“But you don’t want to be a bartender for the rest of your life,” Sam guessed.
“Exactly. And I’m pretty sure you don’t want to bus tables until you’re sixty.”
The wind chilled the exposed skin of Sam’s face, and he tucked his chin deeper into his coat. “I don’t, no.”
“You’re a nice guy, Sam,” Philip said. “I’d like to think we’re friends. Bonding would give us both a way out.”
“I know.” It made sense to bond with Philip. Perfect, logical sense. But… “I need to think it over some more, okay?”
Philip gave him a sad smile. “Still holding out hope in regards to Alistair, then.”
“No. I never thought for a minute that he’d want me to be his witch.” Sam paused, wondering if he really wanted to ask his next question. “What was he like before the war? He and Forrest?”
“Alistair was…hmm. He was always looking for something.” Philip took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. “What, I don’t think he knew, just that he seemed a little lost, even after we all decided to make our own family. That helped, but it wasn’t enough for him. When he met Forrest, it seemed like he’d finally found what he was searching for.”
Sam’s heart sank, even though he knew it was stupid to compare himself to a dead man. “I see.”
“I was glad for Alistair,” Philip added. “He finally seemed content. And we all liked Forrest. He was charming, you know. Confident. Ready to take on the world.” He blew a stream of smoke out with a sigh. “Then the war came along. They left, and Alistair came back a changed man. I don’t know if it was what happened to him over there, or Forrest leaving him, or both. We used to be so close, but he pulled away from all of us. Buried himself in The Pride.”
“That fits with what Doris said,” Sam murmured.
Philip looked at him with pity in his yellow-gray eyes. “Alistair’s broken, Sam. And if he decides he wants to be put back together, I’ll be the first in line to do whatever I can to help. But until he makes that choice, there’s nothing the rest of us can do for him.”
“Right.” Sam let out a heavy sigh of his own. “Thanks, Philip.”
“Any time.” Philip clapped him on the shoulder. “Let’s get back to work. And think about what I said.”
At the end of the night, Alistair unknotted his tie while Sam sat on the edge of the new bed, taking off his shoes. It was strange, having someone else in this space, where there had only ever been him.
Ordinarily, once work was done for the night, he’d take one of the novels off the shelf, lie in bed, and read until he couldn’t keep his eyes open. His reading habits mostly centered around the new crop of mystery novels that had abounded since shortly after the end of the war. Most of them were about death, yes—but these murders were contained. Unlike the endless slaughter of the front, each victim had a name, a face. There was a motive behind every death, and by the end of the book, the smart detective would uncover the killer and restore the world to order. Justice would be done.
It was pure escape from the real world. From the abattoir of the war, and from the streets of Chicago, where gangs cut each other down and the police only cared about your death if you were high enough up in society.
“Do you think it will come to a gang war between Sullivan and Ursino?” Sam asked as he put his shoes away.
“Yes. Sullivan can’t let Ursino send men onto his territory, trying to steal his things. It would make him look weak, and that’s something none of these fellows can afford to do.” Alistair shook his head. “What lousy timing.”
“How so?”
Because their time together was finite. Because they could be exploring the city, instead of worrying about the missing hex. Because it wasn’t fair that all of Alistair’s memories of Sam would be tainted by the threat of violence and death.
“I’d rather spend my time thinking about you than about Ursino,” he said instead.
Sam blushed, but a shy grin brightened his round face. “Oh?”
“Mmm hmm.” Alistair moved toward him, putting some extra sway into his hips. When he reached the bed, he leaned down and kissed Sam. Sam’s mouth tasted of Pepsodent, and he moaned against Alistair’s lips.
When they were done, Sam took off his cheaters and put them on top of the dresser. They stretched out on the bed together, slowly removing items of clothing, their breathing growing heavy as their touches became more heated. When they were fully naked, Alistair rolled onto his back, tugging Sam with him.
“Are you sure?” Sam asked breathlessly.
As an answer, Alistair wrapped his legs around Sam and drew him down. The feel of Sam’s skin against his, of his weight pressing him into the mattress, fired his blood. He drew his nails lightly down Sam’s back, was rewarded with an excited gasp.
If they kept going like this, Alistair was going to come—and he wanted something else. “Would you like to fuck me?” he panted into Sam’s ear.
Sam drew back to look down at him. His lips were reddened from their kisses, his brown eyes darkened with lust. “Y-Yes.” He swallowed. “You’ll um, have to talk me through it.”
“It’s not difficult,” Alistair said with a chuckle. “Would you like me to be on top the first time?”
Sam nodded, looking relieved. “Yes.”
He rolled off, and Alistair dug through the dresser. It took him a few moments of searching to find the Vaseline; God knew he hadn’t had need of it for quite a while. Sam gasped and clutched the sheets when he greased his cock, and Alistair kissed him deep. “Want to do me?” he murmured. “I’ll show you how.”
It felt so good to be touched again. Sam was a little more careful with him than he needed to be—but that was Sam all over, wasn’t it? When he was ready, Alistair straddled him, then slowly sank down onto his prick.
It had been so long, but his body remembered. He rode Sam slowly at first, then with a more wild abandon. He’d always been a talker during sex, and he couldn’t stop the flow of words, telling Sam how good it felt, how bad he wanted it. Sam’s eyes watched him, lips parted, before reaching blindly for the Vaseline Alistair had left on the bed. A moment later, his greased fingers closed around Alistair’s aching prick.
From there, it was a race to the finish. Sweat filmed Alistair’s skin, his senses overloaded by the cock in his ass and the hand on his prick. He was hyper aware of the rub of his thighs on Sam’s skin, the soft desperate sounds Sam made, the smell of sweat and musk.
He threw his head back, shattered by pleasure, a cry dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. Sam’s hips bucked under him, and then he cried out as well.
The room was quiet except for their panting breaths. After a long moment, Alistair gathered himself enough to lean forward and kiss Sam on the mouth, then the tip of his nose. It made them both laugh, and he collapsed bonelessly to the bed.
“Was that fun?” Alistair asked.
Sam’s face and chest were still flushed. Without his glasses, his eyes looked more vulnerable somehow. “That would be one way to put it.”
They cleaned up, to avoid being too sticky the next morning, and Sam turned off the light. They lay curled together, Sam’s arms wrapped around him from behind. It was so comfortable—comforting, even.