Chapter 11
Playing
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: R for language and sexual situations
Summary: El plays a game.
Author's Note: Several people told me they were disappointed in El at the end of chapter 10. For what it's worth, I was too. But I think he goes a long way towards redeeming himself in this one. I hope.
As always, thanks go to Melody my beta reader. And to everyone who has read and taken the time to review. I always love hearing from you guys.
****
El woke to bright sunlight, and a hand.
He was lying on his side, facing the broken window and the morning sun. Sands was on his back, his face turned away. His left arm was out, his hand a mere inch from El's nose.
El yawned. He felt sleepy, but it was a good feeling. Content sleepy.
He studied the hand in front of him. The blue ink tattoo of the numeral 3. The long, elegant fingers, fingers that knew his body now more intimately than anyone, save one person.
He poked his neck forward and kissed one of those fingers.
The hand twitched.
El grinned, and kissed the same finger.
The hand moved again, and suddenly El's smile faded. Maybe it wasn't a good idea to wake Sands. Maybe he should let the man sleep. Who knew what this morning would bring?
For himself, it brought shame. Guilt. Last night had been good, almost as good as the first time, but it should never have happened at all. He should have walked out of this room. Instead he had given in to his selfish desires, despite knowing how wrong it was.
He closed his eyes. As though all the intervening years had not happened, he suddenly heard himself talking to Carolina about Bucho, his own brother. Honey, he is a bad man.
That's me, he thought. Now I am the bad man. He came to me last night for all the wrong reasons, and I knew it, and still I accepted the offer. What have I done?
Well, it was too late now. He would have to face the consequences of what he had done, whatever they might be. One thing was for certain, though. It would not happen again. Unless it was for the right reasons, it would not happen at all.
He became aware that Sands' breathing had changed. He opened his eyes and turned his head. "Are you awake?" he whispered.
Sands nodded. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing.
"How are you?" El dared to ask. He held his breath while he waited for the answer. Last night had been good. He had aimed for a blend of passion and gentleness, and although he was inexperienced at this sort of thing, he thought he had succeeded. Certainly the breathless way Sands had spoken his name – his real name – had filled him with confidence.
Sands thought the question over. "Sticky," he finally said.
El was so surprised by this that he let out his breath in a short puff. The sound this made was the final straw.
He threw back his head and laughed.
****
The laughter did not last too long, however. Sands sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to El. "I fucking hate you, you know." His head was bowed; he sounded weary.
"Why?" El asked, hoping he did not sound as defeated as he felt.
"I never thought about what happened before," Sands said. His shoulders hitched. "Now, thanks to you, it's all I fucking think about. Thanks a whole hell of a lot."
El didn't know what to say to that. Yes, it was his fault. He had gotten Lorenzo killed. He had made Fideo lose faith in him, precipitating Fideo's betrayal. It was his fault the cartel members had showed up here, just in time to unleash all kinds of demons.
But the comment made him rethink what had happened yesterday. If Sands was thinking constantly now about his past, maybe El had done the right thing last night. Sands needed good memories to balance out the horrors of his childhood. Even if it had started out for the wrong reasons, the end result was that he had spent a night in bed with another man and he had not been hurt. That was the most important thing of all right now – to give him those experiences.
El shook his head. He just didn't know what was right anymore.
Sands started to get up. El's arm shot out. "Wait! Don't."
Sands froze. "What?"
"The window," El said. He let his hand fall back; he had come too close to grabbing Sands' shoulder, which could have been a horrible mistake. Things were too precarious right now. One minute Sands was joking with him, the next the agent was ready to fall apart again. He had to be very careful now, what he said and did.
And looking at Sands right now, he was once again reminded so strongly of that wild fox he and Cesar had tried so unsuccessfully to tame.
"There's glass on the floor," he said.
Sands was still for a moment, then he turned around. His expression was enigmatic. "No more hurts," he said quietly, repeating El's words from the night before.
El nodded. "No more," he agreed. He reached out, letting his fingers rasp together so they would make a sound, warning Sands of his intention.
He rubbed one end of the blindfold between his fingers. "I like this," he said. The black silk was in sharp contrast to Sands' tanned skin, and his dark hair. "It looks good on you."
"Hey, it only took an eye-gouging to find that out, too," Sands smirked.
He let go of the blindfold. "Don't." He had always been struck by a faint regret at Sands' loss, but now his blindness was more poignant than ever. "If I could--"
"Oh, please." Sands struck his hand away and scooted across the bed, getting out on El's side. "Gosh, El, a few fucks and you're already turning into a woman." He walked into the bathroom and shut the door.
El clenched his hands into fists. Don't, he told himself. He doesn't mean it. That's just his way.
He knew this. But the accusation still stung.
With a sigh, he climbed out of the bed. He picked his clothes up off the floor and began walking toward the kitchen. He would need a broom to sweep up that glass.
****
Later that morning, as they sat outside, he said, "I want to leave."
His guitar was on his lap; he had been idly strumming it all morning, never actually playing a song. His discontent had been steadily growing. He did not want to fall into a pattern of sex and insults. That was not what he wanted out of life.
"Go then," Sands said casually. There were no signs of anything amiss with him, no warning that he might freak out like yesterday morning. Last night might not have happened, and today seemed just like any other day. While El was wary of that calm -- it seemed too good to be true -- he was also profoundly thankful for it.
"I want you to come with me," El said.
Sands made a noise that quite clearly expressed his opinion of this idea. "Where would you go?"
"I don't know," El said. "I would start in Villa de Cos, I think. I want to see the people there, and my old house."
"Your old house was shot to shit," Sands said. "Remember that? I doubt there's much left."
"I want to see it," he repeated. "And I had friends there."
"Yeah? So go visit."
"I will," El said. "I want you to come with me."
"No. I'm not going."
"Why not?" he asked.
Sands turned to him. The morning sunlight reflected off his sunglasses. "If you want me to leave this house, you're going to have to kidnap me. Savvy?"
The words hung in the air between them. El finally nodded. "All right. But will you at least tell me why?"
Sands shrugged. "I like this house."
El frowned. "After all that has happened here?"
Sands held up his hands, palms up. He made a see-sawing motion, lifting first the left, then the right. Left, right. Then he brought both hands to the same height. "It's all about balance, El my dear friend."
"I thought you didn't want to keep the balance anymore," El said.
"Oh, not for anyone else," Sands replied. "Just for me." He smirked. "After all, it was my New Year's Resolution."
El gaped at him for a moment, then laughed. This, he thought. Why can't it always be like this? His madness is still there, but it is so much quieter now. We could deal with it – together – if only it would stay like this.
Sands rose from his chair and started inside. "Where are you going?" El asked.
"I owe Chiclet a piano lesson," Sands said. "I figure I better practice. He's already better than me." He went in.
El sat back. It struck him that what Sands had said was very sad. For the sake of a few good times, the agent was willing to stay in a house where his former boss had tortured and nearly killed him, and where a ruthless cartel had dredged up his deepest secrets and laughed at them.
I can't stand to stay here. How can he?
If you want me to leave this house, you're going to have to kidnap me. Savvy?
There had been a challenge in those words. He knew he had not heard wrong. Sands wanted to leave, but his wounded pride would not let him.
If you want me to leave this house, you're going to have to kidnap me. Savvy?
As the first piano notes sounded from in the living room, El smiled. He could savvy
****
He laid his plans carefully. He was walking a fine line here. If anything went wrong, the damage could be catastrophic. But he kept reminding himself that Sands trusted him. Or the agent would never have said those words. He trusted El to get it right.
This did not help. The burden created by that trust was very heavy.
Still, he could not deny that he had fun with the planning. It was good to have something to look forward to again.
The first thing he did was tell Chiclet. He made a special trip into town, pretending he needed something at the market, in order to find the boy alone. He took Chiclet to the cantina and bought him a soda. "We have to go away for a little while," he said.
Chiclet immediately lost interest in lunch. "Why?"
El explained his intentions, although he said nothing about the new relationship between him and Sands. He didn't know how to tell the boy. Moreover, he was reluctant to say the words out loud. Giving voice to them would be confirming something that still seemed ephemeral. And he worried, too, that if he told anyone what he did at night, he would be labeled, given membership to a new section of society. He had no desire to fit that label. He did not feel gay, for one thing, nor did he think this of Sands. What they had went beyond labels. It defied explanation.
Chiclet listened carefully. By the time El finished, he was nodding. "I think he should get out of there, too."
And that was it. El slumped a little in relief. "And you'll look after the house for us?"
The boy nodded, eager to be of help. "Sí." His eyes darkened. "Will you tell me when it happens?"
"I don't think so," El said. "You will just show up one day soon and we will be gone."
Chiclet dropped his head, fighting tears.
"We will come back," El promised.
Chiclet just nodded, unable to speak.
****
After that it was easier. He made plans with the utility companies, told the priest that they were leaving and asked for someone to keep watch on the house. He trusted Chiclet, but there were things a man could do that a boy could not.
Four days after first conceiving of the idea, there was nothing left to do but put things in motion.
****
They had not slept together since the night Sands had nearly killed himself. Sands did not offer, and El did not ask. He was determined to stand by his vow. When it happened again – if it happened again – it had to be right.
He wondered, sometimes, how things had come to this. That he could be contemplating a future with a killer, a sociopath. Then he would remind himself that Sands had changed. And he was a killer too, that could not be forgotten. All he had to do was remember Fideo's pleading eyes, and he was reminded of what kind of man he was.
But if Sands had changed, so had he. Perhaps it was fitting that they had found each other. No one else in this world would have them now.
But still, he wondered.
Early on the fourth morning, he packed a bag and put it in the trunk of the car. He put both guitar cases in there. While Sands was showering, he hastily threw some of the agent's things into a bag and put that in the trunk, too.
Then he went to stand in the corner of the living room, to wait.
Sands emerged, smelling of steam and soap, his hair still damp. He sat in the armchair, grabbed for the remote control that always stayed on the table beside the chair, and paused, remote in hand. His head cocked to one side. "El?"
As silently as possible, El stalked toward him.
Sands knew he was there. Or that someone was there. The agent tensed, his hand closing tightly about the remote.
Just as El got to him, Sands made his move. He dropped the remote and his hand dove to his hip, and his guns.
El grabbed a handful of his hair, jerking his head back. He pressed his gun to Sands' temple. "Don't do it," he warned.
Sands went still. "What the fuck is this?"
"Put your hands in the air," El commanded. He let his voice drift down into the cold, low registers he rarely used. He didn't like how he sounded when he talked like that. It was the voice of the killer he was.
Sands complied.
"You going to kill me, El? Did you finally decide your manly pride is offended? Is that it?"
"Stand up," El said coldly. "Who is this El person?"
Sands started in surprise. Then the merest hint of a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. "Ah," he said, very softly. "You know," he drawled, "I live with this big hulking brute of a mariachi. If he comes home and finds I'm not here, he'll be pretty pissed."
"Yeah?" El asked, smiling in spite of himself. "And what will he do?"
"He'll play bad, sappy love songs on his guitar until you beg him to kill you," Sands smirked.
El had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "That won't work," he said. "I am tone-deaf."
Sands sighed. "Oh well."
"Now stand up," El repeated. He pressed harder with the gun.
"All right, all right," Sands said. He stood up, having to arch his back as he rose, because of the grip El had on his hair. "So what is this all about?" He sounded bored, and slightly amused.
"You do not get to ask questions," El said, giving him a shake. Just a small one. It was all he dared. He was very aware of how he was standing, and the distance between their bodies. He knew that they were dangerously close to re-enacting the moment the cartel man named Marco had made his suggestive comment to Sands, putting the events of the last week in motion. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Sands to relive that horror.
"Fair enough," Sands drawled. "But don't you villains usually exposition us poor victims to death anyway? So why not follow tradition and tell me the plan here?"
El grinned. After last week, he had begun to believe he would never be able to laugh again. He had lived with darkness for many years, but there were some things that were too much, even for him. It felt so good to let go of the tight hold he usually kept on himself; to remember, even for a time, the playful young man he had once been. "Let's go," he said gruffly.
"You're the boss," Sands shrugged. "Where to?"
"The door," El said, deliberately choosing to misunderstand the question. He gave Sands' head a slight push in that direction. "Walk. Now."
Sands walked toward the door. His gait was relaxed. He was thoroughly enjoying the game, El realized.
But it wasn't much of a game if it didn't seem real.
Abruptly he yanked on Sands' hair, pulling the agent to a halt. Sands let out a surprised yelp, his hands flying up as he was bent backward. "What the fuck!"
El leaned in close so he could whisper in Sands' ear. "You do not seem to realize the seriousness of your situation, Agent Sands. I think we need to correct that." He moved the gun down from Sands' temple to press it under his jaw, forcing his head up. "Do you still think I am the boss?"
Sands was silent for so long that El feared he had gone too far. Then the agent said, "Sure."
Nothing in his voice revealed what he was thinking. So El took a chance. "You do not sound too sure," he threatened, continuing the game.
"Well," Sands said, "that depends."
"On what?" El asked.
"On what you're going to do with me," Sands said.
"What would you like me to do?" El asked. He relaxed his hold on the gun a little. He was still leaning close, so he pressed a kiss to the soft spot beneath Sands' ear, along his jaw. "Would you like me to do this?"
Sands caught his breath, but said nothing.
El bent his knees so he could go lower. He left a trail of hot kisses down Sands' neck. The unloaded gun sagged in his hand, forgotten. "What about this?"
Sands tilted his head back, his whole body going limp. "Yeah, that's nice."
"Too bad," El said, straightening up. "I am not that kind of kidnapper."
"So you don't ravish your abductees, huh?" Sands asked. A throaty note had entered his voice, and El thrilled to hear it.
"No," El said. "Unless they ask me to."
"I see," Sands said, still sounding a bit breathless. "I'll have to think about that one."
In a flash, he whirled around, completely ignoring the hand caught in his hair. He swept his left arm to the side so it knocked into El's arm, meaning the gun was no longer aimed at his head. His knee came up, and although El turned aside in shocked reaction, it was not far enough, and Sands' knee caught him right in the thigh. The muscle there spasmed painfully, and he hollered, doubling over.
The gun was grabbed from his hand. A second later his right arm was twisted up behind him, and the gun jabbed painfully against his neck. "Now, fucker," Sands said, "who's the boss?"
Despite the pain in his leg, El hardly dared to breathe. The amused note was gone from Sands' voice. He sounded as cold as El had, at the start of the game.
Now he sounded like the killer.
What have I done? Santo Dios, what have I done?
"Hey!" Sands jammed the gun harder against the soft flesh of his throat. "Answer me!"
El swallowed painfully. "You are," he said. The gun was not loaded, thank God, and he hoped Sands knew that, but right now that did not matter one bit. All that mattered was that he had fucked up. He had pushed too hard and too far, and he had ruined one of the rare times when he and Sands were having fun.
"Damn straight I am. Who did you think you were fucking with, huh?" Sands gave his wrist a little squeeze, and El gasped.
"I'm sorry," he managed. "It was just a game." He closed his eyes. Of all the bad decisions he had made, this was surely the worst. It was too soon, maybe, or too much. Or maybe there would never be a good time for this kind of game. Whatever the reason, Sands had not been able to deal with it, and he had snapped.
"A game?" Sands gave a push on his trapped wrist, forcing it high, making him groan. "You think this is a fucking game?"
"I'm sorry," El whispered. He tensed, waiting for Sands to pull the trigger, wondering dully what would happen when the agent heard only the click of an empty cylinder.
"Because I sure do." Sands released him so suddenly that El staggered.
He whirled around, and saw Sands grinning. The agent rocked on his heels. "Got you."
El just stared at him, too stunned to speak. It had been a lie. A fake. The master of manipulation had done it again. Sands had taken the game and turned it on its head, the way he had always done. And he had gotten away with it, the way he had always done – until the coup, that is.
"What's the matter, El? Can't you take a joke?" Sands did not stop grinning.
El shook his head. "You scared the shit out of me," he said.
Sands' grin grew even wider. "Oh, El, that's music to my ears." He held out the gun. "Here, you can have this back."
El put it in its holster, making a mental note to load it again. He was almost shaking with reaction, he was chagrined to note. "Don't do that to me again," he said.
"Christ, El, be a man!" Sands said heartily. "So, where are we going?"
"I don't know," El replied. "But I thought we'd start in Villa de Cos."
"Villa de Cos it is," Sands said. He started walking for the door.
And after a long, bemused moment, El followed him.
******