Page 107 of Sinful Crimes for the Artistically Inclined
“Then you’d better make it at least six hundred thousand.” Percy stubbed out his cigarette and stood. “Seven if you can.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
DAMN GOOD COCKTAILS
Joe was intent on enjoying the holiday. And if he couldn’t do that, he was intent on having Percy think he was enjoying the holiday. His most recent exploration of Percy’s body had been, just as it always was, an exploration of scars from the past, both near and far. But these latest, just starting to heal, much like the knife wound in his own chest, that he exacerbated the night before and that now smarted whenever he lifted an arm to drink, had settled in Joe a new resolve.
He hadn’t cared about the champagne. Not really. He cared about Percy’s tendency to ruthless self-destruction. The thought that a man that brave and that capable of really remarkable things would make trouble for himself either with the hotel or the law, was more than a shade of ridiculous. But it hinted at something more worrying and it hung more and more heavily all around Joe from the time Percy said he wasn’t saving for retirement. No surprise there, not at all, but to hear the words on his lips and thrown out so casually. It was something he’d clearly thought about. Percy had a death wish, and Joe did not. And Joe did not want Percy to die. And he believedthat, if not already completely unrecoverable, Percy was teetering right on the edge, and their fates were, and always would be, resolutely tied up in one another. Therefore, for Joe, saving Percy was becoming a matter of saving himself.
Joe listened distractedly to Althea’s rundown of the morning, far more relaxed and candid now Percy had disappeared. It felt good to know she was close and safe and happy, even if he barely knew her at all, and Joe began to understand the brotherly fondness with which Percy had probably collected Leo.
Leo made no breath of protest when he was given a Coke by Giordano, on the house, and he listened to Althea, laughed at her jokes, engaged Joe in some light conversation, but there was a wall there. He wasn’t at all forthcoming in Joe’s presence, and he eyed the corner where Percy had disappeared as frequently as Joe eyed Giordano.
Giordano. He was an intimidating sort of handsome. The kind most people either stare at from a distance, or shuffle past discreetly, as though they suddenly feel they’ve come to a place they’re not worthy of inhabiting. The kind of person that only those with self-assurance to the point of vulgarity would think to approach.
Unbeknownst to Joe, despite Percy’s near-constant reiteration of the fact, was that Joe was just as beautiful as Giordano, only in a softer way. His lines were drawn with a delicacy and a blurring of the edges. A glow and warmth and not the sharp, hard, untouchable edges of Giordano. It shouldn’t have been relevant. It shouldn’t have mattered, but Giordano, whose business it was to be adored, rarely found a real competitor. And so they looked at one another and they looked away, and Giordano made the drink and placed it before Joe. “Tell me what you think.”
Joe did wonder if it might be poisoned. He wondered if this man had something supernatural that Percy wanted, orvice versa. He wondered if Percy loved him, or had ever loved him, and when Giordano dried his hands on a dishcloth, Joe felt sick to his stomach at how Percy might have admired those hands.
With a whisper of suicidal ideation, Joe raised the drink to his lips.
It was good.
It was damn good.
Giordano studied him, not with the jealous scrutiny of a rival, but with the honest concern of a bartender. It caught Joe by surprise, and he felt compelled to smile and say something under the expectant gaze. “It’s very good.”
“I’m glad you think so.” He threw down the cloth and rested both arms on the bench in front of Joe, lowering his voice as he leaned in. “Because you’re cute when you’re tipsy.”
Confusing, unprecedented panic flummoxed Joe. “I’m not tipsy.” It was all he could think to say.
Giordano laughed, one of those deep, soft, chesty laughs, and raised his chin towards Althea. “Is he tipsy?”
“He’s always tipsy,” she replied unhelpfully, slurring her own words.
“I am not!” Joe protested.
“No,” and her silky black hair fell in her face as she shook it mockingly, “just since we got near alcohol.”
Joe thrust a finger in Percy’s direction. “He made me have a champagne breakfast.”
“Ah,” said Giordano. “That explains it.”
Joe tripped over his speech and into silence, until he rasped out, “Explains what?” But Giordano was already noisily moving things around his small fridge in search of something or other. Guiltily, wondering if Percy had lied about the champagne after all, wondering if Giordano knew, wondering exactly how much money they might be on the hook for, Joe stared down into his drink for a time.
A chopping board was slapped on the bench in front of him, wrenching his attention back, and for whatever reason Giordano pushed his sleeves a little higher up his well-sculpted arms, then began slicing into a handful of limes. He waggled the short knife towards Joe’s drink. “You sure you like it?”
“Yes.” And he took another sip to prove it.
“I’ll make you another. Something different.”
“I should probab?—”
“Uh.” The sharp sound shut Joe’s mouth up again, and he wondered for the twentieth time exactly what was taking Percy so long. But then he was obtaining an illegal document. That probably took time. And so Joe took another sip, became a little tipsier, and waited patiently with his very good drink.
Giordano, concentrating on his limes, asked casually, “Are you going down the beach later?”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “I think so.”
