Operation Green Card Page 10

  He managed one more glance at Jason, so dangerously handsome in his tailor-made suit, before they were stormed by congratulations, hugs, and handshakes, and the obligatory kisses from the Russians in the crowd.

  Food was served, toasts were offered, the cake had to be cut with Jason’s and his hands touching on the knife, more flashes from the photographers, and Jason’s smile unchanged. It was everything a real wedding should have been. Then Jack, who’d agreed to DJ for them, put on Beyoncé’s “Flaws and All,” and there were calls of “Dance, dance!” from the crowd.

  For a second Jason froze in his chair, and Arkady could see the play of his jaw muscles as he gritted his teeth. But then he got up, and, as he had done in his living room, offered Arkady his hand.

  It had been easy to dance when they’d been practicing. Alone. Here, surrounded by family, his and Jason’s, by new friends, and by acquaintances that could turn into friends, it suddenly became a symbol of their lie. Because they were lying. To all of them. Were repaying all that love and acceptance he’d so badly wanted in his life with deceit.

  He took Jason’s hand more to steady himself than anything else, and let himself be pulled onto the dance floor. Not that he could have done otherwise. They’d said their vows. Lies, lies! What was done was done.

  When he looked at Jason, the radiant smile was gone, replaced by a frown of uncertainty.

  “It’s okay. I’m okay,” Arkady said automatically. Why the hell was Jason frowning at his hesitation? It wasn’t like they were real lovers. Husbands. Whatever. So, why was there that confused pain in his eyes?

  Or was Jason merely afraid that Arkady might get cold feet, kick everyone out, and hurt them even more? Hurt his own chances at a green card into the bargain?

  Get real, Izmaylov. He can’t read your mind.

  Nevertheless, Arkady found himself avoiding those searching eyes, because Jason was such a keen observer that his scrutiny was as good as mind reading.

  Jason pulled him close, and Arkady didn’t protest. Hiding his face against Jason’s shoulder was a good way to avoid everyone’s adoring expressions. Behind his closed eyelids, though, the barrage hammered away. Lies. Lies. Insistent. Rhythmic. But beat by beat, the words faded and merged into the thump of Jason’s heart against his chest.

  Jason’s arms around his body. Holding him, shielding him. That didn’t feel like a lie. It felt real. If he wanted it to be real, was it still a lie?

  Fuck. Neither of them had any intention of keeping their vows. So yeah, still a lie.

  Jason shifted his shoulders, making Arkady raise his head and look at him. Yup, that was definitely worry lining Jason’s forehead and narrowing his eyes.

  “I’m—” Arkady didn’t get the fine out to finish his sentence, because Jason closed his lips with his own. Still gentle. But sure now. Surer with every kiss they exchanged. Stoking the embers of desire and need back to the conflagration that burned Arkady’s more rational thoughts so fast that they might as well not have existed. The sound rising up in his throat was most certainly a moan, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Fuck, he wanted this man with everything he had. When Jason came up for air, Arkady leaned in, chasing those lips and tongue.

  But when he opened his eyes, he caught his sister’s expression over Jason’s shoulder—worried. Scared even. Shit, Tasha was never scared. He almost checked over his own shoulder to see what monster she might have seen behind him.

  Jason ran a finger along Arkady’s cheekbone, instantly distracting him. “I wish we didn’t—

  “Since our parents can’t be here, may I claim the first dance, brother?”

  It was called whiplash, and Arkady had it. His throat was so dry that he could only nod. He almost stumbled when Jason let him go. And here they’d been worried about Jason keeping his legs under him.

  Half of his brain was screaming at him to pull himself together, the other half wanted to shake the rest of the sentence out of Jason. I wish we didn’t— What? Couldn’t Tasha have taken two seconds longer to cross the dance floor? Fuck’s sake.

  “Excuse me?” She sounded surprised more than irritated.

  “Nothing.” Had that come out loud? He tried to laugh it off, and led Tasha into the rhythm of the next song, when he could barely hear it.

  “Staging an intervention, Sis?” Keep it light. It was the least he could do to make amends for his lies. Though the lie he was giving her was different than the one they’d been giving to everyone else. Now he did laugh. It was all so desperately funny. “Don’t worry. Everything is under control.”

  “Don’t you try that with me, Arkady Nikolayevich. You should see your face when you look at him.”

  Fuck. That obvious, was it? “It’s for the cameras. I’m merely a great actor.”

  “No. That’s just it. You suck at acting.” Her face grew softer. “I know it’s hard, doubly hard on a day like this, but if you don’t keep that invisible line, you’re going to get your heart broken.” She briefly lowered her gaze to their clasped hands. “And it would be my fault. Don’t do this to me, Arkasha, okay?” She was pleading with him now, and that was all kinds of wrong for his sister. “I couldn’t— I don’t want— Just don’t fall in love with the guy, okay?”

  This time he swallowed the laugh, because it felt too close to tears. But, held back, it collided with the Too late! his heart was screaming into the world, and some sound made it out, tearing up his throat in the process. He quickly turned it into a cough and a raspy “Okay” to Tasha, who was now busy whacking his back.

  He was losing it, and he hadn’t drunk that much yet.

  That, however, was an omission easily rectified. He just had to bring everyone who came to congratulate, to tell him how happy they looked together, how cuuute they were, to the bar for a toast. Even his tolerance for alcohol had to mellow out under that barrage at some point. The vodka didn’t dull the edge of his guilt as much as he’d hoped, but it did keep him away from both Jason and Tasha for most of the evening, and out of sight of the parental iPad setup, under a perfectly acceptable pretext.

  Until the stream of well-wishers and drinking buddies dried up in the wee hours.

  Until Jason materialized out of nowhere by his side, draped an arm around his shoulder, and said, “C’mon, sweetheart, time for bed.”

  Fuck. He had to say bed, didn’t he? Like that didn’t make Arkady imagine all the things he was trying so hard to ban from his mind.

  He shrugged Jason’s arm off his shoulder. “I don’t need a nanny.”

  Vic behind the bar did a double take. Shit. Keep up appearances. Make nice. But not too nice. Not too close.

  “Yeah, fine, I had a few,” he conceded to amend his slipup. “There were a lot of toasts, you know. Don’t get married every day.” He watched one of Jason’s eyebrows go up in something damn near to indulgent amusement, and sighed. “Lead the way. You’re driving.”

  Jason called them a cab, though, so maybe he wasn’t as sober as he looked. They sat in silence next to each other on the back seat, Arkady staring stubbornly ahead, conscious of Jason’s occasional side glances. The vodka helped keep him in a thin bubble, but it made the lights swim in and out of focus. By the time they arrived at Jason’s house, he was slightly queasy, irritated with the world in general and his decision to try this green card thing in particular, and he really had to piss.

  He dashed past Jason in the tiny hallway, up the stairs, and into the bathroom, banging his shoulder against the doorframe because he was just that little bit too drunk for speed.

  When he came back out, he ran straight into Jason’s chest. Déjà vu. Only this time Jason was fully clothed, in the most devastating tuxedo, no less. And rather than letting go as quickly as possible, he held Arkady in a loose embrace. Easy to step out of. If one so desired. Arkady didn’t move. He wanted to be kissed again, but he also wanted to punch Jason in the teeth for making him want in the first place. For not simply letting him go back downstairs and crash on the fucki
ng couch.

  As if he’d read his mind, Jason did let go, but only to frame Arkady’s face with both his hands. The gesture that irresistible mix of gentle and sure that was so very Jason.

  Arkady met his lips halfway, leaning into the kiss, hungry for it, for the heat of Jason’s hands as they moved around his shoulder on one side and up into his hair on the other. For how their bodies fit against each other without stooping or reaching. For Jason’s heartbeat against his chest. For the fire racing through his veins.

  Dizzy with the kiss and the booze, he got tangled up in Jason’s suit jacket, until it was shrugged to the floor.

  They were stepping around each other, like they had dancing in the living room. A doorframe pressed against Arkady’s back; a hand cupped his ass and pulled him close.

  If there was a saint for gay men falling in love with straight guys, Arkady had never needed their help more than right now. Desire was pulsing through his body, pushing out what reason was left with every beat of his heart. “Straight men shouldn’t be able to kiss like that,” he murmured against Jason’s lips when they broke for air.

  “I might not be as straight as I thought I was.”

  It came out so softly that it was barely audible, but it washed through Arkady’s veins like ice water. What? The fuck? Jason was drunk. Had to be. That line might even have come out a little slurred. Arkady couldn’t afford to believe a word of it. Keep your distance. The warning glowed through the alcohol haze in his brain like a lighthouse beacon through fog, and he clung to it.

  They were standing in Jason’s bedroom, just past the doorway. Had that been by design, then?

  “Is that so? Ready for a little wedding night fun?” The sarcasm cut through his fog. Hell, why not? They could have that at least, couldn’t they? The passing thought that this wasn’t how to keep the line, that there was all kinds of things wrong with his reasoning, disappeared as quickly as it had popped up, and Arkady dove back into the kiss.

  Jason hadn’t even tried to answer, was right there with him, kissing back, holding Arkady’s ass with both hands, pressing their hips together, one hard dick against the other.

  And why would he be hard if he’d only said he wasn’t straight because he was drunk? There were no witnesses, no one else in the house to keep up pretenses for. So why kiss Arkady in the first place, unless because he’d wanted to? The keep your distance voice in Arkady’s brain grew fainter with every one of those questions. He slid a hand between them to unbutton Jason’s shirt, and stripped it off his shoulders. God, the man was just as ripped as he remembered from that brief instance on the landing. As he’d been in the fleeting hazy dream-bits that tended to stick around for the few moments of waking up.

  They were both panting now, but unwilling to break the kiss, or Jason seemed to be. Arkady’s body was more than ready to take things a step further. He fumbled with Jason’s belt.

  Jason broke the kiss and took a deep breath. “Um.”

  “Little help here?” He should have stopped a few vodkas earlier. If he’d known this was waiting at the end of the evening, he would have.

  “I’m—” Jason stayed Arkady’s hand with his own. Again with the whiplash. No, yes, no. What? With that, Arkady’s earlier anger was back, and closer to the surface than expected. He tried to get his other hand between their bodies. Christ he was messed up; he needed to stop.

  Jason shook his head. “No. Wait. I—” He caught Arkady’s other hand as well and took a step back. He might have taken another step if he hadn’t backed himself up against the foot of the bed.

  Arkady tore his hands free. “Don’t fuck with me.” Anger, disappointment, and something way too close to pain were wrestling in his chest, throttling down his desire. An ugly laugh escaped past his lips. “‘Not straight,’ my ass. What then? Just a little gay? How much? That much?” He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart in front of Jason’s face. “Just enough to jerk me around when we’re both drunk?”

  Again Jason shook his head. “I’m not drunk.” He hadn’t raised his voice, but his hands were balled into fists against the sides of his legs, making the muscles in his arms and chest stand out to perfection. Dear God. “And I’m not gay. Just—”

  “Just too straight to admit it.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I wish,” he hissed, cursing himself for not being in better control of himself, willing himself to sober up, wishing he’d not gotten drunk in the first place. Classic case of It seemed like a good idea at the time.

  “Look,” Jason said. “I— This was a mistake.”

  No shit. Arkady should get in his car and go— Home, Izmaylov? And where exactly would that be? He barked a laugh. Jason looked stricken. Yeah, you should feel guilty for being an ass.

  Damn, Arkady should at least go downstairs and curl up on the couch. Sleep it off.

  Instead he heard himself say, “Define ‘this.’”

  Jason shrugged, then moved his hand between them, indicating their mutual state of undress. Arkady suddenly realized that he, too, was missing his jacket, and that his shirt tails were hanging out.

  “Coming on to you like this,” Jason said softly. “When I obviously haven’t got my shit sorted. I—” He stopped short, visibly fishing around for words. Finally he rapped his knuckles against his thigh.

  For the second time that night, a cold wash of dread flooded Arkady’s veins. “Fuck. Jesus Fuck.” Puzzle pieces fell into place. No more whiplash. In fact, the whole back and forth made perfect sense. In a way. “This is about your leg?”

  Jason hung his head without answering. But he didn’t have to, because it was as clear as day which one of them was the real asshole.

  “I’m an idiot, and I’m sorry.” Arkady closed the distance between them and slipped a hand around Jason’s neck. With their foreheads touching, he whispered. “I’m so sorry, Yasha. I’m sorry.”

  Jason simply stood there, but let himself be pulled in.

  “Truth is, I’m the one who’s drunk. And for all the wrong reasons.” He laid his other hand against Jason’s cheek, searching in his eyes for— He didn’t even know what. Forgiveness? A solution? “Christ, this is messed up. I’m lost. Prosti menya, moy drug, I have no idea where we go from here.”

  Jason peered at him from under his brows. “After I made such a fuss about it, I guess there’s no way you can just ignore the leg?”

  “No.” Arkady sat on the bed and patted the spot beside him. “Want to show me how it works?”

  For long minutes, Jason stood looking at Arkady’s hand on the bed. Only the muscles in his cheeks were jumping.

  It wasn’t easy waiting him out, to not move, not say anything else. But it seemed like a pivotal moment, and if Jason needed the time to sort his shit, he’d have it. Arkady had smashed enough emotional china today to last him a lifetime.

  So he watched Jason’s fists open and close, marveled at the play of muscles under the skin, noticed for the first time the small tattoo over his heart—a pulse line that spelled the word Lily in the middle, before resuming the pulse spikes.

  He almost jumped when Jason suddenly slapped his thigh as if to boot himself into gear, then opened his belt and fly buttons, and stripped his pants down, giving Arkady the perfect view of his even more perfect ass. Be still, my beating heart.

  Jason sat on the bed and methodically took his shoes and socks off, before struggling all the way out of his suit pants. It seemed fiddly to get them off over the prosthesis, and Arkady got the impression that he didn’t usually do it this way. That this was for Arkady’s benefit: laying it all bare. Jason’s left knee and part of the thigh were covered by a black plastic or rubber sleeve that continued down over something like a socket that held what was left of his lower leg, the leg itself replaced by a gleaming steel rod with an artificial foot at the end. It struck Arkady as stark and utilitarian.

  “Does it have to be black?”

  “What?”

  Arkady pointed at the sleeve without touc
hing it. “It should be something more you. Camo. Or Ironman, or . . .” He opened his hands and shrugged. “I don’t know. Whatever you’re into.”

  Jason stared at him with raised eyebrows. “Really. I bare my fucking blown-to-pieces Achilles’ heel to you, and the one thing you have to say about it is that it shouldn’t be black?”

  You’re screwing it up, Izmaylov. Again. Think. Fast. “Well, unless black is what you’re into. I guess. I mean, I wasn’t judging. Or didn’t mean to.” He took a breath and shut up. It wasn’t often that words failed him, but tonight he was missing the whole frontal cortex game. The more he tried to salvage whatever was left to save, the more of it he broke. Classic drunk joke. Stop digging.

  But instead of getting mad or looking hurt, Jason laughed. And not just a short little laugh either, but a deep belly laugh, that grew into a bellow of mirth and . . . relief?

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You? Me? I was afraid you might laugh. Or flinch. Or try extra hard to be matter-of-fact. Or even be, you know, too interested. Some people—” He shook his head, a flush creeping up his neck. Then he huffed a laugh. “I’d never in a thousand years have imagined you’d be offended by the color of the sealing sleeve.” That briefly set him off again. Then he said, “No, it doesn’t have to be black. There are some funky ones, especially for kids. And some people wear custom jobs.”

  He paused, but Arkady didn’t ask the obvious question, because he was sure that Jason wasn’t finished. And he was right.

  “I guess to me it’s like a car. It has a job to do, and for that it doesn’t need a fancy paint job or chrome rims.” In almost a whisper he added, “Plus, no one ever sees it if I can help it.”

  It was like a blow to the solar plexus that admission, and what it meant that Jason had literally let his pants down today.