Page 43 of Gambler's Conceit
I peer into the cat carrier, where Nacho is napping while wearing one of those cones to prevent the animals from licking themselves. I have to admit, he’s pretty cute.
I can’t believe my first job of the day was to take the cat to the vet. I’d dropped him off for the neutering, and after a few hours, they’d called to tell me he was ready to be taken home.
The woman gives me a bag with pain medication and instructions on how to care for Nacho in the meantime. I don’t correct her that this isn’t even my cat.
At least it’s an easy enough job, and I don’t hate the assignment. This is miles better than any of my military rotations, where it was mostly training for the sake of training or sitting around guarding something nobody cared about.
My army buddies and I used to complain about that all the time. Of course, they all ditched me the moment things got bad. Nobody wanted to risk getting tainted by association.
Fuck, this isn’t the right time to be ruminating about the past. I should be glad that I finally, somehow, got a paying gig.
I put Nacho into my beat-up old sedan and drive us back to the casino. He wakes up somewhere along the way and meows pitifully, like the ride is the worst thing to have ever happened to him.
Or maybe he’s complaining about his missing balls. I don’t know.
The casino has an employee parking section, and that definitely beats paying for parking. I grab the carrier and make my way to the top floor of the hotel.
The guards at the door give me strange looks, and I hoist the cat carrier.
“Delivery,” I say. “Is Seven there?”
One of the guys—Mark, I think—nods. “Yeah. He came back a while ago, complaining that the casino is boring.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “Boring? Seriously?”
Mark laughs. “I think he lost at the games.”
He steps aside so I can go in, and I close the door behind me.
“Seven? I brought Nacho home!” I call out.
Seven emerges from “his” room, wearing jeans and aRoi de Piquet-shirt. “How’d he do?” he asks, coming to take the carrier from me. Nacho meows, and Seven starts cooing at him like he’s undergone some ordeal.
Well, I guess he has. I wouldn’t want to be castrated either.
The other cat, Miss K, comes out from behind the couch and rubs against my legs. I reach down to stroke her soft fur.
“The vet praised him. He was a very agreeable kitty.” I place the meds and instructions on the kitchen counter. “I hear you sucked at gambling today?”
Seven looks up from where he’s crouched down on the floor, petting Nacho through the carrier door, and scowls. “I didn’t suck,” he informs me. “I just… got bored. That’s all. I don’t know how people do that for hours and hours. Maybe if you’d been with me…”
He opens the door, and Nacho stumbles out on unsteady legs. He’s hilariously uncoordinated, which means he must still be full of the good drugs.
“You take breaks. And it’s not so bad, if you’re winning.” I get down on the floor next to him and stroke Nacho’s back. “Caleb sent me the tickets to tonight’s sexy circus show. We’ve got about two hours to kill, if you want to grab dinner first?”
Man, that makes it sound like a real date. It’s just fucking, and Seven is clearly already “taken”... but if Caleb doesn’t care, then why should I?
Seven looks up at me, brows arching. “Of course I want dinner first. I expect to be wined and dined like it’s a proper ‘date’ and not just something you won because you don’t have stamina,” he taunts.
“Excuse you. I have stamina,” I say, shoving him lightly. “I cameafterVortex. I don’t care what you told Caleb.”
He smirks. “I couldn’t tell, what with the condom and all.”
I groan. “It would have been hotter without it.” I imagine his wrecked hole leaking my cum—and I imagine Caleb fucking him after, filling him even more. I wouldn’t say I’ve got a body fluid fetish, but I can’t deny it’s an arousing thought.
Seven sobers slightly, looking down as he scratches Nacho behind the ears. “Caleb got me tested and put on PrEP,” he says. “Maybe you should too.”
That sounds like an expensive waste of time… but it’s not a bad idea. I’ve been more than reckless with myself, and I don’t really need another trip to a doctor because of a preventable rash-or-worse. It had been bad enough when I’d had to admit it to the army doc.