Special Delivery: Special Delivery, Book 1 (8 page)

Mortification allowed Sam to find his voice. “Mitch, you can’t—”

Mitch still ignored him, looking at Damario with irritation. “
Deja esta mierda de ‘amigo’. No soy un pinche gringo quién te necesita besar el culo.
”

Sam blinked, speechless again. Mitch had rattled off what sounded to Sam like perfect Spanish. Damario blinked, then replied in the same tongue. Sam didn’t know what he said, but Damario’s tone was lighter now, less kiss-assy. Sam listened to them, ignorant and more than a little jealous.

“Why did you do that?” he asked when Damario left with the menus.

“Sorry.” Mitch didn’t sound sorry at all. “I hate it when they pull that
amigo
shit. I know it strokes all the white-boy egos and gets more tips, but that ain’t me. I grew up in the Rio Grande Valley, and it sets my teeth on edge to be treated the same as the assholes they mock.”

“I meant why did you order for me?” Sam frowned. “You’re from Texas?”

“South Texas. I could spit over the border. My first boyfriend was Mexican, and he taught me his ‘valley Spanish’. It’s kind of a perversion of both English and Spanish, but it comes in handy sometimes.” He took another swig of beer. “As for your dinner—” He pointed with his beer bottle at the chips. “I ordered for you because you’re starving. I’m buying, so let it go.”

“I just— It’s awhile to payday…” Sam gave up and hunched his shoulders over his water.

“Don’t worry about it.” Mitch winked at him, and when Damario returned with the margarita, Mitch pushed it in front of Sam. “Drink.”

Sam did. Even with the chips, he felt the alcohol screaming through his system. He was almost glad for it, and he drank a little faster to hurry himself to the place where the tequila would take all the edges off his day. “Thank you,” he said, when the alcohol softened him enough.

Mitch pulled the phone from his pocket. “I figured out how to make the music work after a bit of fiddling, but what’s this about video? That movies? You can put movies on this thing?”

“Yes, but I don’t have any loaded yet.” Sam carefully took the phone from him and scrolled through the cover art. “You can get the whole Internet though, anywhere. That’s what I love about it. It has a GPS, and so many cool apps. And my music, of course.”

“You got good music on here. I don’t know half of it, but I liked it.”

Sam tried not to beam, but it wasn’t easy. “I get it from all over the world, from friends. I don’t
mean
to pirate. But half the time you can’t even get it, or if you can, it’s all import and priced more than anybody’d pay. I buy a lot too, as much as I can. It evens out.” He took another generous sip of margarita, and it was enough, apparently, to completely loosen his tongue. “I love my iPhone. I named her Judy.”

Mitch gave him an odd look. “Garland?”

“Bernly. From
9 to 5
. The Dolly Parton movie, you know? Jane Fonda’s character was Judy Bernly. My mom and I used to watch it every year on New Year’s.”

“I saw you had her on here too—Parton, that is. Country, pop, jazz—hell, Sunshine, you’ve got a whole music store.” He palmed the phone and nodded approvingly at the face. “I gotta get me a Judy of my own, I’m thinking. A guy in Minneapolis showed me how to hook it up to the radio. Though, that reminds me—I about ran you clean out of battery. Poor Darin couldn’t even get his texts through.”

“That’s okay.” Sam smiled now, a little too much. He was definitely feeling the alcohol, and between it and the way Mitch’s fingers kept brushing his, he felt warm and happy.

They pulled apart when Damario came with their food, and for several minutes they ate in silence. Sam was still starving, but the chips had dulled his hunger enough that, combined with the laziness of the alcohol, he could slow down and enjoy his meal. He lingered over his enchiladas, savoring the melty cheese, the shredded chicken and the oh-so-yummy red sauce before breaking into the tamales with a quiet sigh.

“Oh my God, they’re so good.” Sam leaned back and let the taste roll around him. “I don’t know why, but I love them.”

Mitch eyeballed them critically from the other side of the booth before reaching over with his fork. He hesitated over Sam’s plate, though, looking up at him silently for permission. Sam scooted the plate toward him, watching as Mitch took a bite.

“They’re not bad.” Mitch wiped his mouth with his napkin. “But mine are better.”

“You
make
tamales?” The very idea melted Sam’s brain.

“Sure. Nothing to it. Of course, mine aren’t anything compared to—” He stopped short.

“To?” Sam prompted.

But Mitch only shook his head. “Little bastard pops into my head every time I’m around you, doesn’t he, Sunshine?”

That comment made absolutely no sense to Sam, but something about Mitch’s body language told him it would be unwise to ask, so he didn’t. A strange silence came up between them, subtle but significant. Mitch retreated into his fajitas, but Sam lingered a moment, watching him eat.

“So you’re heading to Chicago?”

“Yeah.” Mitch still looked gruff. “In fact, to be honest, I should head out as soon as we’re done here.”

Sam’s chin came up sharply, and his fork lowered to his plate. “What?”

Mitch cleared his throat. His face was blank, no more teasing left in it at all. “Yeah, sorry about that. It’s part of the delivery to L.A., and they need the warehouse for tomorrow morning, so tonight it is. I had to push to keep my meeting with you, to tell you the truth.”

It was a good excuse—valid and everything. But something about the way Mitch said it left Sam feeling funny, like Mitch was lying.

God, did he not
want
to have sex with Sam again?

What the hell had Sam said to screw this up?

Sam stopped eating and ducked his head, trying to hide his reaction. He felt foolish and confused. And cheated.
It doesn’t matter. This was never going to be a long-term thing anyway.
But it did matter. Telling himself not to be disappointed didn’t make his feelings stop.

“You all right?”

Sam startled at Mitch’s comment and hurried to pick up his fork. “Oh, fine.” He poked at his tamale, but he didn’t eat any more.

Damario pressed for dessert or more drinks, but Sam insisted he was too full, and Mitch declared he had to get going, which made Sam’s hollowed-out stomach even more uninterested in food. He tried to soothe himself, to remind himself he’d had a nice dinner, and really, he should be glad. Maybe they’d meet up next time Mitch was in town. Sam tried to rationalize his emotions, but it wasn’t working.

Mitch had Damario bend down low to speak in his ear, and he pressed a twenty into the waiter’s hand as he did so. When Damario rose, his expression was bright as he hurried away. He came back with a brown bag and their bill.

“I conned him into letting me have some Bohemia to go,” Mitch explained once Damario left. He tossed several bills onto the table and rose. “You ready?”

Sam followed him, his heart beating a little faster.
Now he leaves.
Sam staggered in the narrow hallway and out the door, and his heart both fluttered and ached as Mitch’s hand snaked out and caught his arm.

“Steady there.”

When he kept hold of Sam in the alley, Sam couldn’t help but lean into him, letting the touch and feel of the other man’s body send an electrical charge into his own. What he wouldn’t give for one last time.

“That margarita went straight to my head.”
Don’t go. Not yet. Not ever. Don’t go.

“Seeing’s how you drank most of it before you started eating, I’m not surprised.”

Sam leaned on Mitch and put his hand on the other man’s stomach, feeling the warmth and firmness of him. When Mitch turned, Sam all but slid into his arms. Sam’s heart soared.
Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

Please.

Mitch said nothing, only watched Sam’s face. Sam worked hard to make his face say
Take me somewhere and fuck me.
Mitch reached around Sam’s body, and Sam moved closer, thinking Mitch was embracing him. But when he let go, Sam realized Mitch had simply been putting the bag of beer into the same hand holding his burrito.

“You are something else, Sunshine.” Mitch stroked Sam’s cheek. Then it fell away, and nothing else happened.

Sam wanted to say, “You are too,” but he couldn’t speak.

They walked down the street, to where, Sam wasn’t quite sure, but what he did know was this evening was about to end. Mitch had returned his phone and bought him dinner, and now they were done. Sam wished desperately he could invite Mitch to his place, to convince him he could be a little later, but he knew his aunt and uncle were home and he didn’t dare. He tried instead to think of some way to extend the encounter or to make another date, but he wasn’t sure how. Ask for a phone number? It seemed like a good idea, but he couldn’t work out how to phrase it. Everything felt too blunt. His brain scrambled for something, anything, but he found nothing.

Mitch turned to face him. “I should head out.”

“Sure.” Sam did his best to sound casual, to keep the
no, no, no
he wanted to shout from echoing in his voice. “It’s a long way to Chicago.”

Mitch frowned briefly at Sam. “You’re not quite fit to drive, though. I’d offer to take you, but I walked over here from the highway where I left my rig.”

Sam brightened. “I’ll walk with you.”

“That’s quite a walk,” Mitch pointed out.

“I don’t mind.” Sam shrugged then ran a hand self-consciously against the side of his hair. “I’ll sober up on the way.”

He braced for rejection. There was somebody else.
Little bastard pops into my head every time I’m around you, doesn’t he?
Who the fuck was the little bastard? Why the hell was he getting in the middle of Sam’s sex life?

Fuck this.
Sam put his hand on Mitch’s arm. “Please?”

Mitch didn’t say anything, but he touched Sam’s hand on his arm. He stepped away from Sam then, but he left room on the sidewalk beside him, slowing and reaching out to steady Sam when he stumbled.

Hope stirred.
It’s not over yet.
Sam wasn’t sure exactly what it was he was so desperate to find, or why he had to work so hard in the first place, but he knew this was the way to it. As the night closed in around them, he let Mitch lead him down Main Street and to the west, toward the highway and whatever waited there for him.

Chapter Six

“So how’s Darin?” As they wound their way through the outskirts of Middleton, Mitch reached up to his shirt pocket, patted it and sighed. “You relieve him of his misery yet, Sunshine?” Sam winced, and Mitch laughed. “What’s this—trouble in paradise?”

“Darin is no paradise.” Sam was glad the darkness hid his flaming cheeks. “He’s not anything. We just…” He searched for a polite euphemism, then gave up. “We fuck.”

“Ah. He thought it was more than just fucking?”
Fuckin’.
He made it sound so dirty. And good.

“No. I don’t want to anymore, with him.” Sam shrugged. “He wants a hot hole delivered to his door.” Sam clapped a hand over his mouth and stumbled. “I can’t believe I said
hot hole
.”

Mitch righted him casually. “You do have one, Sunshine.”

His hand lingered on Sam’s back, and the touch emboldened Sam. “Maybe I’ll rent it out.”

“If it’s for sale, then put me in line for first bid.” The hand slid lower. “I’ll put you on retainer and take you on the road.”

Sam knew a wicked thrill at Mitch’s words, and an even darker rush at knowing a part of him wished Mitch were serious. He leaned on him a little.

A car drove by and someone shouted, “Sam Keller is a faggot!” as an empty beer can sailed out a car window.

Mitch kicked it with some force as it bounced against his foot. “Nice town.”

Sam shrugged and tried to pretend it didn’t matter. “That was Keith Jameson.” Then he recalled what
else
was supposed to have happened on Wednesday. “Oh—” He clamped a hand over his mouth. “Oh God, I forgot about meeting him in the bathroom. I bet he’s pissed.” Sam realized what he’d admitted and glanced nervously at Mitch.

Mitch had a strange expression on his face.

“Sorry.” Shame welled inside him. “I—I’m not—” How could he claim he wasn’t always such a slut, when in all honesty, he was? He looked down. “I don’t mean to expose myself as such a horny tart.”

“Tarts are good.” Mitch’s drawl was thick and delicious. “You’d be a strawberry, I think.”

Sam put his hands in his own pockets. They walked slowly now, and it was easier for him to stay upright. “Emma—my best friend—says I need higher standards.”

Mitch snorted. “Hope you didn’t tell her about our alley adventure, then.”

“She approved. Said it was hardcore. But she doesn’t like Darin or Keith.”

“How about Billy or Travis or somebody else?”

“The gay scene’s pretty thin around here. I wish I could get out. I wish you
would
kidnap me.” He winced and rubbed at his cheek. “Sorry. Tequila makes me stupid.”

“Charming,” Mitch corrected. “You’ll get out. You’re getting your degree—that’s smart.”

Sam pulled his hands from his jeans pockets and wrapped his arms around himself. “Em says I have to get through it, but sometimes I worry—college is hard for a reason. What if I can’t cut it as a nurse, either? What if I flunk out before I can even try? God, I’ll end up the manager of the McDonald’s, and when I’m forty they’ll arrest me for indecent acts with a hamburger bun, I’ll be so pathetic.”