Read Online Best Gay Romance 2013 by Richard Labonte - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Labonte
Ads: Link
shortâmake that lost.
The casino was swarming with activity, except around Tom, who stood tapping his foot impatiently where we had parted earlier. What a difference twenty minutes can make!
âWhere have you been?â he said, eyeing Bill as if his lamb had come back to the pen accompanied by a miniature wolf.
I can be pretty quick with my back against the wall. I did a double take. âOh! Why, this isâ¦Bill. Heâs fromâ¦Los Angeles. Small world, isnât it? Bill, donât you knowâ¦Tom?â I hoped this cocktail party chatter made it seem as if we were all old friends.
I needed to go no further with my charade. Billâs friends Ray and Greg, also tuxedo-clad, popped over clutching programs. Never before or since have I felt as if Iâd fallen through a film screen and right into a classic screwball comedy. If Carole Lombard and William Powell strolled up, I would not have been surprised.
âIâve been invited to go with some of Annâs friendsââ Tom said, his voice fading out after go . Just where they were going escapes me now. Maybe Ann-Margret herself had seen Tom in the front row clutching his posters and was spiriting him away for a private screening. Whatever the destination, I knew providence was removing Tom. I needed to offer a novena, at my earliest convenience, to thank the patron saint in charge of romance. âI have my key, so Iâll see you back at the hotel,â I
answered, hoping back at the hotel meant tomorrow around the time we caught the cab to the airport. It probably was not the most tactful dump, but I didnât care. This was a magic moment, and I was going to hope for a royal flush. I could blame it on the staircase and the Stoli.
With Tom conveniently removed, I got acquainted with Bill and his friends. He was the chief financial officer for an upscale Century City firm. Ray was an entrepreneur who owned a variety of successful businesses. Greg was Rayâs boyfriend of the moment, and didnât appear to have any job other than placating Ray, which appeared to be a full-time job. Ray wanted to play baccarat, so we went into the high roller area, the one cordoned off with velvet ropes. We were ushered through by burly yet impeccably groomed guards as if they had been waiting for us.
Ray lost five hundred dollars on his first bet. As I saw him toss another chip down, my mind reeled with the thought that his chip could pay my rent. To my relief, Bill was much more frugal with his money, and we watched Ray lose, and lose, and lose. In fact, Ray and Greg became so absorbed in their game that we were able to casually fade into the background.
Bill asked if I was hungry and I nodded, so we took the moving sidewalk out of Caesars to the street, then strolled over to the Flamingo. The wondrous thing about Vegas is that if you get tired of ancient Rome, just nearby are Paris, Venice, Egypt, Manhattan, and so on. The Flamingo was the brainchild of Bugsy Siegel, who, it is said, buried a few enemies in the hotel flower garden. We had a late supper at the Peking Market, a bustling restaurant replete with an enormous aquarium, lanterns, roasted ducks hanging in the window, and mandolin music echoing off the teak walls. In the excitement of the evening, the ill effects of my cheap dinner had worn off, and having been fueled only by vodka for the last three hours, I was starving. But a bowl of egg
drop soup, followed by a platter of moo goo gai pan and combinations of beef, broccoli, and Szechwan shrimp restored me.
We left the Flamingo and went to the MGM Grand. This was my kind of hotel: I could spend hours looking at the photos of the stars. I kept an eye on my camp-o-meter; no sense scaring Bill off by reciting movie lines for the balance of our evening. After a stroll through, we skipped out and explored the Imperial Palace. The Palace was a little down market after the pizzazz of Caesars, the MGM Grand, and the Flamingo, but
The casino was swarming with activity, except around Tom, who stood tapping his foot impatiently where we had parted earlier. What a difference twenty minutes can make!
âWhere have you been?â he said, eyeing Bill as if his lamb had come back to the pen accompanied by a miniature wolf.
I can be pretty quick with my back against the wall. I did a double take. âOh! Why, this isâ¦Bill. Heâs fromâ¦Los Angeles. Small world, isnât it? Bill, donât you knowâ¦Tom?â I hoped this cocktail party chatter made it seem as if we were all old friends.
I needed to go no further with my charade. Billâs friends Ray and Greg, also tuxedo-clad, popped over clutching programs. Never before or since have I felt as if Iâd fallen through a film screen and right into a classic screwball comedy. If Carole Lombard and William Powell strolled up, I would not have been surprised.
âIâve been invited to go with some of Annâs friendsââ Tom said, his voice fading out after go . Just where they were going escapes me now. Maybe Ann-Margret herself had seen Tom in the front row clutching his posters and was spiriting him away for a private screening. Whatever the destination, I knew providence was removing Tom. I needed to offer a novena, at my earliest convenience, to thank the patron saint in charge of romance. âI have my key, so Iâll see you back at the hotel,â I
answered, hoping back at the hotel meant tomorrow around the time we caught the cab to the airport. It probably was not the most tactful dump, but I didnât care. This was a magic moment, and I was going to hope for a royal flush. I could blame it on the staircase and the Stoli.
With Tom conveniently removed, I got acquainted with Bill and his friends. He was the chief financial officer for an upscale Century City firm. Ray was an entrepreneur who owned a variety of successful businesses. Greg was Rayâs boyfriend of the moment, and didnât appear to have any job other than placating Ray, which appeared to be a full-time job. Ray wanted to play baccarat, so we went into the high roller area, the one cordoned off with velvet ropes. We were ushered through by burly yet impeccably groomed guards as if they had been waiting for us.
Ray lost five hundred dollars on his first bet. As I saw him toss another chip down, my mind reeled with the thought that his chip could pay my rent. To my relief, Bill was much more frugal with his money, and we watched Ray lose, and lose, and lose. In fact, Ray and Greg became so absorbed in their game that we were able to casually fade into the background.
Bill asked if I was hungry and I nodded, so we took the moving sidewalk out of Caesars to the street, then strolled over to the Flamingo. The wondrous thing about Vegas is that if you get tired of ancient Rome, just nearby are Paris, Venice, Egypt, Manhattan, and so on. The Flamingo was the brainchild of Bugsy Siegel, who, it is said, buried a few enemies in the hotel flower garden. We had a late supper at the Peking Market, a bustling restaurant replete with an enormous aquarium, lanterns, roasted ducks hanging in the window, and mandolin music echoing off the teak walls. In the excitement of the evening, the ill effects of my cheap dinner had worn off, and having been fueled only by vodka for the last three hours, I was starving. But a bowl of egg
drop soup, followed by a platter of moo goo gai pan and combinations of beef, broccoli, and Szechwan shrimp restored me.
We left the Flamingo and went to the MGM Grand. This was my kind of hotel: I could spend hours looking at the photos of the stars. I kept an eye on my camp-o-meter; no sense scaring Bill off by reciting movie lines for the balance of our evening. After a stroll through, we skipped out and explored the Imperial Palace. The Palace was a little down market after the pizzazz of Caesars, the MGM Grand, and the Flamingo, but
Similar Books
