The Worst Best Luck (4 page)

“What do you wanna bet,” Matt asked.  “How about whoever cums first has to buy tickets to ‘Mr. Burns.’  That sounds fair.”

Suddenly Peter wanted to cry.  Matt was already planning another time together, another night, and not just more sex, either – as if it was inevitable, natural, predestined. 
How could anyone feel this for me?  How can this be?

“Hey,” Matt said, seeing the tears.  “Hey.”  He let go of Peter’s wrists, wrapped his arms around him, buried his face next to Peter’s.  Then he let Peter cry.

“Fuck I hate crying,” Peter half laughed, half sobbed.  “Fucking feelings!  What the fuck…  I’m so sorry.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m crying!”

“Why do you have to apologize for that?”

Peter had an answer, didn’t have an answer.

Matt got up, pulled Peter to his feet, held his hand as he led him into the bedroom.  It only took the touch of his hands on Peter’s shoulders to get him to go his knees, unbuttoning Matt’s pants before he hit the ground. 

“Slow down,” Matt said, stopping Peter before he could pull Matt’s cock out.  “My greedy little piggy,” he said tenderly.

“I’m hungry,” Peter said.

“And I’m gonna feed you.  Don’t you worry.”  He put a hand on Peter’s chest and pushed him back just a little, just to make sure he could see the whole show.  The light from the living room was all there was to see by, but it was more than enough. 

Matt unzipped his jeans, painfully slowly, his powerful abs flexing as his hand moved down, down, and he could see that, for Peter, the waiting, the anticipation, was like dentistry.  Then, when he should have dropped the jeans to the floor, he held them up with a thumb through one loop, hooded eyes looking down.  “Help me get out of my boots.”

Peter was on them in a flash, tearing at the laces, and again Matt put down a restraining hand.  “Slow.”

“Right, sorry.”  This was like being with Cody, getting on his knees, ready to service his dominant lover…and it wasn’t, because Cody never slowed him down, Cody was always impatient to get his cock out of his pants, and into Peter, and no delay was acceptable. 

He could see the jeans begin to bunch around Matt’s ankles as he undid the laces, knew that Matt was timing the drop of his pants to coincide with Peter’s finishing the job.  And sure enough, when he’d undone the other lace and pulled the boot out to loosen its grip on Matt’s foot, the pants came down, and the boxers with them. 

Peter looked up and there it was, tall and straight and hard and fat, the most gorgeous cock he’d ever seen.  He wanted it more than anything ever.  And of course Matt had a tan line, from his hips to his knees; naturally he wore board shorts in the sun, what else would a total dude wear?

“You like it?” Matt asked, holding his trophy by the root to show it to best effect in the light. 

“It’s like…the Stonehenge of cocks.  Speaking of ‘2001’ – that’s a monolith.”

Matt roared with laughter.  “Well you know what they did at Stonehenge.”

“Made offerings…” Peter whispered, reaching for it, and finally Matt didn’t stop him from taking what he wanted.

He put his mouth on it, over its big soft head.  He put a hand on it, felt its ridges, the whole thing so big it had a muscularity all its own, a network of veins and channels and ridges.  It seemed to go on forever as he ran his tongue down to the base of it, let it brush his cheek, almost poke his eye as he let it slide across his face.

“Fuck…” Matt whispered, letting go of his dick now, letting Peter take control.  Peter touched Matt’s smooth, freshly shaved balls, and wondered who’d touched them last, who he shaved them for before, then banished the thought. 
Mine now.

He took one, then the other, then both of Matt’s big balls into his mouth, sucked them, rolled them around, Matt’s primal half-grunt, half-sigh all he needed to hear to know he was on the right track.

Then he licked the Monolith, starting at the base and traveling up, long strokes as he lapped at it the way a cat would go at a dish of cream.  There was no hesitation, no doubt now, because if there was one place Peter had perfect confidence, this was it – he knew he was a world champion cocksucker.  He put his lips around the shaft, puckering them in and out like a fish, not moving his head, just teasing, torturing it, tapping the opening with the tip of his tongue.

He could tell that Matt was delirious with pleasure, as he reached to put his hands on Peter’s head, to make him
suck it. 
Then he
chuckled, and dropped his hands to his sides, clenching them to stop himself. 
Remembering our bet
, Peter thought, and determined to win it.

Soon it was Peter who gave up, knowing this wouldn’t be the way he’d win.  “Fuck me,” he said, rolling onto the bed, legs in the air as he pulled his pants and undies off.  Then he threw his legs back up to the sky, looking imploringly between them at Matt.

“Oh?” Matt asked.  “You wanna get fucked?  Really?”

“Yeah!”

“You want that fucking monster cock in your ass?  You serious?”

“Yeah, oh God yeah!”

Matt shook his head, even as he stepped out of his pants.  “That’s crazy talk.  That dick’s too big for your tight little ass.”

“I’m flexible.”

Matt laughed.  “You’ll have to be.” He got on his knees on the bed, pushed Peter’s legs back even further, covered him, reigned over him.  With Peter’s ankles secured over Matt’s shoulders, Matt reached into the bedside drawer for lube and a condom – a Magnum, of course, Peter saw.  Even that would be a stretch to get on that big ole thing.

Matt put some lube on his fingers, and probed Peter’s ass, massaging his hole as expertly as he had his legs.  “You’re tense down there, too.”

“Yeah, but that’s a good thing.”

“You won’t be for long,” Matt growled, and Peter almost whimpered.  With a rip and a roll, the Magnum was out of its foil and over his cock.

Matt pushed Peter’s legs back and braced himself against them with his hands.  He didn’t touch his cock at all, just let it tap and bounce against Peter’s.  Then he finally got his hips where they needed to be, got his shot lined up, and began to press himself in, his eyes locking on Peter’s.

Now, this is different
, Peter’s body said.  It only remembered Cody, the way Cody used to force himself in, in this same position, relishing the grimace on Peter’s face, and Peter, relishing the glee on Cody’s – Peter’s pain was Cody’s pleasure, and Cody’s pleasure was Peter’s dark joy, knowing it kept him bound to Peter, Peter’s willingness to take anything, anything Cody dished out to him…

Matt was insistent; he was getting in there no matter what, but he was patient, too.  He was pushing Peter’s boundaries, watching him ride the edge of pain, because there was no way that big fucking thing got in
anywhere
without a struggle, unless it was a hot-dog-down-the-hallway situation. 

But he never pushed too far, too fast, as he opened that hole, wider, wider, but never so fast that Peter didn’t love it.  Matt never looked away from Peter’s face, was always taking stock of where Peter was, what was in his eyes, and it was still pleasure, astonishment that so much of a man could go inside him, that he could open that wide, and there was
still more to go...
 

Now Matt was past the first barrier, and now it was a question of stretching Peter to fit the rest of him.  He pushed with his hips, made the slow, insistent thrust that buried him inside Peter’s ass.

“Aahhh…” busted out of Peter’s mouth as the head of Matt’s cock reached its destination…and kept going, finding a man’s internal g-spot, that little almond of pleasure deep inside.  “Oh!” Peter cried, as the pressure bent him, squeezed him, pushed him inside out. 

“Heheh,” Matt chuckled, reaching down and flicking a drop of precum off Peter’s cock, putting it in Peter’s mouth.

“That doesn’t count as cumming,” Peter hissed through the searing pressure-pleasure.

“It will in a minute,” Matt said, and he began to fuck him.

Peter saw stars.  Boom, boom, boom went the rhythm as Matt suddenly, finally, gave him what he needed, craved, hungered for, it was like fireworks, something beautiful exploding in his head, and Matt’s emerald eyes glinted in the sky above him, the most incredible display of all, this man, watching him,
seeing him,
giving to him…

Peter came, screaming, without touching himself, a catastrophic, cataclysmic eruption.  “Yeah!” Matt egged him on, fucking him harder, faster.  Peter was cumming like a woman now, again and again, riding it like a wave… 

Matt pulled out, ripped the rubber off and jacked himself once, twice, and with his own shout he blew his load up and over Peter’s head.  Peter watched it splat against the headboard, then the next pulse landed on his face and he stuck his tongue out to catch it like sweet, salty rain. 

“You like that?” Matt asked, “seriously?” Peter nodded; his tongue was desperate to find every drop Matt had scattered on his face.

That was so hot for Matt that Peter could barely finish nodding before Matt was up, squatting across Peter’s torso, with one hand on the wall, his dick in Peter’s face, the other hand stroking it, flinching, his eyes shut at last as his own pain took him again for another orgasm.  He only opened them to check his aim, to make sure he shot every fucking drop straight into Peter’s wide, eager mouth.

“Oh God!” he shouted, disbelieving, grateful, as Peter’s eyes lit up with delight at the taste of him, the look in his face clear, is there more, there is, how wonderful!

Finally, his tank empty, he collapsed on top of Peter, both of them panting, their sweaty bodies slipping against each other.  “Oh fuck!” was all Matt could say, and Peter couldn’t speak at all.

Which was nice.  Really nice.  He couldn’t speak, couldn’t think, was just…here.  Under Matt’s body, in Matt’s bed, just…here.  And so it wasn’t long before he fell into the best sleep he’d had in years.

“So,” Matt said in the morning.  “Eggs benedict, or bacon and sausage omelette?”

“Oh, you cook, too.”

“Mais bien sur.”

“Which do you want?”

“I want bacon.  Makin’ bacon makes me want bacon.”

“Bacon it is.”

Peter still couldn’t think about what last night meant.  Which was great.  The best!  
Just once in your life,
he thought,
fucking enjoy your good fortune.

“So what’s on your schedule today?” Matt asked, serving up their breakfast.

“I’ve got lunch with my friend Katie, and we’re gonna see a movie.  You?”

“Work, maybe half a day.”

“You love your job, huh?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So how did that happen, becoming a mechanic?  And not the double entendre version you gave me last night.”

Matt smiled.  “That was clever, though, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, did you just think of that?”

“You inspired me, yeah.”

Peter said nothing, waited.  Matt nodded, running a hand through his glossy mane.  Peter didn’t usually like long or even longish hair on guys but on Matt, somehow it was just…right.

“Okay.  I got my degree, and the only thing I could do with it was either go back for a Masters and teach, or get a job that didn’t really use it.  But,” he shrugged, “even though it was an English degree, it was from Harvard.  So that’ll usually get you a job, even if you aren’t exactly qualified for it.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, impressed but not wanting to show it. 

“I got a job as an analyst at a consulting firm.  I guess they figured Comp Lit qualified me to read and write reports.  Writing bullshit, really, summaries of bullshit, abstracts of bullshit.  What I said last night was true.  You don’t make anything at a job like that, other than more bullshit.  You read all this…”

“CorpSpeak,” Peter said.  “Maximizing added value to low hanging fruit.”

“Right.  But it’s just empty words.  What does it have to do with real things, what is it but a smokescreen?  If you were really doing something, building a better mousetrap, you’d say you were doing that.  You wouldn’t make shit up to hide the fact that you’re doing nothing, that you’re not building a better mousetrap, you’re not even touching the mousetrap – you’re just trying to convince people that the old mousetrap is better than it is.

“But when you fix a car, it’s real.  You’re doing something.  Something’s broken, or it’s off balance, out of sync, and then you fix it, and then it’s not wrong anymore, it’s right.  And…well, it’s more interesting, honestly.  More intellectually challenging than just writing…wiggle words that just obfuscate and blow smoke.  You have to learn about engines, and the history of that engine, and the history of that kind of car, and the history of the problems that kind of car has.  It’s a lot of information to hold in your head and sort and evaluate, that you need to refer to when one thing doesn’t work.  Honestly?  It’s
more
demanding of my intellect than my old job.”

Peter nodded.  “I know what you mean.  That’s what I want to do.  Make shit.  Make theater.  It’s a thing that’s real, too, you know, it’s just that it doesn’t last, it’s there and gone and you can never have that moment again.  But what’s great about it is, the memory is real, and if the experience is great, the memory lasts forever, so it has to be the best experience you can make it, knowing it won’t last.  You’re making something wonderful, but you’re making it inside people’s heads…”

He trailed off.  He and Matt looked at each other.  Peter looked away first. 
No, I’m not ready.  This is too fast.

Matt agreed silently, for a different reason.
No, it was too early to fall in love, to call it love.  It needs time.  It’s passion, yeah, awesome.  But don’t run, don’t push.

“So,” Matt said, collecting their dishes.  “How was it?”

Peter laughed.  “Breakfast?  Or sex?  Cuz you didn’t ask me how that was.”

“I didn’t have to,” Matt said, and Peter couldn’t see his smile, but could hear it in his voice.

“No, you didn’t.  Breakfast, by the way, was almost as good.”

“Almost?  Why not as good?”

“Last night you used a bigger sausage.”

“Oh, brother.” 

At work on Monday, Peter thought for the first time in a long time about what his future could look like.  He thought about what Matt had done, how he’d thrown over a bigger paycheck for a more satisfying job.  Started at the bottom, started at zero, worked his way up to mastery. 

Could I do that
? 
Go back to being an…intern, basically, to get a foot in the door somewhere in the theater world?  Did I even have the hustle, the sharp elbows, to get in there in front of everyone else who wanted in?

Maybe,
a little voice said. 
If you had someone to support you, and encourage you.  You could probably take an emotional bruising during the day if you come home to something like that…

But then there was money, of course.  Where would he live without this paycheck?  Out in a squat in the far hinterlands, with a bunch of hipsters? 

Kyle knocked on his desk, startling him.  “Oh, hey, sorry.  Drifting.”

“No worries.  Thanks for taking the car in.  You found Matt okay?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Kyle blinked.  “Ah.  Aha.”

“What?”

“Your downcast eyes.  You like him.  He’s hot, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Peter smiled. 
Little do you know.

“You should go for it.  No, never mind, he’s not gay.  He wasn’t interested in me, so, yeah, he’s not.”

“Right, that is the litmus test.”

“Are you mocking me?”

“What do you need, Kyle?”

“Nothing.  Too bad you didn’t buy a lottery ticket that day.  You know the store right by the shop is where they sold the winning ticket.  Right around lunchtime that day, too.  Winner still hasn’t come forward.”

Something slipped an ice cube into Peter’s guts.  “Really?”

“Yeah.  I wouldn’t either.  I’d lawyer up and wait it out.  Though the name has to come out sometime, it’s in the lottery rules, no anonymous winners.”

“Too bad…”

“Well, thanks again.”  Kyle frowned.  “You should go home.  You don’t look so good.”

“Yeah, I don’t feel so good.  Maybe I will.”

Shaking, he turned back to his computer and went to the lottery website.  He wrote the winning numbers down on a slip of paper, and went to the bathroom.  It was nothing, it was absurd, they sold about a trillion tickets.

He went in a stall, shut the door, put the toilet lid down, sat on it.  He was terrible with numbers.  Good thing there was only one line to compare.

27, 13, yeah he had those.

14, 59, those too.  How much was that worth?  A thousand, maybe?

17.  Oh my god.

There was only one number left, the Quadrilliball number.  The number on his ticket was…

1.

Peter folded the ticket back up.  Slipped it back in his wallet.  Stood up.  Lifted the lid of the toilet.  Got on his knees.  And threw up.

When he was done, he texted Katie on his phone, his hand shaking so badly he could barely type. 

>I need your help

>Where are u you’re not at your desk

>I can’t say it out loud.  I just won the lottery.

>very funny.  What’s up?

>Your dads a lawyer.  I need to see him.

>omg

Peter waited, went to the sink, splashed water on his face.  This was supposed to be the most wonderful thing that could happen, right?  Why did he feel so terrible?  Why did he feel like he’d just been diagnosed with something awful?

>where are u

>mens bathroom

The door banged open half a minute later.  Katie was holding in a barely repressed squeal of glee, ready to hug him, when she saw his face. 

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

“Everything’s ruined now,” he said, and began to cry.

The next morning, Peter sat in the lobby of Plant, Williams and Anderson, trying to read a trashy magazine article about scandal on the set of some movie.  To no avail; he could barely concentrate at the LOOK WHO’S FAT NOW photos without his eyes crossing. 

Katie’s father, James Plant, was one of the busiest and most successful attorneys in New York City.  Normally, getting an appointment with him was impossible.  But there was nothing like a client worth $700 million to get a schedule rearranged.

For one perfect moment there in the bathroom, Peter had an idea.  He had suddenly felt free.  He’d stopped crying into Katie’s blouse and looked up with a light in his eyes.

“I’m going to flush it down the toilet.”  It made perfect sense.  He would go back to working his job, writing his blog, dreaming his dream…and dating Matt.  Matt, who he already felt slipping away from him, as if the money was a terrible flood that would obliterate everything in its path. 
But would I? Would I really lose him?

Of course you’ll lose him,
the black dog said. 
That’s bound to happen anyway.  This will only accelerate the process.  You really think he’s the kind of guy who wants to be “the lottery winner’s trophy husband,” the guy who lives in a huge mansion and does nothing all day?  You know how you are, you’d try and buy his love, try and buy him a business, and he wouldn’t take your money, he’s too proud for that.  And think of the media shitstorm when you’re announced as the winner, do you think he wants to live in the middle of all that?

“No!”  Katie had screamed.  Then she calmed down, seeing the look on Peter’s face.  “Look, hon, I know it’s crazy.  You’re in shock.  You can give it all away if you want.  But don’t, do not, leave it to go back into the coffers of the State of New York.”

The moment passed, and the open hand that had offered to let him go now closed back around his wrist, pulling him towards a future that he couldn’t even imagine.  “Yeah, okay.  Okay.”

“God,” Katie said, “how much is it really, in the end?”  She took out her phone and started Googling.  “Here we go, here’s an article in Forbes about the prize money.  “‘How Much Tax Will You Owe On A $700 Million Jackpot? A Lot More Than In 2012.’  Boo hoo, right?”

Peter laughed, wiping his eyes.  “Yeah, no doubt.”

“Hmm.”  Katie scanned the article.  “Cash value, about $440 million.  Top federal tax rate, 39.6%.  New York tax, 12.7% on that kind of money.  So, about half in taxes.  Still.  You walk away with…two hundred and twenty million dollars,” she finished, using a tone of voice that spelled the number out in the properly majestic tone it deserved.

“Oh my God.”  The very idea made Peter queasy all over again.

He thought about that now, sitting in the lobby of the attorneys’ offices.  Katie’s eyes had glazed, glittered, thinking of the money, the glorious wonderful avalanche of money.  Peter could see it, see her…changing.  Everyone would change, everyone would look at him and see money bags, dollar signs.  Even your best friend couldn’t help but think about it all the time, how insanely rich you were now.

His reverie was broken when a secretary came out for him.  “He’s ready for you.”

Peter shook James Plant’s hand across his desk.  “Peter, good to meet you.  Congratulations.”  Plant was in his fifties, lean, athletic, with the clear sharp eyes of a much younger man.  His smile was kind, and Peter could see where Katie got her good looks.  “Have a seat, can I get you anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay.  First question.  Do you have the ticket in a secure location?”

“It’s in my wallet.”

“Well, we need to change that.  Have you signed it yet?”

“No.”

“Okay, we need you to sign that right now.  It’s a bearer instrument, do you know what that means?”

“It’s like a check made out to ‘Cash.’”  Peter pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, and extracted the little slip of paper. 

“Right.”  James handed him a pen.  Peter flattened the ticket on the edge of the desk and then hesitated.  “But if I want to give it away, or put it in an anonymous trust or something, doesn’t this screw that up?”

“No.  And I’m afraid in New York, there’s no anonymity.  When you claim the prize, your name becomes public record.”

“Oh.”

Plant smiled gently.  “But, you have ninety days before you have to cash it.”

Peter looked at the ticket again.  Ninety days…ninety days he could have with Matt before it all went to hell.  Because it would, he knew it would, because suddenly being a hundred-millionaire would change everything. 

And what are you going to do, keep it a secret from him for three months?  Then say, oh by the way I’m filthy rich with money I didn’t earn but I didn’t want to tell you so I could keep you till the last minute?

“What if I just give it away?  Can I just…hand this to someone?”