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There’s something Vegas has to do and he can’t rely on the usual methods to help himself do it.
He’s not going to destroy something precious and beautiful and lifeless in a controlled manner, not going to resort to alcohol, not even going to chain smoke to give himself that bitter taste in his mouth and the minor high that comes with irregular nicotine consumption.
He will not go out and buy himself some new toys, ones he can imagine using on Pete one day. He tried that once and it did not go as planned, he ended up setting it all on fire and he’s trying to remind himself he doesn’t have an endless budget anymore.
What he will allow himself instead are his new hobbies.
On Monday morning he spends hours at the market picking out the freshest groceries, the most fragrant and ripe, and carries bags back to his bike that will let him cook meals for a week. On Monday afternoon he goes to his favorite butcher and gets several fine cuts.
On Monday evening Pete makes a surprised little noise when he opens the fridge to get a drink, and asks Vegas if they’re expecting company.
On Tuesday Pete is out all day, visiting a few of the gym locations to scope out equipment upgrades, and Vegas spends the whole day cooking. He chooses ingredients for a dish he’s comfortable with, one he’s made over and over, starts cooking it, finishes, cleans all the work surfaces in the kitchen.
He does it again, for a different dish. He cooks, and while the dish cools he cleans, and then puts the food into the fridge. Then he does it again. By the time he’s almost out of ingredients the kitchen has been cleaned seven times, and it’s dark outside.
With each dish the task is more complicated, more challenging. He’s running out of herbs, out of meat, out of the easy ingredients. He has to be more inventive, research new things to make, risk failure.
The front door opens and closes, and Vegas is almost done cleaning everything for the last time. There’s some eggplant leftover but he can char that tomorrow.
“So, I think ten exercise bikes,” Pete says, and Vegas can hear him taking his shoes off by the door. “Definitely need to replace a lot of the weights, but that’s peanuts. There’s also–”
“Wait,” Vegas says, throwing a dish towel into the sink and going out of the kitchen to join him. Pete looks tired and a little sweaty, too warm in the clothes he chose to wear even with the a/c in the car and the gyms being on high. “Tell me over dinner? Can we go out?”
“Uh… sure,” Pete says, awkwardly looking at the shoes he just finished taking off. “Can I change first? I need like… something sleeveless and shorts, at least, or I might melt,” he laughs.
Vegas smiles. He wants to tell Pete he can just take all his clothes off and let Vegas lick the sweat off, but Pete’s probably too tired for that. “Sure. Don’t take too long, I’m hungry.”
It’s not a lie - Vegas hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast, except a taste of things here and there as he was working. He’s starving.
Pete goes into the bedroom and emerges a few minutes later, looking no less tired but a lot more relaxed. “Let’s go,” he says, smiling, and Vegas grabs the keys to lock the door behind them.
They take the easy route - one of their favorite spots, where the turnover is high and the food is served quickly. Vegas eats and watches Pete eat, takes note of what Pete enjoys, what flavors are his favorites. He’s been studying Pete’s tastes for ages - since the safehouse, arguably - but it’s a habit now. To pay attention and make sure he’s still on track, that he knows what Pete likes as well as any human might.
They get beers at the end, though Vegas barely touches his. Pete finishes his bottle, and by the time they leave Pete is full and sleepy and sweaty again, leaning on Vegas and giggling and pressing sloppy kisses to his lips on the short walk home.
Pete passes out practically as soon as he hits the mattress, doesn’t even bother showering, and Vegas collapses next to him and for a long time watches him sleep. Pete snores a little, turns occasionally, looking so careless and young and vulnerable.
So, so vulnerable now that he’s with Vegas. Before he had a whole system to protect him, to look after him, to reward him for risking his life by working for the mafia.
Now all he has is one degenerate nobody who’s lost all his money and power and is still trying to unlearn the violence he’s let poison so many things in his life.
*
On Wednesday Vegas cancels the meetings he had with the business people - corporate lawyer, accountant, main family lawyer, interim business manager - and instead decides to reorganize his and Pete’s clothes.
Pete sleeps in late, and by the time he’s up Vegas has finished two loads of laundry, one of which is done drying, and the next is hanging outside.
“There’s food in the fridge,” Vegas says, in response to Pete’s sleepy, confused expression when he finds Vegas in the living room, ironing.
Pete hesitates only for a moment but then does go into the kitchen to heat up something for breakfast. Vegas can wait to eat until lunch, but Pete wakes up ravenous in the mornings.
He can hear Pete clean his plate and utensils before he comes back into the living room and sits down on the couch, observing Vegas.
“Are you going to wash everything we own?” Pete asks, tone neutral. He’s never been bothered about clothes before, and Vegas doesn’t expect he’ll start now.
“Yes,” Vegas confirms.
“The stuff from the closet? That’s not dirty?”
Vegas gives him a pointed look. “You can’t prove that.”
Pete looks like he’s considering that idea. “Fine. But why are you standing there ironing jeans?”
Vegas looks at him again, and flips the thick fabric over to get the other side.
Pete leans back on the sofa, eyes on the ceiling. “Because why not iron everything too.”
“I need something from the store. Can I give you a list?” Vegas says, continuing on with his task.
“From the store?” Pete says, incredulous. “You cooked enough food for two weeks! We should probably freeze some of it.”
Vegas doesn’t flinch. Pete is probably right, Vegas is bad at estimating these things when he gets going. He used to be bad at estimating other things too, before. He always tried his best, tried to turn all his anger and fear and anxiety into something productive but sometimes it was too much. Too much pain, too much blood, too much evidence. Too much impact, more than he’d hoped for or wanted.
“Cleaning supplies,” Vegas clarifies. “We’re almost out.”
“Right,” Pete says. “Of course.” He rubs at his eyes. “Let me put on a shirt.”
Pete leaves with a list and doesn’t come back for several hours. Vegas starts thinking maybe he’s gone so overboard Pete needs to take some time off, like he does on rare occasions. But that doesn’t feel likely, it’s the middle of the day and they haven’t done anything sexual. Pete doesn’t usually go drinking this early, and he doesn’t hide from Vegas if Vegas doesn’t do something stupid related to sex.
That becomes harder and harder to remember as the minutes tick on, but Vegas keeps going through the cycle of clothes cleaning while Pete is gone. He might end up doing the same to their bedding too.
Pete comes back with three bags of cleaning supplies and two sweet, icy drinks in plastic cups. They’re from a seller down the street, still cold.
“Come here, let’s take a break,” Pete says from the kitchen, setting the two drinks on the table, and Vegas finishes ironing a pair of black cotton underwear and lets out a breath. He can take a break. He wants to see Pete, wants him to smile again. Wants him to be OK with this.
Vegas has come so far from the man he used to be. He’s doing good things now, when his insides feel liquid and unstable. He hasn’t tried to hurt anyone - not even himself - and he hasn’t spent hours holed up in his private room with all his favorite toys, because he doesn’t have a room like that anymore.
He’s gotten rid of all the things he used to use to hurt people, and now everything he does is ultimately helpful. Pete can see that, surely. Vegas knows that Pete can tell. Asking Vegas to take a break is a way of taking care of him, and Vegas appreciates it. He’s never been in a relationship where both parties were genuinely trying to take care of each other before, with no big secrets or ulterior motives. It feels wonderful, but he’s still learning how to navigate it.
The drink is orange colored and sweet and cool and Vegas can’t help a little moan at the first sip of it through the straw. It makes Pete smile wide, and raise an eyebrow suggestively. Which makes Vegas chuckle, because Pete so rarely goes for jokes like this.
They sit together and suck on the drinks and Vegas can feel his limbs relaxing from the sugar high.
Pete pushes out his chair and then puts his feet up on Vegas’ lap, making Vegas groan from the weight and both of them laugh again.
By the time the cups are nothing but leftover ice one of Pete’s legs is bent at an awkward angle, heel of his foot rubbing between Vegas’ legs, right against his cock.
It feels so good, Vegas has to close his eyes for a moment and let himself feel it.
But today… today Vegas is too wound up, too stressed about what’s coming. He can’t let himself be distracted like this, or he’ll drown in Pete’s body until it’s dinner time and then it’ll be too late to get all of today’s work done, and that’ll throw his schedule right off.
He caresses Pete’s foot, stills it, and there’s a tiny frown on Pete’s face.
“Sorry, not today,” Vegas says. “Too much to do.”
“OK,” Pete says, after a long pause. “Can I help?”
It would help if Pete could take Vegas’ meetings, but Vegas doesn’t want to do that to him. No matter how simple or easy the meeting is, how considerate the trained professionals, Pete will walk away feeling he’s misunderstood something or missed something. No point making him feel bad if Vegas will only have to get involved again afterwards anyway.
Vegas shakes his head. “It’s something I need to do myself.”
“Laundry?” Pete clarifies.
Vegas nods. “Weren’t you meeting Pol and Arm today?”
“Yeah, in an hour,” Pete says. “Didn’t you have some meetings today?”
“They got postponed.” Technically not a lie.
“Right,” Pete says. After a moment he lowers his legs from Vegas’ lap and gets up to throw away the plastic cups.
When he comes back around he leans down and kisses Vegas’ hair. “I like it,” he says, putting a hand on Vegas’ shoulder. “When everything is clean.”
Vegas breathes in the words, Pete’s tone, and feels it opens up his lungs. Pete doesn’t sound angry or upset. He’s not exactly encouraging either, but he’s still… praising Vegas, approving in some way. Not that Vegas requires his praise or approval, that wouldn’t be healthy, but when Pete walks back into the bedroom Vegas has to spend a few seconds sitting still and telling his heart to calm down, his eyes to stop stinging.
Then he can finally get up and continue the work.
*
On Thursday Vegas wakes up feeling lighter, calmer somehow. The walls aren’t pressing in like they have been for the past few days. He still hates what’s ahead of him, still wishes it could be avoided, but he doesn’t feel as overwhelmed by it anymore.
Pete leaves in the morning to meet some vendors about the equipment upgrades he’s thinking of making, and Vegas does go through all their bedding and gives it the same laundry treatment. He could do the same with all their towels, but he doesn’t feel the need.
When Pete gets home they have a late lunch, and then watch some boxing match on TV, and then Vegas drags Pete up from the couch by the arm and pushes him against a living room wall, and watches the last rays of the sun reflect against Pete’s golden skin, tan from being outside so much lately.
Pete moans when Vegas pushes a hand between Pete’s belly and the waistband of his loose shorts, right into his clean, ironed underwear. Vegas’ hand wraps around Pete’s soft cock and Vegas’ mouth finds Pete’s shoulder, biting into it, making Pete moan even louder.
Pete’s cock starts getting fuller and stiffer and Vegas’ other hand climbs into Pete’s mouth, Pete’s jaw opening easily to accommodate it. Vegas has three fingers on Pete’s teeth, on his tongue, making his sounds more open and incoherent, and he’s pressing Pete into the wall with his body.
It works, and Pete gets hard and comes, mewling, groaning into Vegas’ fingers, hands buried in Vegas’ hair, pressing Vegas’ head even closer, urging Vegas’ teeth to dig deeper into the skin.
Vegas pulls his hand out of Pete’s shorts and pulls away just enough for Pete to see him licking smudges of Pete’s come off his fingers. It tastes bitter and salty and Vegas loves it for how it makes something in Pete’s eyes flare, even though Pete literally just came.
Pete turns them over, still catching his breath, and Vegas lets him. Now it’s Vegas’ back against the wall, Pete in front of him. Amazing that they’re still both fully clothed.
Pete goes to his knees and Vegas thinks that he’s never made anyone come before the way he just made Pete come. It’s a constant refrain in his head these days, a constant mental checklist, comparing what he’s doing with Pete to everything he’s ever done before in his life, or at least everything he remembers.
It’s important for Vegas not to mix the two, not to bring his current life, his current desires and impulses, too close to anything that came before. If he tried to explain it to someone, even Pete - especially Pete - it wouldn’t make any sense, because the past and present do dovetail neatly sometimes. Complete exclusion is impossible.
But there are imaginary lines, imaginary diagrams in Vegas’ head that let him pull his past self and his present self sufficiently far apart so he can breathe. So he can find a new normal. So he can be someone Pete loves all the time, and not just some of the time.
Pete’s mouth is hot and tight on Vegas’ hard cock, bobbing up and down, sucking and licking the underside, pushing the tip of Pete’s tongue into Vegas’ slit. It only takes a few minutes for Vegas to come like that, with Pete’s fingers digging into his hip bones.
When it’s done he feels drained and tired, empty is a satisfying way. Pete gets up with a slight wince and Vegas remembers how bad the floor is for his knees. Pete doesn’t want to hear it, but Vegas wants to get carpets for every inch of the floors to prevent stuff like this from happening. They both get too caught up sometimes, and Pete doesn’t think about his own past injuries. He doesn’t have a whole staff dedicated to keeping him in the best shape anymore.
*
On Friday Vegas goes to see Kinn.
He doesn’t have a meeting on the schedule, too afraid that setting one up would encourage either him or Kinn to postpone it indefinitely.
He comes into the tower, like any visitor would, and goes up the elevator to Kinn’s office, because none of the guards dare question him. No matter how far he’s fallen, he’s still the boss’ blood relative, officially pardoned and accepted back into the fold.
Kinn’s secretary is polite and courteous, despite the rudeness of Vegas showing up unannounced. He’s a young guy, lean, pretty face, jittery around the eyes. A year ago Vegas would assume Kinn was fucking him. He looks like Kinn’s usual type more than Porsche ever did.
“He has meetings until very late, Khun Vegas, my apologies, I’d be happy to–” the man begins to say.
“He’ll see me,” Vegas says, and takes a seat in one of the plush waiting chairs. Papa had these kinds of chairs in his study, for guests. “I don’t mind waiting.”
It only takes ten minutes before the doors to Kinn’s office open and several men in suits come out. The secretary rushes inside and the doors close after him.
A few minutes later Kinn emerges, and the secretary follows quietly, returning to his post.
Kinn is wearing one of his more muted suits, dark gray, with black detailing on the cuffs. Must be a day of boring business meetings, he’d never meet anyone truly important dressed like this.
Kinn looks Vegas up and down before nodding towards his office. Vegas gets up and follows him, and as soon as the doors close behind them Kinn goes to his little bar station and pours them both a whiskey on the rocks.
Vegas accepts his but puts it down on the desk in front of him, untouched. Kinn drinks a long swig of his before sitting down in his chair.
“I need a favor,” Vegas says, because there’s no point drawing this out.
“Do you?” Kinn says, licking his lower lip. “And you’ve come to me? Isn’t it usually Pete who asks for these things?”
“I’m asking for Pete, in this case,” Vegas says.
Kinn leans back in his chair. “You want a bigger house? More shares of the family business? What is it you’re unhappy with, Vegas?”
He should have known it would be like this. Maybe he did know, that’s why it took so much effort to come here. Kinn’s been so civil, so generous and kind to him in the past, when they were in public, or with Porsche, or Pete, or other family members. Even around Tankhun, Kinn has been nothing but fair and reasonable towards Vegas.
Putting the past in the past, believing everyone can change, accepting that Vegas isn’t his father, that he’s making amends, that Pete is a good judge of character. So many things Kinn’s projected publicly, but underneath there’s this.
There’s the two of them the way they’ve always been. Two boys who were taught to hate each other, to compete at all costs, because it would make them both stronger. Make the family stronger.
What a crock of shit that was, but how will they ever unlearn it? Vegas had to have his entire life broken into little pieces and set on fire to see it. He had to lose everything, including his own image of himself. Kinn came out the winner in the end, so why would he see it?
“Does Pete want a racecar?” Kinn asks, and Vegas realizes he’s been quiet for a while. “I can’t handle the suspense.”
“Your petty bullshit,” Vegas says, instead of saying what he came here to say. “What if I did ask for a mansion, so what? You could give us twenty racecars and not feel it.”
Kinn’s eyes narrow. It’s the wrong path to take, but something in Vegas likes this. It’s honest, and he and Kinn have so rarely gotten to be honest with each other throughout their lives. “You should really talk to Porsche, then,” Kinn says. “He handles the minor family funds, however much you need, it should come out of that. But of course, I wouldn’t dream of sending you to Porsche because–”
“Of course you would,” Vegas interrupts his little tirade. “You’d love to send me to Porsche, and then his secretary, and then your secretary, and then whoever else, just to make me beg a little longer. Make me feel how little you care, how grateful I should be for anything you give me. For being alive at all. Come on, Kinn, let’s not pretend. Just tell me what it’s going to take for you to do me a favor, who will I have to kill for you? Who do you want me to torture?”
Kinn’s eyes look like they could shoot lightning. His breathing is a little faster than it should be. He takes another big gulp of the whiskey. “I wouldn’t send you to Porsche,” he says. “Because five days ago I saw a tape that we’ve apparently had all this time, but fell through the cracks somehow. Maybe–no, probably, because of me. Because I didn’t want to look at it. Do you know what happens on that tape, Vegas? I’ll give you a hint, it starts with Porsche getting dragged into a hotel room.”
Oh. Shit.
All the air leaves Vegas’ body at once. He was so sure he knew what Kinn was about to say, he had no idea…
Of course Vegas knows what’s on the tape. He remembers coming up with that plan, with Tawan, lying in bed together. Tawan always had a good head for pushing Kinn off balance. As soon as Vegas told him Kinn had a new bodyguard, that the rumors were that Kinn practically forced him to take the job, Tawan told Vegas it was a good way to mess with Kinn’s head.
He remembers talking to Papa about it, and Papa saying whatever was necessary had to be done. No matter how unsavory, Vegas had to take every opportunity to force Kinn into making a mistake. Something public, some way he’d be out of control that Papa could utilize to push Kinn aside and push Vegas forward.
At the time it had seemed like the most important thing in his life. Now Vegas wouldn’t trade places with Kinn if his life depended on it.
Vegas reaches for his whiskey and takes a drink, feeling the rush of fire down his throat.
What must have been on that tape… Porsche getting dragged into the room with a hood on, drugged, barely able to stand. Vegas climbing on the bed with him, toying with him, while several bodyguards watched.
What would have happened if Kinn hadn’t shown up? At the time Vegas told himself the drug didn’t make anyone do anything they wouldn’t do otherwise. It just… unlocked certain desires, lowered inhibitions, helped things along. Would he have listened, if Porsche had really fought him? Or would he have told himself that as long as Porsche felt good, as long as he got hard, it was all the same? That Kinn only fucked escorts anyway, so surely Porsche wouldn’t be a stranger to something transactional?
Vegas drinks the remaining whiskey down in one gulp and then gets up to pour himself another. He drinks that one down in one go.
If someone had done that to Pete, if someone had drugged him and toyed with him and ignored his consent, even if it had nearly happened, even if the person was sorry, even if they swore to Vegas they would never do anything like that again, even if they burned those words into their own skin, Vegas would still never let them near Pete again.
But then, who had ever done anything to Pete against his will, except Vegas? Who had ever tortured him, beaten him, humiliated him like Vegas did? No one, probably not even his father. At least back then Pete could fight back. Vegas had him chained up and helpless.
The bottle of whiskey was half empty when Vegas started, and now there’s barely anything left.
“Fuck,” Kinn says, next to him, and Vegas realizes they’re both standing at the little bar, staring at the empty bottle. “Bank!” Kinn yells, and there’s a noise outside.
“Khun Kinn?” Kinn’s secretary says through a crack in the door.
“Cancel the rest of my day,” Kinn says, opening a cabinet door under the bar and pulling out a brand new bottle.
The secretary nods and disappears and Vegas still doesn’t know what to do with his hands, or his legs for that matter. He manages to walk over to the area with the couches and the coffee table and collapse there.
He can’t go home and face Pete like this. He can’t go home when he hasn’t even asked Kinn for the important thing he came to ask him for. It took him a week to work himself up to this. But how could he ask now? What does he deserve, except to disappear from this earth like the man who made him?
Kinn is still standing by the bar, pouring himself a glass. He grabs that and the bottle and comes over, sinking to the couch opposite Vegas, putting the bottle and glass on the little table between them.
“I didn’t look at the tape until now,” Kinn says, and pauses to pour the contents of the glass directly into his mouth, like a shot. “Because some things happened after you ran that I’m not proud of.”
Kinn looks rattled, and Vegas tries to pay attention to him, through the pleasant warmth and haze of the alcohol. Through the pounding of guilt in his ears. What is Kinn talking about? Does it even matter?
“You’re a piece of shit,” Kinn says, head resting on the back of the couch, eyes closed, looking like he couldn’t get himself up again if he tried. “I know you know that, but it bears repeating. Everyone else might look at Uncle Gun and think you had no choice but to turn out like you did, but you and I know better.” His words are coming out a little slurred, though Vegas doesn’t think it’s the alcohol. Kinn can handle his booze better than this, it’s Vegas who’s out of practice. “You were a big boy, Vegas, just like me. No hiding from that.”
Vegas shakes his head, tries to clear the cobwebs. He wishes he were more drunk right now. He wishes he could just pass out and wake up somewhere else. In medical, in the lobby, in the street outside, back at his apartment. Maybe not wake up at all.
It takes a long time for Vegas to gather his thoughts enough to speak. Everything is blurry and hazy and painful, in his head. Kinn is right, of course. But he’s also wrong. He’s wrong about the present. “I’m not hiding, you asshole,” Vegas says, finally. “I’m trying. I’m trying so hard to make up for everything.” He knows there are tears streaming down his cheeks and he can’t stop them. This really is the alcohol, messing up his self-control. He was so fucking stupid for coming here. What did he think would happen? “It’ll never be enough. Never. I know that.”
He pours himself another drink, swallows it down.
“Good,” Kinn says, and grabs the bottle from him. “It’s good that you know. Now ask me for your fucking favor before you pass out from alcohol poisoning.”
“It’s Pete,” Vegas says, wiping away the tears with both hands and somehow making it worse, smearing the wetness all over his face. He needs this so much and only Kinn can give it to him, so he’s serving himself up on a platter for Kinn to feast on. He has no bargaining power, no cards up his sleeve, just begging. That’s why he could barely bring himself to come here in the first place. “What happens to him when I’m gone? You have everything, Porsche has everything, but Pete–”
“You think we’d leave him out in the cold?” Kinn asks. “You think fucking you is why he’s being taken care of?”
“No,” Vegas shakes his head vigorously, trying to stifle a sob. “But you’ll treat him like one of your lackeys.” The words finally let him breathe again, make the crying recede. “You’ll give him enough to live on, let him keep the apartment, and consider yourself a good employer. A good friend.” Vegas wipes his face again and this time the anger at that future scenario helps to make him calmer.
“And what you envision is…?” Kinn asks, pouring himself another drink.
“I want him to have an equal share,” Vegas says, steadier now. “I want you to draw up a will and divide the family assets between your brothers, and Porsche, and whoever else you plan to include in that circle, and also Pete. And if I’m gone, whenever that is, I want Pete to get his share.” Vegas eyes the bottle but doesn’t reach for it. “He’s not your ex-bodyguard. He’s family. I’m not, Macau’s not, that’s fine, but Pete gets to be. If something happens to me, I want to know he’ll be taken care of the way Tankhun will be taken care of, if you get shot tomorrow.”
If Vegas can just get this done, Pete will be set for the rest of his life, no matter what happens. Pete doesn’t have private school connections or a degree to fall back on, and no matter how well their business ends up doing, he might not be comfortable running it alone. And then what? He might ask Kinn for his old job back. And Vegas isn’t certain Kinn will say no.
Except Pete is his and he deserves what a Theerapanyakun spouse would get. He deserves enough that he’ll never have to risk his life again. Even if all the blood ties between Vegas and Kinn are just a formality now, this is the one good thing that has to come from Vegas being born into this family.
Kinn is sitting with his head in his hands, bent over so his forehead is almost touching his knees. He’s quiet for a long moment. Vegas doesn’t know if he’s considering the proposal, or just thinking about Vegas’ enormous stupidity in asking for something like that. Kinn’s never been greedy, but he’s savvy, and he loves power, loves control. It makes him feel safe, and Vegas is probably the person who knows best, in their family, how unsafe Kinn’s been made to feel over the years.
Kinn raises his head, and his hair looks messy, his eyes a little red around the edges. It’s like his whole expression is a little smudged. “You are a piece of shit,” he mumbles. “And so am I. And if you can change… how did you change, Vegas? How does it work, exactly?”
Kinn sounds genuinely curious, and Vegas doesn’t even know how to begin to answer the question. He wants to ask Kinn to pull up the security tapes from that day, the raid, Papa’s death, the pool, everything. Kinn was there. How can he ask that?
But of course, that’s not what he’s asking.
He’s asking about the other parts. The invisible work, the stuff that hurts more than bullets. What happens if Vegas tells him? Will Kinn agree then?
“Some days I don’t know if I’m allowed to touch him,” Vegas says, quietly. “If just sleeping in the same bed with me is a danger to him. Sometimes… sometimes I think about how everything I’ve done on my own, with my own two hands, turned to shit eventually, and I want to send him as far away as possible. Just want him to get away from me and never come back.” It’s easy to say the words, like they’ve been waiting there, right under his tongue.
Kinn shakes his head, looking away. “Being with you takes him farther away from the violence. Being with me, on the other hand…”
Of course, this is about Porsche. And whatever happened on that tape that Kinn doesn’t want to think about.
“You may be a piece of shit,” Vegas says, and wipes the last of the wetness from his eyes. “But change is possible. Forgiveness… that’s possible too.”
Kinn looks at him again, raising his eyebrows. “You really believe that?”
Vegas shrugs. “I’m trying to.” He might not be able to go on living, if he didn’t.
Kinn rearranges himself awkwardly on the couch, pulls his legs up until he’s lying flat. He looks like the whiskey has really gotten to him. “How do you look him in the eye,” Kinn asks, words a little slurred again, like he’s given up on coherency. “Knowing you did what you did?”
Vegas sighs. He wants to spread out on the couch as well, because the world doesn’t feel too stable, but he’s afraid if he does he’ll never be able to get up again. Sitting still like this, he can maintain the illusion of being mostly unaffected. “You want the truth?”
“Unfortunately,” Kinn says.
“Mostly, he makes me,” Vegas says. “Reminds me there’s no point in trying to make it work if I push him away.”
Kinn makes a disgruntled sound. “Sounds terrible.”
Vegas can’t believe he’s sitting here and his lips are curving into a smile.
“You should go,” Kinn says, sounding tired. “Bank is new. I have a lunch date with Porsche, he won’t know how to lie to him properly so it’s actually canceled.” Kinn sighs. “There’s going to be some yelling.”
“About the tape?” Vegas asks.
“No,” Kinn says, eyeing the bottle on the table. “Not about the tape. I can’t handle that today.”
So he hasn’t told Porsche. For five days he’s kept it to himself. Vegas doesn’t know this new Kinn very well, whose partner runs the minor family and shares all his secrets, but the old Kinn either revealed the truth or kept it to himself for months and years.
Telling Pete about this… Vegas wants to tell him as soon as he gets home. He’s confessed so many things already, he’d rather Pete know, and hear it from Vegas. But then, can he tell Pete about this and ask him not to tell Porsche? The ethics of it all make Vegas’ head hurt. That, and the sheer amount of whiskey in his system.
“I’ll have Bank call you a taxi, and have someone drive your bike or whatever to your place,” Kinn says, slowly rising back to a sitting position.
“Thanks,” Vegas says, as if they’re old friends who’ve had too much to drink at a party. “And the other thing?”
“I need to think about how to do it right,” Kinn says, rubbing his forehead. “Pete is family. Come by next week, we can talk about the details.”
Vegas nods. This isn’t a yes, Kinn needing to think means he has objections, stipulations, disclaimers. But it’s a start.
“Thanks,” Vegas says, and fully means it this time.