Page 62 of A Long Con

Him drinking the milk was just the icing on the cake.

He looked sheepish. And yes, he did have a milk moustache. “I was thinking.”

“Uh oh. I smell smoke.”

He didn’t grin. “For our wedding I’d like to incorporate some Hawaiian traditions.”

“Are you—”

“No, I’m not reconciling with my father.” He put down the empty glass and dragged himself upright against the mattress. “Grooms wear white shirts and pants. Then we add a colored sash around the waist.” Now he grinned. “You could wear red, like your shirt.”

“And you can wear red, like your aura.”

“Right! And there’s a green maile lei we wear around our necks.”

“Do you want a Hawaiian priest?”

“We don’t need to go that far. Maybe just incorporate some of their verbiage into our vows.”

I smeared his curly hair back from his brow. “And no ukulele.”

“No ukulele,” he agreed.

A hurried knock came on our locked bedroom door. “Hey guys,” Twinkletoes said in a stage whisper.

I jumped to my feet and swung the door open. Twinkletoes had seen much worse than a naked wrestler with bindings still trailing from his wrists.

Apparently it was urgent, for Twinkletoes closed the door behind him and leaned on it. He still spoke in a hushed tone. “I changed Fremont’s oil for you. Can’t help it. In some ways I feel like I’ll always be a Prospect. But I think he noticed. I finished before he came out, but see this spot of oil on my shirt? He wondered how I got that.”

Royal was on his feet and reaching for his clothes. “Thanks, Twinkletoes. Shit, brah. I didn’t know you were supposed to be doing chores for those guys.”

“That was the only one,” I admitted, whipping on my red T-shirt and cut.

Royal shrugged into his cut, too. His was about four sizes larger than mine. “Don’t toy with me when you’re supposed to be doing chores. Or we’re both going to be out bad.”

I did feel shitty. I should’ve just been glad for the Eames chair and explained to Royal that I had to change Fremont’s oil. But that roll of flat nylon webbing in the back of the truck had inspired me to my greatest heights of all—so far. But even that was nothing to risk our entire membership on.

Worse, Fremont was stampeding down the hallway now, yelling, “Thundercunt!”

I supposed that was a bad word for a lousy Prospect.

“Shit!” whispered Twinkletoes. “I’ll go outside and try to stall him.”

I grabbed Twinkletoes’ shoulder. “It’s okay. We’re ready to face the music.”

Fremont Zuckerman was probably one of the kindest, mellowest Bent Zealots. He was a mining engineer who had fallen in love with a Zealot who was a priest out on the Rez. It really must’ve cost him a lot of grief to put on this persona of a rampaging biker about to take a swipe at a lowly Prospect.

But he was playing it well.

I stepped into the hallway, bodily protecting Twinkletoes and my lover. “Fremont! I can’t tell you how sorry I am for that.”

Twinkletoes said over my shoulder, “He didn’t ask me to do that. I just took it upon myself.”

Fremont glared at me. He was such a clean, outdoorsy guy, it was still even odd to see him wearing a cut. He was more the down vest sort of guy. “You should fucking know better, you jizzmonger.”

Now Royal stepped in front of all of us. He still really had no fear. “It was my fucking fault, Fremont. I didn’t know he was supposed to change your oil, and I enticed him into the bedroom when I saw a roll of bondage tape in Twinkletoes’ truck.”

“Hey,” protested the skinny club member. “I don’t do no bondage. My bones would break.”