Charles had demanded majestically the trip to Las Vegas. Before Dimov could waffle about the cost and inconvenience, Charles booked the Premier Aurora room with double queen beds (What nonsense about separate rooms). However their roommate, Glenda, hovered sulkily around them, lamenting the Universe’s bad graces in denying her a chorus part at the LA Opera. Grunting of his good graces much grander than the Universe’s, Charley demanded she come along. And that remained the perplexing problem of two beds, three people (Goodness, who will sleep with whom?). That was easily solved. The Universe be praised. One king-sized bed, three people, and a lovely old time.
Dimov, buttoning and unbuttoning his shirt, slugged across the beady rug of the hotel room. The bold linked motifs on the floor, he thought and would never say to Charles, repellant, as well as the bold green and cream swathes over the walls. The bed, admittedly, looked kingly and promised dreamy sleep among the starry sheets, but with three to a bed and Glenda’s guttural snoring, dreamy sleep felt like drunken boxing in a sleeping bag.
The air conditioning kicked up a gear of lethagic activity. Dimov flumped onto the bed, into the grey shimmery sheets, and thought it better to claim the good hours of lonely sleep rather than return sheepishly to Charles. He might have to apologize about his grouchiness earlier. But why must he? He put his weekend on hold and—something itched in his throat; stray cords splintered in his chest— and Charles was leaving for Phila-fucking-delphia.
Immediately in his heart opened the creaky door to a stairwell descending into the dank, musty dark. It jarred and shocked him to bounding to bedtime plans. But there was a knock, a strong double knock that augured unrest.
“You lied about the wife,” Alex announced himself.
Dimov’s hands hardened over the door handle. Alex leaned in, returned Dimov’s narrow grizzly glare with a pawky grin. The elevators dinged, murmurs surfaced from the beyond the hallway, and then their silence of apprehensive stares. As if to concede, Alex straightened back but his hand brushed lazily over his fly and up the excruciating roughness of his baseball jacket to his wet lips.
“I overheard you and … Charley,” he said.
“It’s poker. Everyone lies. Everyone makes false promises.”
“I don’t make false promises.” Alex looked over Dimov’s thinning lips and down the island of his chest peeking from the half-unbuttoned shirt, and then ruminated on the belt and its tight looking buckle. He glided back to Dimov’s eyes, still hard, still blank.
Alex defaulted to easiness. “Let me buy you a drink.”
“I don’t drink.”
“You lying again?”
“Dimi!” Charles called all way from the elevators, and the full-bodied Glenda in a velvet tracksuit shuffled heavily from behind him.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” she said, smiling like she was onto a secret stash of bonbons.
Charles’ eyes flicked between Alex’s red hair and Dimov’s tightening face.
Dimov blurted, “He was about to le—”
Alex moved forward and extended his arm to Glenda, “Alex. Nice to meet you. Dimov invited me over for a drink.”
“A drink?” Charles dialed his hazel eyes onto Alex’s reddening face, but before he could say anything, Glenda corralled Alex’s arm and pulled him inside the room.
“You, my dear, are really special. Dimov’s a bad bad Russian. Drinks only on special occasions.”
“Ukrainian,” Dimov emphasized and then settled himself on an armchair and began buttoning up his shirt with particular sourness.
YOU ARE READING
Blind hearts-ManxMan-boyxboy
General FictionAlex is lost in love with his straight best friend. College graduation is around the corner, and he despairs of losing him. He hooks up with the sexy stoic Dimov, all in good meaningless fun. But unlucky for him, Dimov is a man who bites and never l...
