Author: annezo @ fastmail . fm

Bright Lights

This whole trip is going to be a disaster. Blair sighed and let an unhappy bellman take his computer case and stack it on the cart with the rest of his luggage.

Vegas, Jim had said after their last, long-ago, unlucky attempt at a vacation. Maybe Vegas.

Blair was totally into that. If you were going to sin, he figured you should sin BIG. Anything worth doing.... So, here he was, checking in for what should have been a week of debauchery. Booze, loose women, the rattle of dice against the rail of a craps table, the clicking of the ball around the roulette wheel. In his imagination, the whole thing had been a lot more...more like the movies.

That was the problem with real life. The lights were always brighter in the movies.

Not that the hotel itself wasn't living up to his expectations. The anthropologist in him was half amused, half outraged to be standing inside a glass facsimile of one of Egypt's, the world's, greatest historical treasures. The model of the Sphinx they'd passed on the way in the door had been a big enough shock...seeing the interior of the pyramid scattered with stone, probably plastic, he decided, models of people, sacred cats, and other Egyptian artifacts was a culture shock he hadn't expected.

On the other hand, the ten year-old boy in him was already jumping up and down with anticipation, eager to leave the quiet expanse of the lobby and dive into the rows and rows of glittering, winking, ringing slot machines. And dying to get to the 'inclinator' that was the hotel's substitute for an elevator. The trip to the twenty-third floor, up and sideways at a forty or whatever degree angle was going to be a blast.

Should have been a blast, he corrected mentally. Before the whole thing started turning into a disaster. Because Blair was wandering down halls and around unexpected corners, looking for the inclinator, and he was alone.

'Their' vacation. Yeah, sure. If, and it was a big if, if the trial Jim was testifying at was as open-and-shut as he predicted, then Jim would be here in a day. Two, tops. If it dragged on, then....then Jim was out one hundred and twenty-five dollars for his plane ticket, and Blair was on his own for the next five days.

His luggage had disappeared...he didn't know where it had gone but the bellman had inspected his room key and mentioned something vague about seeing him in half an hour, then disappeared into one of those murky back halls that hotels were furnished with. Blair would have been willing to tip the guy for the privilege of taking his clean underwear and shirts up to the room himself, but whatever, okay? It was a vacation, and money was for spending.

The ride up in the inclinator, once he made it past the guard, who ever heard of posting a guard to keep joyriders off an elevator? was disappointing. Like a plane trip...all of the excitement was in the first few seconds, but his body quickly adjusted to the angle and then it felt just like any hotel elevator.

The room, though, the room was cool. He could just imagine Jim's reaction to the inclined wall that looked out over the world-famous Las Vegas Strip. Blair pulled up the shades and peered out. Okay...so it wasn't the Strip, it was an empty expanse of dirty parking lot. But he could see the MGM Grand and by craning his neck he could see some of the Strip.

It would probably be totally impressive at night. Unfortunately, it was now 6:00 a.m. and the streets below were unexciting, to say the least. A few tired-looking gamblers shuffled down the sidewalks, here and there someone lingered at a corner, forcing pamphlets into the hands of passers-by. In the early morning light, neon lights were feeble and unconvincing. No wonder they don't put windows in casinos.

Blair's choices were to take a nap, go find some breakfast, or hit the casino downstairs and get the party rolling. Normally he would have been all for getting things rolling, but standing there in the hotel room alone, he felt.... Well, he felt kind of...reluctant. Shy. Or, something. Downstairs there was food, lights, people, drinks, slot machines, tables...everything he'd come there for, right? Everything but his partner.

A knock on the door put a stop to that line of thought. Blair waited patiently as the bellman lugged his bags in, dragged out the suitcase stand they never seemed to think you'd be able to find by yourself, and hoisted Blair's largest bag on top of it. No, Blair didn't want ice and he understood how the television worked. He'd already figured out that menus and room service information were in the folder on the table. He knew how to use the phone and he wouldn't forget his key when he left the room.

It took five bucks to get rid of the guy, but eventually Blair was alone with his depression again. Or, rather, alone and ready to shake off the bad mood. A quick shower, a change of clothes, money, and room key and he was good to go.

Okay, so Jim isn't here, yet. He will be, right? In the meantime, Blair was ready, he told himself, ready to get the party rolling.

Who needed company when you had all of Las Vegas waiting for you?

He hit the button for the inclinator and took the long ride down alone, bouncing restlessly on the balls of his feet and skimming the advertisements for shows and restaurants. A quick check in the shaded mirror showed him that his hair was right and his clothes were right. Right and ready, that was Blair Sandburg.

Come on, adventure, he thought optimistically. Young, single, and alone in Las Vegas with money to spare. Heck, even if Jim never shows up, this is going to be the vacation of a lifetime, he promised himself.

He made only two wrong turns working his way from the base of the inclinator back to the casino. Not bad for his first trip.

First things first, he decided. He scanned the room until he saw a change cart and thirty seconds later he'd traded crumpled paper money for an impressive weight of quarters. Later on, he'd try the tables but he'd get his feet wet on the slot machines while he scoped the place out.

"Cocktail?" The musical voice came to him clearly over the hum of bells, music, and metal rattling on metal as someone's machine paid off. "Can I get you something, sir?"

The party's starting. "Beer. What have you got for dark beer?" He turned to face the woman and tried not to stare. In the movies, casino cocktail waitresses were always about twenty-three with spike heels, legs two yards long, and outfits cut low and high in all the right places.

This woman was closer to fifty than twenty. Add a high-neck, knee-length skirt and a pair of worn black flats on her feet and you did not have the girl of Blair's dreams.

Life just wasn't like the movies.

The waitress, he supposed they were still called waitresses, smiled insincerely. "Samuel Adams."

"That'll be fine," Blair said quickly, smiling back at her and hoping she hadn't known what he was thinking.

She nodded and moved on. He could hear her for a few seconds, inviting the random scattering of gamblers to place an order. A casino at 6:00 in the morning really wasn't a bustling place, Blair realized. He looked around, conscious of the odor of a thousand cigarettes, stale beer, and sweat. Maybe he should have started with a nap. A few hours sleep, a good meal, and everything would have looked different, he was sure.

Party, party, party, he chanted softly. That was this week's mantra. Party, party, party. When and if Jim showed up, he was not going to find his partner hanging around the room, watching the shopping channel. Blair was going to be living it up. Party, party, party. If it killed him.

He headed for the nearest machine, fumbling the paper off of one roll of quarters as he walked. The other three rolls he shoved into his pocket, wincing as the heavy cylinders rubbed against his hipbone under the denim. Have to get one of those big cups, he decided.

Quarter in hand, he reached for the nearest unused machine. A smothered shriek from two feet away shocked him. Blair stumbled back and turned to face the woman leaping toward his machine.

She dropped two quarters in the slot and punched the 'spin' button. "This one is mine." She glared at Blair.

"Um...okay." Blair eased away toward the next machine.

"I've got all of these," the woman snapped.

Blair glanced around. There were eight machines and most of them seemed to have a scattering of quarters in the payoff trays. Presumably she thought...hell, he didn't know what she thought, except that she probably expected to improve the odds of winning by playing every machine in her reach.

"Sure, okay." He backed away slowly. "No problem." He could feel her eyes burning into his back as he hurried away. Someone needs to get her dosage checked. His enthusiasm for Sin City was hitting another downdraft, but Blair plowed through the tangle of machines until he found an empty row.

A few seconds adjusting the padded stool to a "lucky" angle, prying the rolls of quarters out of his too-tight pockets and emptying them into a dirty plastic cup someone had abandoned next to the machine, and he was ready.

Party, party, party, he chanted, dropping a quarter in. He pulled the handle, ignoring the inviting blinking of the 'spin' button. What was the point of playing a one-armed bandit unless you yanked its crank? The button didn't feel lucky. Party. He dropped another quarter in the slot. Party. He pulled the handle. Party. He let the handle go and watched the wheels spin.

Ching! Ching! Ching! Bells rang, lights flashed, and the machine seemed to wake up and shake itself. Winner!

Blair watched expectantly as a solitary quarter spun into the tray. Well, that was fun.

He looked around, remembering the waitress. He should probably go back to where he'd been standing when he ordered his drink. Before he could make up his mind to confront the bad-tempered woman hoarding that row of slot machines, the waitress appeared at his elbow. The glare in her eyes told him how she felt about people who ordered free drinks, then made her chase them around the casino to deliver. Blair fished a handful of quarters out of the plastic bucket and offered them to her. Another smile, a little more sincere, made him wonder just how much she was making, working the floor at dawn.

Left to himself, Blair moved down to the next machine. The one on the end had been disappointing, but this one had a Cleopatra, or maybe Nefetiri, theme. Blair read the payoff chart. Yep, it paid off when the lady showed up. Luck is a lady, right? This was going to be his machine. He was sure of it

Proof came two quarters later when all three wheels spun to a stop on a big fat nothing and the machine paid him two sympathy quarters for being a loser.

He settled in for a stay, carefully moving the dirty ashtrays and empty drink cups down to the end of the row and away from his nose. Bucket of quarters in hand, he started feeding the machine, chanting his mantra with each coin.

Quarter in. Party. Pull the handle. Par-tay, with the emphasis on the second syllable as the handle reached the end of its downward journey. Let the handle go after a pause. Party. Watch the wheels spin, thinking party, party, party. Quarter in. Par-tay. Emphasis on the first repetition this time. Ritual was important. Pull the handle. Party. Let the handle go. Party. Watch the wheels spin. Party, party, party. Order another beer. Quarter in. Maybe something more traditional. Party. Pull the handle. Party. Let the handle go. Party. Watch the wheels spin. Party, party, party. Quarter in. More attitude this time. Par-tay! Pull the handle. Par-tay! Let the handle go. Part-tay! Watch the wheels spin. Par-tay, par-tay, par-tay!

He won a little, always just less than he'd lost. He didn't know how long it was before he reached into the plastic bucket and discovered that he was out of quarters. Looking around the area vaguely, he saw that there were more people scattered around than there had been when he'd started. Now over half the machines were occupied and the accompanying bells and music were almost deafening, the blinking lights blinding. In his video game trance, he hadn't noticed. No windows and no clocks...time didn't pass in Vegas. Your heartbeat measured your life expectancy in rhythm with the sound of coins falling into the bowels of the machine. The occasional reprieve as a few seconds of hope were spilled with a metallic chime into the payoff tray, then the machine sucked it all back down again.

This is fucking depressing. This is a fucking disaster. Blair drained the last of his warm beer and abandoned the glass. Time to eat something.

It took him fifteen minutes to find the Nile Cafe, and he spent the rest of the loose quarters in his pocket on the way, leaving him over forty dollars poorer and hours more depressed. The menu was uninspiring, a standard selection of deli sandwiches with exotic names and the same old ingredients. Blair chose the Rueben on marbled rye. It wasn't the healthiest choice in the world, for breakfast or any other meal, but Jim wasn't here and for once he didn't have to set a good example.

Ten minutes later he was faced with steaming hot pastrami on grilled bread, cheese that was still melting as the sandwich was laid in front of him, and a tangy whiff of sauerkraut. Blair took a deep breath and dove in, his day improving bite by bite.

The sandwich plate included a thick, cold garlic pickle. Blair took a taste. Another major leap for mankind. This was easily the best pickle he'd had in his entire pickle-eating life. He took a second bite. Definitely pickle Nirvana. A mouthful, cold and crunchy and spicy. Blair smiled happily. We have reached orbit, Houston. The woman behind the counter didn't even blink as she sold him another pickle for fifty cents. This is Vegas. Anything for a price.

Blair perched on the low railing that divided the café tables from the path of roaming gamblers and ate his second pickle. He watched the passing crowd, spotting honeymooners, family reunion crowds, and even a huddle of Japanese tourists, cameras clicking constantly as the smiling group tried to capture every inch of the casino on film.

It was all much more entertaining than it had been four hours ago, that was for sure. Blair made a mental note to eat occasionally and to lay off the beer between the hours of three a.m. and three p.m. Drinking alone in the dull, gray pre-dawn hours would depress Mr. Rogers, much less one lonely anthropologist.

No reason to be lonely, though. Everywhere Blair looked, there were people. Sitting at the machines or the tables, standing back and watching, walking in and out of the gift shop, and just walking around.

It was time for Blair Sandburg, Party Guy, to make an appearance.

A slow walk around the machines convinced him that the Joy of Vegas wasn't to be found among a bunch of greasy-fingered nickel slot addicts. Blair Sandburg, Party Guy, was more of a table person.

Blackjack first. Roulette was too chancy, and anyhow roulette tables always had guys spinning the wheel. Blackjack tables almost always had women dealing. Blair hadn't been saving for this vacation for months to have his money swept away by some guy with a plastic smile and a bucket full of insincere sympathy. Not when he could be cleaned out by a woman.

Blackjack it was, then. He found a table with a couple of players already stacking chips and losing them and settled in. One of the gamblers gave him a sharp look like he thought Blair's presence made one too many people at the table. The other guy didn't even look up. He just stared at the blank spot where his next hand of cards was going to appear.

Blair handed the dealer a twenty and smiled. "All of it."

"Have fun, sir." She handed him four blue chips.

Blair stared at the chips, then glanced at the table sign out of the corner of his eye. There were two dollar tables all over the casino, but it was just his luck to have chosen a table with a five dollar minimum.

He dropped one chip in front of him and waited for the deal. Suspicious Guy got a ten. Surly Man got a five. Blair pulled an ace.

"Allll right!" He smiled at the dealer. "My lucky day!"

"Let's hope so, sir." She dealt herself a queen and waited for the players to decide whether or not to increase their bets.

Suspicious Guy shook his head. Surly Man dropped another chip on top of his original bet, still staring at the table. Blair, recklessly trying to generate some of that camaraderie and enthusiasm that these scenes always had in the movies, dropped two chips onto his original one and smiled around the table. "Everyone got their fingers crossed?"

He could see Surly Man wincing, but Blair wasn't going to let one crank ruin his day. He caught Suspicious Guy's eye and held up his hands, fingers crossed, grinning. The guy just shook his head and looked away.

The dealer dealt another round. Suspicious Guy got a four. Then a king. He cursed audibly and took a drink from the glass at his elbow.

Surly man got a nine, then a two, and refused any more cards.

Blair drew a three, then a Jack, then a nine. Busted.

The dealer pulled a seven. "House wins," she said, smiling brightly at the gamblers as she swept their chips out of sight.

Blair bit his lip and dropped his last chip onto the table. "Can't win if you don't play, right?"

No one answered, although the dealer smiled at him. Surly Man, apparently feeling that his moment had arrived, stacked five chips in front of himself and went back to staring. Suspicious Guy glared at Blair like he thought Blair had jinxed his last bet, then put down four chips. His hand hovered over the stack, he pulled two of them back, then nodded at the dealer.

Another deal. Blair leaned over and watched the cards fall, trying to convince himself that this was every bit as exciting as it had promised to be. Suspicious got an eight, Surly got a King, Blair got a four, and the dealer pulled a two.

Another wait, but this time no one upped their bet. The final deal. Suspicious held at sixteen, Surly made it to eighteen, asked for another card, and busted. Blair got a five, a three, then a Queen. Busted. He didn't care when the dealer pulled a ten, then a five and stood at seventeen, sweeping away the chips from all three of them.

At five dollars a hand, blackjack was proving to be an expensive experiment. Blair couldn't help but remember that in the morning, he'd played for over five hours on forty bucks. This afternoon he'd lost twenty in five minutes. He stood up and nodded at the dealer, ignoring the two men at the table. "Thanks."

"Thank you, sir," she said brightly. "Have a good day!"

"Yeah. Sure." Blair wandered toward the other tables, wondering if it might be time, already, to revise that 'no drinking from three to three' rule.

Blair Sandburg, Party Guy, was having just a little trouble getting things going, but the day was young. What he needed, he decided, was someone to party with. Ignoring the name that popped to mind with this thought, since there was no way of knowing when, or even if, Jim was going to make it, Blair decided that what was really called for here was companionship. Specifically, of the feminine variety.

Woman seemed to be in short supply around the tables. There was one fairly cheerful redhead by the craps table, but she was hanging all over some heavy guy in a wrinkled polo shirt who was throwing the dice. Blair headed back toward the slots. Roaming through the tangle of machines, he finally spotted a very sweet-looking blonde, sitting at a video poker machine.

That's more like it! Blair slipped into the chair beside her and laid down the roll of quarters he'd just bought. She didn't look up, so he started playing, losing a couple of hands before he realized that the 'two' was a wild card and he was throwing money away.

After that, it got more interesting. Video Poker was better than the slots, Blair realized. You got to do something for your quarter. He fed his money into the machine slowly, trying to figure out what card combination was most likely to pay off. One quarter, or two, were easy to win, but the bigger payoffs stayed just out of reach until the moment that random choice threw him a bone of an ace-high straight. The musical chime of metal on metal filled the air as fifty quarters spilled noisily into the payoff bucket.

Now he had the hang of it, Blair was sure. He got braver, putting two and even three quarters in at a time. His straight would have paid one hundred and fifty quarters if he'd bet three instead of one. You couldn't win big if you didn't take a risk. He hit another small payoff of twenty quarters before his winnings were gone, then another of one hundred a few minutes later. My totally lucky day! He thought smugly.

Which thought reminded him of the sweet-looking blonde.

Who had, by now, given up on her own machine and wandered off.

Shit. Blair fed two more quarters into the machine, looking around to see if he could find her, but she was nowhere in sight. For a second, he thought about going after her, but decided that he could wait until the machine stopped paying off. For now, he wanted to win back the hundred bucks he'd already converted into casino profits.

The payoff bucket of his machine was comfortingly full of quarters. He pretended that it was after three o'clock (it might be, for all he knew) and ordered another beer from a passing waitress, then settled in to win some serious money.

Clang, clang, clang. It went on and on. Sometimes the dull clatter of quarters landing on quarters, sometimes the harsh metallic rattle of quarters hitting steel on the bottom or sides of the payoff table. The bells and lights on this machines were less obnoxious than on the others, which was good since it allowed you to concentrate on your hand.

Up and down, losing, winning, losing again...he kept playing as the machine paid out tantalizing small amounts, the big payoff always about to happen on the next hand. A few more drinks helped to pass the time as he watched the level of quarters in the payoff bucket rising and falling. It was just around the corner...he could feel it. Blair switched to the maximum bet-five quarters a hand. It was a 'progressive' machine, which meant that the big payoff was over eleven thousand dollars right now, but you were only eligible if you were betting the max.

A few more drinks to celebrate his continued run of wins, none of them the big one but all of them encouraging his feeling that he was about to hit it. The machined paid again. Two hundred and fifty quarters this time, his biggest win so far. It was close...and getting closer every minute.

Blair ordered another drink and looked around the casino happily. This was totally cool. Sure, it would have been cooler if Jim had been there, but at least when his partner showed up, Blair would have something to gloat about. He fed five more quarters into the machine, grinning at the thought. He'd cash in the quarters for paper money and just toss it on the table for Jim to see.

The waitress brought his fresh drink and Blair rewarded her with a handful of quarters. He made a silent toast to his absent partner, then dropped five more quarters into the machine. This one's for you, Ellison, he thought with a laugh. Two twos. You are wild, baby, he told the machine. Ellison was the lucky charm. Blair punched the 'hold' button under the twos and checked out the rest of his hand. A four, an eight, and a Jack. Three of a kind was a guaranteed twenty-five quarters, but if he could fill a straight....

Blair sipped his drink and stared at the display. The eight and the Jack were both clubs. A straight flush would be totally cool. He punched the 'hold' button under both cards and hit the 'deal' button again. A second later, the Queen of Hearts smiled up at him smugly from the machine.

Damn! Blair had been sure that one was going to do it for him. He took another drink and shrugged. They were only quarters, after all. He grabbed another handful from the bucket and dropped five into the slot.

The bells kept ringing and there was the occasional clank of quarters into the slot. Blair watched the machine and tried to outguess it, convinced that the deal was less random than just a pattern he couldn't see. Win. Lose. Win. Lose. Lose. Lose. He came out of the trance some impossible time later, his hand scrabbling in the empty payoff slot for the quarters that weren't there.

What? Blair lurched up off the stool and peered into the metal bucket. Empty? How could it be empty? He'd had hundreds of quarters in there. Hundreds of them. I'm broke? He sat back down, almost missing the stool and saving himself with a wild grab at the edge of the table.

He wasn't only broke, he was drunk. Dead drunk and it was only.... Blair looked around. He didn't know what time it was, but it couldn't be that late. From where he was sitting, unusually enough, he was able to catch a glimpse of the front door to the hotel, on the other side of the lobby. It took him a minute to realize that, since he wasn't expecting to see darkness.

It was pitch black outside...or at least as dark as it ever got on the Las Vegas strip. What time is it? Blair stood up again, more carefully, and looked around. He couldn't see the deli where he'd eaten lunch hours ago, and he couldn't see the bathroom, which he wanted with a sudden urgency. What he could see was a familiar hallway with a sign that he was sure read, "Inclinator" with an arrow.

Time to go home, he decided. Time and past time, he realized as he stumbled through the lines of machines. He took a deep breath and started to smooth down his hair, then realized that his hands were black with some kind of residue from the metal of the quarters or the payoff buckets. It was...disgusting.

By concentrating, he managed to make it across the rest of the casino and down the hall to the inclinator. He was pretty sure no one could tell he was drunk, he was careful to walk casually, smiling at someone every so often to give the impression that he'd been...to a show, or out to dinner, or anywhere except planted in front of one of those money vacuums for the whole day.

It was hard to say how convincing he was, but eventually he flashed his room key and made it to the safety of the inclinator with only a couple of other guests joining him. They punched in their floors and lined up, staring at the door. That's what people always did on elevators. The easiest way to make a group of people nervous that Blair knew was to stand by the door of an elevator, facing in toward the other passengers. Drove 'em nuts.

He snickered to himself, remembering a few undergraduate bets he'd won by learning how to empty an elevator faster than anyone else in his intro psych course.

The sideways lurch of the machine took him by surprise and he almost wound up on his ass. A grab at the railing saved him but his yelp of surprise made the other to passengers stare at him.

"shaw...sorry," he said casually. "Forgot about that."

Drunk. He could see it in their eyes and it was embarrassing. Blair smiled at them uncertainly and the woman moved away uneasily. Maybe this wasn't time for experiments in the psychology of breaking unspoken social covenants.

After that, Blair concentrated on standing up, and watching the floors tick by on the display, until 23 flashed at him. The inclinator slowed to a stop and Blair edged out of the door without looking back.

Once inside his room, he was able to relax. At least, he started to relax, then remembered he had an urgent appointment with a urinal. And a look at his hands made him think he didn't want to touch anything until he'd washed off the black gunk. No wonder people had been giving him the fish eye.

It turned out to be surprisingly complicated for some reason, but eventually he got both needs taken care of. His fingers were still stained a dark gray, but he'd managed to remove the first ten layers of grease, anyhow. Checking himself out in the mirror, he realized that he'd managed to get streaks of black not only on his tee shirt, but down one side of his face. No wonder people had been giving him weird looks.

Shower time. A few minutes under the water and he'd sober up. There was a huge, sunken tub in the bathroom that he wanted to try out, but for now he'd settle for a shower.

And some food. Without the insistent pressure of an overfull bladder interfering with his thoughts, Blair realized that he was hungry. In fact, he was starving. He took two minutes out to call room service and order a cheeseburger, a big one, he stressed, and a double order of fries.

He figured he'd have just enough time for a good shower before the food showed up. Soap, washcloth, razor to make up for the shave he hadn't had that morning, shaving cream, shampoo, cream rinse. By the time he got it all into the shower stall, there was barely room for him. He adjusted his "guaranteed no fog" shaving mirror over the handle of the soap dish and got started. He shampooed his hair (twice), applied cream rinse, lathered up and shaved carefully, then scrubbed the reek of smoke and gambling off of the rest of his body.

By the time he finished he felt like a new man. Still drunk, but a whole new drunk. And a meal would take care of that. Blair wrapped a towel around his hips and went out to check the clock, something he'd forgotten to do earlier. It was-he had to check twice before he could believe it-it was eleven-nineteen. As in p.m. He'd been sitting down in the casino for over sixteen hours?

Impossible. It couldn't be possible. Blair checked the clock again. Now it said eleven-twenty. It was working. The clock was right and he'd gambled for sixteen straight hours, with a short break for a sandwich. It might be a good time to deliver a private lecture to himself about compulsive gambling...but at the memory of the sandwich his stomach growled and distracted him.

The mini-bar in the room didn't offer anything that appetizing to a man with his heart set on a giant, greasy cheeseburger, but there was a decent assortment of beers, including a couple of bottles of Samuel Adams. Blair opened one and stretched out on the bed.

The light on his phone wasn't lit, so either Jim hadn't called, or he hadn't left a message. He could call Jim. It wasn't that late. He could ask him when he'd be here. He could...admit to having spent a hundred dollars and the entire day in an expensive video game trance? Not. Jim would never let him live it down.

A knock at the door distracted him. Food. He was halfway to the door when he realized he didn't have his pants on. "Give me a sec!" he yelled through the door. He couldn't find his clean jeans, but a pair of baggy black sweats were enough to be decent.

A couple of busy minutes passed before Blair managed to sign the check and herd the waiter back out of the room. He stuffed a handful of hot, salty fries into his mouth, then pried the catsup and mustard open, smearing half the contents of each small bottle onto the burger. A big, juicy bite later and he was headed for nirvana again.

The pickle was an ordinary dill, nothing like the crisp, garlicy experience he'd had at lunch, but it tasted great anyhow. In fact, it all tasted great. Blair shook more salt onto the fries and stuffed another handful into his mouth, washing them down with beer. Fabulous. He should have eaten hours before.

Fifteen minutes later, he collapsed back onto the bed and burped gently. He was stuffed to the gills and totally happy. Happier, in fact, than he'd been since he'd left Cascade alone way too early that morning.

Blair crawled over to the phone, trying not to spill his remaining beer all over the bed. He read the instructions, then dialed home. And then listened to the phone ring and ring. When the machine answered, he hung up and tried Jim's cell phone number, reaching that irritating the cellular customer you have dialed is not available message.

Where in the hell could Jim be at eleven-thirty at night? Something had come up. A new case or something. Blair felt a little sick. Jim was out there, alone, with no one to watch over his senses. Why hadn't someone called him? Jim, or Simon. Either of them could have let him know what the hell was going on.

Blair called home again. This time he left a message. "Jim? Blair. Been out seeing the sights, and haven't had a chance to check in with you today. I'm going to hope you're out on a hot date. Give me a call whenever you get home, okay? Room 2328."

Blair shoved the room service cart and all its wreckage out into the hall. Back in the room, he had to decide between going to sleep and having another beer while he waited for Jim's call. Beer in hand, he climbed into one of the beds and flipped on the television. He'd give Jim half an hour. Maybe an hour. Then he'd turn in.

There wasn't much to choose from at that time of the night. Blair tried a Bela Lugosi movie but the print was so old that the picture kept fuzzing out. There was a hotel service channel that was supposed to teach you all about how to play the different games you could find in the casino. Blair shuddered and flipped away quickly. He'd had about as much gambling as he could afford.

Much against his will, he found himself fascinated by a special presentation on the shopping channel. A guy in a black leather vest was getting way too excited about a collection of jagged knives he was offering to the 'lucky first one hundred customers'.

The collection started with about twenty dangerous looking blades that the man claimed were 'cutlery'. Blair supposed it was possible that any knife could be called cutlery, but somehow the word always made him think of innocuous dinner tables and serrated steak knives. The blades this guy was offering were easily six to eight inches long and the serrated ones had mean-looking notches that looked an inch deep. Blair winced when he thought about what blades like those could do in the wrong hands.

Where in the hell was Jim? If he was out on the streets without his back-up, Blair was going to kill him. Jim's control had improved amazingly, but Blair still didn't know why Jim occasionally zoned out, even when he wasn't over-focusing on one sense.

He took a drink of his beer and frowned at the television. Now the too-excited promoter was waving a blade three feet long, talking about how everyone needed it for their 'collection'. There were some seriously weird people in the world, no escaping that.

Jim could be facing off with one of them right now. Blair took another drink and tried to shake off the thought. Jim was a cop, an ex-Army Ranger. He could take care of himself and any other twelve people in his vicinity with no problem.

As long as he doesn't zone out. Another ugly thought to avoid. Blair finished his beer and flipped off the television. Five more minutes of watching that guy practically coming in his pants as he fondled the ugly steel blades and Blair was going to have nightmares.

Lights out. Blair slid down under the blankets and sighed. If the phone rang, he'd hear it. If it didn't, he'd assume Jim was out getting lucky or something. Of course, if his partner had decided to blow off their vacation for a date....

Blair knew he was the last person who should be complaining about that. He'd blown off classes, family, friends, and faculty meetings for dates. But never Jim, his memory reminded him. No, he hadn't actually blown Jim off but that was because...well, it was because of the Sentinel thing. Jim needed him. No matter what he said, or didn't say, he relied on Blair to keep him grounded.

Blair drifted into sleep and his dreams were a muddy confusion of knives and craps tables and blinking neon lights advertising the appearance of The One, The Only, The Sentinel! in the center arena of a dazzlingly large casino. The dream slipped into darkness, the casino lights dimmed almost to black, and the crowd gathered to watch the show melted into the shadows. Somewhere...somewhere, Blair knew there was an assassin. Jim didn't know he was there and Blair had to get to him. Had to get to Jim, before that wicked blade sailed through the blackness and buried itself in his back.

Blair waded through the darkness that wrapped itself around his legs and tried to keep him away from his partner. He tried to shout but the words were sucked into the cavern of the empty casino without an echo. Jim didn't see him. He was looking right, left, all around except toward his back where Blair was struggling through the fog to reach him. Everywhere except toward his back-the direction the knife was going to come from.

Blair was closer...closer...he was almost there now. He could almost touch Jim and now Blair had a knife of his own, a weapon he could use to protect his partner. He tried to look around, over his shoulder to see if he could see the assassin, but he couldn't turn his head. All he could see was Jim's back. Supple black leather that draped down carelessly over broad shoulders, and the firm thrust of his hips filling out the jeans beneath it. Blair stared at that back, trying to guess where the blade would land. Trying to brace himself, to jump up and cover that unprotected, unsuspecting back with his own body. Trying to save him.... too late. He heard the noise rising around him, a clatter of murmuring voices and then there was a flash of brilliant light that had to be the steel blade hurtling itself toward his partner.

There was a shock, a loud noise, and Blair jerked himself to his feet, heart pounding and breath coming quickly as he searched the room for the enemy.

A flash of black leather caught his eyes and then he focused and realized that it was Jim. Not in an arena, but here. In the hotel room, and safe. Moving toward him and frowning that familiar what is it, let me fix it frown that Blair had seen so often.

Maybe it was the fog of sleep, maybe it was the lingering effects of the alcohol, but Blair didn't think twice before he launched himself across the space separating them and wrapped his arms around Jim's neck for a big hug. "You're here! You're okay!"

Jim caught him, his grip feeling uncertain. "Yeah, of course I'm okay. What's going on?"

"Bad dream. Knives, craps, assassins," Blair babbled.

Jim's arms tightened around him. "Slow down, Chief."

Blair didn't want to turn loose yet. Even now, he was only half-convinced that it had been a nightmare. "Where the hell have you been, man?"

"I'm early," Jim objected. "I finished up in court today, cleaned a few things off of my desk and caught the next flight out. What's going on with you, anyhow?"

Blair felt his face getting hot. "Nightmare, I guess," he mumbled into Jim's collar. He was starting to feel like an idiot.

Jim hugged him. "Bad one?" He didn't sound at all like someone who was about to laugh.

"Bad enough," Blair mumbled. "Probably shouldn't have had so much to drink."

Then Jim did laugh, but quietly. "You've been painting the town already?"

"Not exactly the town," Blair said. "More like...the casino downstairs."

"You never even made it out of the building?" There was a teasing note in Jim's voice that Blair rarely heard. "I'd expected better of the guy who promised we'd pick up women in every casino in Vegas."

"Yeah, well, that was kind of optimistic." Blair sighed, remembering the vanished blonde for a second. "I didn't meet anyone interesting." He didn't think it was necessary to mention that the idea hadn't seemed like as much fun when he was alone as it had sounded when he and Jim planned it.

"That has to be a first." Jim's arms were still strong around Blair's waist.

Blair was starting to feel kind of stupid. "I was waiting for you. Didn't want you to miss any of my best moves, you know. You need the practice."

"Sure you were." Jim's voice came low and teasing next to his ear. "Okay. I'm here. Let's see one."

"One what?" For a second, Blair thought Jim saw a woman in the room.

"One of those good moves." Jim's hands moved across his back and Blair shivered as he felt them against his bare skin. Another thing he'd forgotten in his sleepy fog...he wasn't wearing anything except a pair of loose black sweats. He was...he was practically naked, and he was spread out against Jim's body like...as though... Jim's hands moved again and Blair stopped thinking for a second.

"Well?"

"Huh?" Blair hoped Jim would think his confusion was sleep-induced. "What?"

"You don't want to go first?" Jim sounded thoughtful. "Okay. How about I show you one of my moves, and you can critique it?"

"I can't believe this," Blair moaned. Jim's moves. He felt a reaction in a part of himself he'd hoped would stay asleep.

"What's that? That I have moves?"

"I can't believe that the first time we're alone in a hotel room together, you start groping me."

"Who's groping who, here? Anyhow, the way I remember it, you started this, Sandburg."

"I was asleep," Blair objected. "I was having a nightmare."

"That explains the first ten seconds," Jim said. He rubbed Blair's lower back, sending a wave of warmth and pleasure through Blair. "How do you explain the fact that you're still standing here?"

You can't win if you don't play.

"I guess I don't," Blair mumbled. "I just...I was glad to see you and I was relieved you were okay and I was glad to be awake and you felt good and...and...you know." As a matter of fact, Jim's hands felt too good and Blair was already having flashes of having those hands somewhere else.

"I have good moves," Jim said persuasively. "Really good ones."

If things got any livelier inside of Blair's pants, he was going to embarrass himself.

"What kind of moves are we talking about here?" He couldn't decide if he should be excited or worried about this weird new Ellison standing in the middle of their hotel room cuddling his partner. But then, he wasn't sure about the weird new Sandburg who had, as Jim pointed out, started the whole thing, either. This had a lot to do with being half-naked and wrapped in the arms of a man wearing a black leather jacket, but that was part of his psyche that Blair wasn't sure he wanted to explore with Jim.

"Well, that depends," Jim said thoughtfully. "I mean, there's the Sinatra Approach, smooth and kinda' casual. Or the Astaire. That one usually works pretty well."

"Yeah?" Blair jumped as Jim started swaying gently. His choices were to stand still, and take the consequences of Jim's hips rubbing against him, or to start dancing. "Oh, that one."

"Yeah, like I said, it's a good one."

"Don't get me wrong, man, but do you have anything that didn't go out with the dinosaurs?" Blair shrugged, trying to look casual. "I mean, this is the nineties, right? Your role models seem to be a little on the geriatric side, you know?"

"I don't think the Sandburg Approach would fit this particular situation."

He'd said, this situation. Blair started to sweat. "Yeah, well, you know. I mean, this is just a try-out, right? Kind of a dry run?"

"It could be."

It occurred to Blair that maybe he should be insulted. "Hey, what do you mean by 'the Sandburg Approach', anyhow?" He narrowed his eyes at Jim. "And if you say anything about table legs...."

Jim grinned down at him. "No, I was thinking more of that sort of puppy dog, tail wagging thing you do."

"You are always on me about that and it is such bullshit."

"No, you do it," Jim assured him. "You do that whole, 'I'm so cute' thing. I've seen it a dozen times."

Blair stopped dancing. "Man, that is such a load of bull."

Jim's arms tightened around his waist and he leaned down slightly. "The Astaire not working for you?"

"You know," Blair complained. "I can go anywhere in Vegas and be treated this way by total strangers. I don't need you crushing my self-esteem."

"What's the matter, Chief? Have a bad day?"

"No, in fact I had a great day," Blair lied. "You wouldn't believe how much fun I had."

"Sure you did." Jim started swaying again. "I can tell by the nightmares it gave you."

"Bite me." Blair refused to dance.

"You're going pretty fast, there, Chief." Jim grinned at him again, but at least he stopped moving.

Blair started collecting his thoughts, which was harder than it should have been. Beer and sleep, he told himself stubbornly. Being woken up out of a deep sleep always disoriented him.

"Well?" Jim's arms loosened slightly.

Shit. There were some places you just shouldn't go with a research subject.

"Tell me, Jim," Blair demanded. "Did you, like, plan this, or what?"

"Plan what?" Jim said innocently. "To interrupt you in the middle of a nightmare and have you throw your naked body at me?"

"I'm not naked."

"Most of you is." Jim stroked his bare back slowly, his hands eventually wandering down to cup Blair's hips.

"Stop groping me." It was a little late for outraged virtue, but maybe Blair could come up with...with some kind of an attitude thing that would buy him time. "I can't think."

"Okay." Jim turned loose of him and backed off. "Your loss."

Blair could have sworn Jim was covering another smile as he lifted his suitcase to the empty bed and started opening it.

"Nothing personal, right?" Blair stumbled over himself trying to explain. "I mean...."

"Meaning 'no'?" Jim asked. "Or not me?"

"Neither." The confession was out before Blair could stop it. "I meant...." He shoved his hair back from his forehead. "Nothing is going the way it was supposed to." Blair could hear himself starting to whine. "I mean, I lost a mint, today and it was no fun all alone and now that you're here, you're acting like some kind of alien pod person or something."

Jim stripped off his shirt. "Relax, Sandburg."

"Do I even get a vote?" Blair glared at him.

Jim kicked off his shoes and started unzipping his pants. "Votes are already in." He slid off his pants and socks and stood there, folding his jeans casually, wearing nothing but a pair of black boxers.

"Oh, yeah?" Okay, so it was feeble, but Blair knew those boxers. They needed to be a size, maybe two, larger, and every time Jim showed up at the breakfast table wearing them, Blair wound up burning the toast and spilling coffee on himself. This was so unfair.

"Yeah." Jim tossed his pants over the back of a chair, then reached out and dragged Blair back into his arms. "You asking for a re-count?" He gave Blair an evil smile. "I think I can feel your vote. Again."

If ever there had been a moment in Blair's life when he needed a snappy comeback, it was now. He would have given every dime he'd lost that day for just one smart remark to wipe that knowing smile off of Jim's face.

Jim waited. He had a way of standing and waiting with a get it over with, Sandburg, look in his eye that Blair found really hard to ignore. Especially when he was practically naked. Blair set his jaw stubbornly and tried not to be impressed by the expanse of smooth, muscled chest pressed against him.

During all of the teasing about gambling, loose women, and getting drunk in every casino on the Strip, Blair had been sneaking glances at Jim--thinking about hotel rooms and privacy and the sort of 'no consequences' vacation mentality that sometimes made people take chances that they'd never take at home. He'd just sort of figured that it might take Jim more than five minutes to get there.

"Don't you think this is kind of sudden?" The embarrassing words slipped out before he could stop them. "I mean, shouldn't we discuss this first?"

"That's one of the dumbest things I've ever heard."

"You should get out more." Blair met Jim's eyes and smiled reluctantly. "If your intentions are serious, this might be a good time to kiss me or something."

"I would have done it an half an hour ago if you hadn't kept stalling," Jim said.

"I was processing." Blair turned his face up and slipped his arms around Jim's waist. "Get on with it, Ellison."

"Don't get in a hurry." Jim's hand tangled themselves in Blair's hair. "We've waited this long."

"Two minutes ago you were all over me," Blair complained.

"Yeah, well, all of that conversation broke the mood."

Here and there, their bodies rubbed gently. Mostly there. "Are you going to kiss me, or not?"

"Yes." Jim's mouth fastened on Blair's and by the time the kiss ended, Blair was breathless and shaking.

Wow. "Wow." Blair stared at Jim hazily. "What was that?"

Jim looked smug. "Told you so. I have got the moves."

Blair tried not to laugh. "And you think I'm egotistical."

Jim grinned. "I thought you'd like that."

If Blair had been imagining sex with Jim, not that he'd be doing something like that, of course, but if a few stray ideas had forced themselves into his head against his will, the last thing he would have thought was that Jim would be so...so happy. "Is there something going on with you?"

"If you don't shut up, that martini I had on the plane is going to wear off and I'm going to decide I'd rather go to sleep," Jim threatened.

"You don't drink martinis," Blair objected. "And you don't have sex with guys." Whoops. Well...there it was.

"Let me let you in on a secret, Sandburg." Jim looked him straight in the eyes. "Doing a couple of experiments on my vision and making me taste weird combinations of condiments has not made you a definitive authority on Jim Ellison, okay?"

"Well, that's getting to be pretty obvious." Blair could have sworn he felt his world view shifting. Okay...he'd been wrong. A macho, ex-army, police detective just might be interested in a short, geeky anthropologist, okay? Stranger things had happened. With a little luck, stranger things were about to happen. Or, at least more interesting things.

"You know." Blair licked his lips. "Okay, you know? I mean...okay."

Jim laughed at him. "All through processing?"

Blair had learned a few things in his years following Jim around. A quick move and he had one ankle hooked around Jim's leg. Application of a little force in just the right direction...and a very surprised Jim Ellison was bouncing on the bed. He'd dragged Blair down with him, but that was all part of the plan.

"Process this, Ellison," Blair threatened, then he was all over Jim, memorizing the stunned, pleased look in Jim's eyes before he dove in for a kiss. An instant's startled reaction, then Jim took over the kiss, his mouth bruising Blair's as he pulled Blair's head to him tightly.

Blair wasn't sure if he'd won or lost that round, but he was beginning to suspect that he could be just as happy either way.

****

That's about it, for now.