel towered over him, casting him the slightest gloating look as he fished out a bill from the envelope in his pocket and placed it on the bar. With a nod in the direction of the bartender, and the murmured instructions to “keep the change,” he turned to leave, pausing only briefly to wrap his scarf around his neck. His open shirt collar, however, remained untouched, as Calder was pleased to observe.
“And take your time with that drink,” Ansel added, with a vague glance over his shoulder in Calder’s direction. “See if you can make it last a quarter of an hour.” He checked his watch. “There's no need to rush. The night is young.”
His gleaming eyes looked Calder over once more before he turned to disappear into the haze of the casino, his iridescent hair catching the neon light before it faded into the muddled crowd of less notable gamblers.
A quarter of an hour seemed a tortuously long time for a single drink, especially now that he lacked the alluring distraction of a handsome man at his side. Calder was tempted to down the whole thing and rush after Ansel anyway, in spite of his instructions, but for some unknown reason, he found himself doing exactly as he was told. It was likely the first time in his life that he had; he chuckled to himself at the thought, gazing restlessly into the depths of his remaining drink as he imagined, in lurid detail, the course of events he planned to undertake as soon as he reached the privacy of his new companion’s hotel room.
When he was sure that enough time had passed, Calder drained the last of his glass and made his way through the casino’s thinning crowd, moving as briskly as he could reasonably manage toward the hotel room where Ansel awaited him.