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"It's pissing rain," White said as Freddy got off the bed and started looking for his underwear.
"Yeah, it is," Freddy muttered and shrugged his shoulders like he thought they were just making small talk.
He pulled on his boxers and stepped towards the window, nudging aside the cheap goldenrod hotel curtains and looking out at the blur of water and streetlights. It really was pissing rain—the kind of apocalyptic weather L.A. broke out when it got bored—and the steady, driving sound of it made him want to press his overheated face against the cool glass.
"Hey," White said, rolling over and reaching out. His fingertips brushed Freddy's hip, and the four-point brand of them was somehow enough to reel him back in.
Freddy sat down at the edge of the bed, wincing a little. When he left this room, he was going to have to think about the fact that he'd just had unprotected sex with a guy who had probably been around the cell block a couple of times. Right now, however, as White's fingers dipped down the back of his boxers, it was a good kind of sore and a good kind of messy. He tried not to let his leg start twitching.
"You're gonna drown out there," White said, his voice rough with after-fucking sleepiness.
"I'll get a cab," he replied, but he didn't get up.
He couldn't stay. Truth be told, it was a miracle White hadn't fucked the truth out of him already—that something stupid hadn't slipped out of his mouth while he was crammed up against the headboard, knees around his ears, letting a criminal he'd only known for five days pound his ass. That was because this was Orange's show. Orange did shit like this all the time. Orange, Freddy had decided, was kind of a slut. The problem was, once Orange went to sleep, all that would be left was Freddy, and who knew if Freddy Newandyke talked in his sleep?
"Is she waiting up for you?" White asked.
Freddy hesitated. If the question had sounded flip, or even petty, that would have been his cue to say yes and leave. White only said it quietly, though, and it was so off-script for a one-night fuck that Freddy missed the beat and left a stretch of stupid silence between them. He twisted the ring on his finger. He knew he should say yes. It was a no-brainer. He wore a wedding ring. He should be getting home while his cover was still holding. Except that it was one o'clock in the morning, and he was a little drunk, and Orange didn't want White to think he was that kind of guy. Or Freddy didn't want White to think Orange was that kind of guy. Or Freddy—
"There isn't any she," he said, the words out before he could stop them.
"No?"
That one word made his shoulders tighten. White cared that Orange wasn't married. What the fuck was Freddy supposed to do with that? Letting White fuck him was good for the job, that's what he had told himself. But it was bad for Freddy not feeling like he was going crazy.
"It was my old man's ring," Freddy said. A little truth helped a big lie along, according to Holdaway. "It's good luck."
"Then lay your lucky ass down and go to sleep."
He could hear the smile in White's voice, and he couldn't bring himself to look over his shoulder and see it with his own eyes. He shook his head, looking instead at the ugly curtains and listening to the rain.
"I don't sleep good. That's all, man. I don't sleep good. I'll keep you up."
White only laughed, like that was nothing. He stood up, naked and easy in his skin, and squeezed the back of Freddy's neck. "Come on."
They ended up in the shower. Freddy felt like he should tell Holdaway, in the interests of full disclosure, that it was starting to look like all White had to say was "Come on" to get him out of his boxers. White cranked the faucet as hot as it would go and then shoved Freddy under the spray. The water stung him, turning his skin pink. It should have felt good to get rid of the smell of come and lube—cleansing—but he was antsy until White got in behind him and crowded in close. The shower was cramped, and Freddy barked his elbow on the tiles trying to turn around.
"Let me take care of it," White said, his big hands on Freddy's hips, making him stay put.
Freddy folded his arms against the wall and rested his head against them. The water beat down on him like a torrent of needles. White's lathered-up hands were soothing in comparison, briskly rubbing over his back and sides. It wasn't hotel soap, but Dial, the same as Freddy used—the same as Orange used. It shouldn't have felt weirdly intimate, using a guy's soap, not after you'd had his fingers and cock up your ass, but it did. He decided that was a Freddy thought and squashed it down. Orange wouldn't notice these things. Orange wouldn't give a fuck. Freddy had been fucked before, just enough times to count on one hand, but he'd never hung around with the guy afterwards any longer than it took to zip up. Orange didn't see any difference. A shower was a shower.
White slowed down a little when he got to Freddy’s chest. Thorough was the word Freddy had used when Holdaway asked if he'd gotten a read on White. Cool was the word he'd had to bite back, but thorough had proven to be the right one, now that he'd had a handjob from the guy. The soapy caress moved down, meticulously cleaning away every bit of dried come from his stomach and pubes.
The steam started to get to him as White stroked his dick. His heavy eyelids fell shut. He was too fucked-out to come again right now, but he pushed his ass back against White anyway, writing checks he couldn't cash.
White chuckled and smacked him on the hip. "Behave."
Freddy behaved. He spread his legs a little and chewed on his lip as White's slippery fingers rubbed between his thighs. The cramped bathroom was turning into a sauna, clouds of steam rising up and making him dizzy. His voice caught in his throat as White lazily fingered him.
"Didn't hurt you, did I?" White asked, his hand immediately going still.
He shook his head, nearly blurting out that it was the best he'd ever had—that he'd never come so hard in his life—had never come at all while being fucked before, and goddamn, could White fuck. Except he couldn't tell if that was Orange buttering White up, or if he really meant it, so he nixed it.
"No," he finally said, his voice slurring a little. "It's good. It was good."
The water shut off, and White steadied his shoulder as he stepped out. He reached for one of the towels, but White beat him to it.
"Aw, come on, man," Freddy protested as White toweled him off. The smile on his face was Orange's. Freddy really wished he’d stop doing shit like that. Bad guys weren't supposed to be nice guys.
White returned the smile and mussed Freddy's hair dry with the towel.
"Bedtime, buddy boy."
Freddy ended up naked in between the cool sheets while White shrugged on a worn blue robe. He watched cautiously as White started going through a duffel bag sitting on the hotel room table. He wasn't going to pull a gun. That wasn't where this was going. Freddy had him fooled. There was nothing to worry about.
"Gonna make me some hot cocoa?" Freddy quipped, trying not to sound like his gut was coiling up.
"Even better."
The rustle of clothing and plastic followed, and then White drew out a baggie of weed.
Freddy breathed out in relief. He moved over to make room as White sat down on top of the covers and started expertly rolling a joint, using the nightstand bible as a table. Freddy stared at his hands, watching as those thick fingers nimbly twisted off the end of the paper.
"Take your medicine," White said, holding the joint an inch away from Freddy's lips.
Orange was definitely kind of a slut, but White obviously had some sort of superpower that involved making people want to suck his dick. Freddy looked up at him with lowered eyelashes and opened his mouth just far enough for White to nestle the joint between his lips. White's lighter flared, and then Freddy drew in a mouthful of smoke.
White had the good stuff. The last time Freddy had smoked pot, he was a senior in high school and smoking ragweed in Andy Henderson's basement. He and Andy had exchanged handjobs and blowjobs a few dozen times, but the cheap weed usually made them too paranoid and clumsy to try anything that required taking off any clothes. This was a higher grade entirely, and Freddy thought he should probably ask White who his connection was so that he could pass the information on, but the first hit and the way White was looking down at him made him keep his mouth shut. He handed the joint over and watched White cup it in that prison grip of his before taking a drag.
The rain kept on, growing even louder now. Freddy wondered if it was hail. Maybe he should get up and look. Worry for his car flickered through his mind.
"Shh," White said, like he could see the thoughts turning in Freddy's head. He played with Freddy's damp hair, pushing his bangs out of his face.
They passed the joint back and forth until it was roached. Freddy took the last hit of it, holding it as it burned down towards his fingers, transfixed by the vividness of the cherry. White plucked it from his grasp and stubbed it out in the ashtray before getting up.
"Hey," Freddy said. It was part protest and half to see if his tongue still worked right. He was definitely stoned. Shit, this was such a bad idea.
White put the bible away and emptied the ashtray into the trash can. Then he took off his robe and left it slung over the back of the chair before returning to the bed. He switched off the light and got in under the covers beside Freddy.
"There. You'll sleep just fine now."
It sounded like an order, and White's hands settled on him, pulling firmly until Freddy was half-sprawled across him.
"What're you doing?" Freddy mumbled.
A heavy arm settled across his lower back.
"Holding you," White said, in a tone of voice that suggested any wisecracks would be met with—
Here, Freddy's smoke-hazed thoughts lost their track. What? Not a bullet. Getting kicked out of bed, maybe. Getting his ass smacked. Getting his hair messed up. His stomach turned over. This was so fucked up.
"Holding me," he echoed.
"Fuck off," White said mildly. His other hand started moving in slow circles between Freddy's shoulder blades.
Freddy shut his eyes, going soft and loose under it. He could hear the steady beat of White's heart under his ear while the patter of rain closed in around him. White's hand moved up to knead at his neck, working out the worst of the kinks before spiraling down to rub his back again.
He would sneak out as soon as White was asleep, he told himself. Or maybe he'd just stay here, awake until dawn, and then go out and pick up some coffee and doughnuts.
Don't drift off, he told himself. You're in bed with a stone cold killer. But as the arm around him tightened snugly, he felt the warm weight of sleep dragging him down, and he knew he was already gone.