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The 40 Mile Saloon sits on the outskirts of New Reno, far enough away from the city that the lights of the casinos in the distance look more like stars. It’s rundown, like the rest of this part of town, the sign out front left over from before the war. Years back, someone had tacked on in blocky lettering another sign, boasting that the 40 Mile had the strongest, cheapest liquor in all of Reno. Inside, the bartender shoves glasses of whiskey that taste more like motor oil than alcohol towards patrons, snatching up their caps almost faster than they can be produced.
But it’s the anonymity, not the booze, that’s the real selling point. Rodeo’s been here going on near an hour, and not once has someone looked twice at him. He might as well be invisible, ignored the same way he’s ignoring the rat scurrying by in the corner and the smell of mildew from the bar that’s worked its way into his nose.
As the clock on the wall approaches midnight, the crowd starts to thin out, most people heading back to wherever the hell they came from before crawling out to take up their same positions the next evening. A mix of rejects from New Reno, those who lost it all at the card tables or those who couldn’t yet afford to do so, both taking solace in the bottle and a bartender that won’t ask questions.
Rodeo finds himself somewhere in between the two. Sure, he’s got enough caps to afford a drink at one of the saloons on the East Side or Second Street, but he’s wasted his fortunes all the same. He considers this as he takes another sip of his whiskey, tasting more like motor oil than alcohol. But it does the job. He’ll finish this glass, order another, and then head upstairs to his room and be off to sleep. No one the wiser to the fact that he was ever here at all.
What a way to spend his last night alive.
Not really, of course. Rodeo Rodriguez may be dying tonight, but someone else will crawl out of his bed in the morning. He hasn’t quite decided on the name. He’s loath to part with his current one, but the alliteration makes him too recognizable. His mom hadn’t done him any favors in that regard.
He thinks of his mom as he finishes his drink, gritting his teeth through the burn as it slides down his throat. He’d bid her goodbye earlier this afternoon, slipping round to the back of the butcher shop where she worked to give her a parting embrace and all the caps he could spare. Acting as if everything was normal, like he was just departing for another job and would be back in a few months. But there was something in her eyes when he hugged her, the weight of the caps in their small leather bag, that told him she knew there’d be no more goodbyes after this.
Rodeo spared her the explanation of why. When someone came looking, it’d be better for her not to know. Better that she think he’d left to make a delivery and never made it home. He runs his fingers over the cross pendant hanging from a chain on his neck. It had been his mom’s once, passed down from her own mother and given to Rodeo when he’d turned eighteen. A man now, his mom had said, though even ten years later he often didn’t feel it.
Thinking of his mother makes a lump start to form in his throat, so he pushes the thought away, reaching across the bar to flag the bartender down for another drink. Her back is turned to him, busy arguing with another patron, so Rodeo sits back in his seat, slumping over onto the counter and sighing.
“Hey babydoll. You looking to make a few quick caps?”
Rodeo turns. A man sitting a few stools down leans towards him, flashing a bright white smile. He’s never seen someone with teeth that white before. But even more blinding than the man’s teeth is his suit, a black and white checkered blazer without a spot of dirt on it. He must have entered after Rodeo, slipped in when he was deep in his drink and his melancholy. The suit is too garish; Rodeo would have spotted him otherwise. He’s handsome, setting the suit aside, with an almost pre-War world look. Like something you’d see on an old billboard. Brown hair done up in a coif that curled down slightly over his face and eyes to match.
Under different circumstances, Rodeo might be interested. But not tonight. “I’m sure it would be quick. But I’m not a hooker.” He expects the man to be pissed off at the insult, or at the very least leave him alone and move on to someone else. But instead he just laughs, shaking his head.
“You wound me, baby. I ain’t lookin’ for a pro. It’s honest work, I promise.” He kisses his middle finger and ring finger, holding them up in the air. “Scout’s honor.”
“Honest work, huh?” Rodeo says, unimpressed. “Not sure a bar in the butt end of Reno’s the place to go for that. Why don’t you try the post office? Put up an ad like everyone else.”
“Look, maybe I got off on the wrong foot here. Let me start over.” The man stands up, taking the seat next to him without, Rodeo notes, being invited. “Can I buy you a drink?”
Rodeo looks around warily. Folks usually kept to themselves around this sort of thing, being the Republic and all, but it’s still Nevada. This stranger is pretty openly hitting on him, and if the wrong person were to overhear it coud be trouble. Rodeo’s not exactly keen on spending his last night in town nursing a black eye or being called something he’d rather not repeat.
“Okay.” He agrees, more to keep the man quiet than anything. “One drink.”
The man grins like it’s the best news he’s heard all week. “I knew you were a high roller. What’re you havin’?”
“Uh…” Rodeo looks down at his empty glass, then back up. “Whiskey.”
The man snaps his fingers, drawing the bartender’s attention. She walks over, frowning at the gesture. “A whiskey for my friend here, and a martini for me, will ya doll?”
She stares blankly. “We got beer or whiskey. Take it or leave it.”
He grimaces, mouth twisting in distaste. “Two whiskeys then.” He throws down a handful of caps on the counter. “And keep the change.”
“What’d you say your name was?” Rodeo asks once they have their drinks.
“Benny. But you baby, can call me whatever you like.”
He takes a sip. The man, Benny, doesn’t ask for his name, so he doesn’t offer it. “So, Benny. Are you always this… outgoing, with strangers? Or am I just lucky?”
Benny raises his glass in a mock salute. “I prefer the term ‘future business associates’, if it’s all the same to you.”
Business associate. Rodeo had heard that one before. But he’ll play along. “Well, ordinarily I’d say sure. Just for the hell of it. But you’ve caught me at a bad time. So like I said, might wanna try the post office.”
“Or,” Benny winks, leaning forward, “I could let the post office come to me.”
Rodeo nearly chokes on his drink. He manages to save face, swallowing and setting down the glass. The fact that he’s a courier isn’t a secret, but it’s not public knowledge. And he’s far from the only one in the area. If this man came here tonight knowing that, it means he’s looking for him. And right now, that only means one thing.
“If you want an order placed,” he says slowly, hands pressed flat against the counter to stop them from shaking, “the Mojave Express will be open again tomorrow morning. But like I said, you’ve caught me at at a bad time, and I’m afraid I can’t-”
“Aw, come on darlin’. Don’t give me that. I’m no dodo. I’m not looking for any old delivery guy. You’ve got something special.”
He says nothing, so Benny goes on. “Does the name Richard Ortega ring any bells?”
Rodeo feels like someone just poured ice straight through his veins. It’s been the only name that’s been on his mind the last month, the name he’s been avoiding and the one driving him out of town.
He’d seen it on the delivery notice a little over six months ago, but he’d heard it before. Richard Ortega’s reputation had preceded him. One of the higher up bosses in New Reno, working for the Bishops. Not directly related but might as well be, running most of the day to day operations whenever Mr. Bishop skipped town. Collecting payments, busting jaws, cutting out deals with the NCR that were less than legal. The whole nine yards.
The job had been relatively standard, heading to a Follower’s outpost near Sac-Town to pick up an electrode implant and return to New Reno. He’d assumed from the description that Ortega’s health was failing, something wrong with his heart, but for three hundred caps he was paid to make a delivery, not ask questions.
On the way back to New Reno, just thirty miles out, Rodeo had been approached by a man, introducing himself as a representative of the Van Graff family and asking if Rodeo would kindly relinquish the package to his care. Just for a few days, he promised. Then you’ll have it right back, good as new.
Rodeo wasn’t stupid. The Van Graffs had been warring with the Bishops ever since the Mordinos formally absolved, surrendering most of their territory to the remaining families. They too dealt in the shipment and procurement of illegal weapons, but with the recent crackdowns by the NCR, tensions were running high. People became willing to resort to whatever means necessary to get ahead.
He’s not sure exactly what the Van Graff man had done to the electrode. All Rodeo knew was that he’d offered him an extra two hundred caps for it, right then and there, and that the laser pistol on his hip had been displayed prominently throughout the whole interaction. He’d received the message loud and clear: surrender the package and take the money, or there’d be consequences.
Not three days after returning to New Reno and finishing the job, Richard Ortega had died. Heart attack, the papers said, though everyone, including the Bishops, suspected foul play. At first, they’d accused the Wrights, old rifts coming to the surface. But then they’d turned their attention on the Van Graffs, and from there it was just a matter of checking the delivery logs and Rodeo was a dead man.
He should have left as soon as the package was delivered. He knew better. He shouldn’t have hung back to say goodbye to his mom or gather his things. But the promise of one final night in a warm bed, a strong drink, had been too strong to ignore. And now here he was, facing the music.
Standing, Rodeo pulls a few caps from his pocket and places them on the counter. Screw the free drink. “I’m sorry mister, but you must have the wrong guy. Whatever you’re offering, I ain’t interested.”
Before he can take more than a few steps, Benny grabs him, digging his fingers tightly into the flesh of Rodeo’s forearm. He squirms, but Benny holds tight. For a man in such a clean cut, obnoxiously patterned suit, his grip is surprisingly strong. “Woah, easy there. Just give me a minute. Let’s talk it over some.”
Rodeo tries again to wrestle his arm free. “I said I ain’t not interested. Now let go of me.”
Benny continues as though he hadn’t heard him. “You know, I heard old Richard had a daughter. Arabella? Lives over on the West Side? Nice gal. I’m sure she’d be none too pleased if she heard what really happened to her father though. Might not be such a nice gal after all, if you catch my drift.”
So that was it. Blackmail. The Bishops had caught on, or the Van Graffs, trying to cover their tracks, and this man was here to finish the job. He should have left, should have told the Van Graff representative to go to hell, should have never taken the job to begin with. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He eyes the door, ten feet to freedom, and thinks about making a break for it. His stuff is upstairs, but he can leave it. Doesn’t matter. Before he can head for the door, a tall, muscular man with a rough beard steps in front of it, blocking his exit. The man’s hand goes for a large knife strapped to the side of his leg, nodding slowly towards him and Benny. Benny waves a hand back.
Rodeo’s other hand not caught in Benny’s grip reaches for his holster, comes up blank. Right. Fuck this bar and their no weapons at the door policy, fuck himself for not having had the foresight to try and conceal something. He swallows roughly, the lump in his throat from earlier feeling more and more like the tightening of a noose.
“Alright, I get the message.” He draws his hand up from his holster, letting it fall. “What do you want?”
Benny grins again. His bright smile that once was charming now seemed dangerous, like a rattlesnake bearing his fangs and ready to strike. “I knew you’d listen to reason baby. No need to get the girl involved, right? Let’s keep things tight. Just between us, ya dig?”
He stands, seemingly satisfied that Rodeo can’t run anywhere, and lets go of his arm. “Whaddya say we head up to my room. You listen to my offer. Something tells me you’re gonna like it.”
Rodeo nods. He doesn’t want to, of course, but it’s not like he has much of a choice. “Lead the way.” Benny snaps his fingers again and the man guarding the door comes up behind him, boxing Rodeo in as they head upstairs. He can feel him breathing down the back of his neck and feels his skin start to crawl.
When they stop in front of a room, Benny grabs a key from his pocket, unlocking it and swinging the door wide open. He holds the door for Rodeo as the bodyguard ushers him in.
“You know usually when you buy a guy a drink, you’re supposed to at least let him finish it before inviting him up to your room.” Rodeo says dryly, taking a seat in one of the chairs in the corner. The accommodations are the same as Rodeo's: twenty caps a night for a bed, a small dresser, a desk in the corner. There’s no personal belongings around the room and the bed is still made, so either Benny is just incredibly fastidious or he’s not staying.
Weird that he’d rent a room for this, but maybe he hadn’t wanted to risk Rodeo escaping if they left the bar. The thought occurs to him as the bodyguard is dismissed, taking up post to guard the door to the room, that maybe Benny doesn’t intend for Rodeo to leave this room. That this isn’t blackmail, but an execution.
Benny takes a seat across from Rodeo, pulling out a small silver pistol and popping open the chamber. He spins it, one leg crossed over the other, then locks it back into place, holding it casually at his side and aimed straight at Rodeo. “Sorry about all the extra muscle, dollface, but we can’t be taking any chances. Not now.”
“Cute guy,” he grunts. “You blackmail him too?”
Benny laughs. “Between you and me, Khans are about as complex as two wet rats in a paper bag. Throw ‘em some caps and a bit of jet every now and again, and they’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth.”
Whatever that means. “A bit far North for Khans.”
“Consider these to be special circumstances.” Benny pulls out a cigarette from a small carton, lighting it and taking a long inhale. He tilts his head back, blowing smoke across the room before continuing. “You’re a courier. You ever made your way down to Vegas before?”
Rodeo frowns, confused. Vegas would explain Benny’s suit, his strange way of talking, but why would the Bishops or the Van Graffs go to the trouble of hiring someone all the way from New Vegas? Or to that matter, what did Vegas have to do with Rodeo at all? He knew vaguely that the Van Graffs had moved in near the Strip, but still, he fails to see the connection.
“Can’t say that I have, no.” He’s been close, but never New Vegas exactly. Too expensive, and too risky now, ever since the Long 15 went kaput and the Legion took up shack in their backyard. “But I’ve heard stories. People talk.”
“So you must’ve heard about the Strip? The three families?”
He nods, fighting the urge to ask what this all has to do with him. If his only chance right now is to play along, he’ll do his best. “Sure. Who hasn’t?”
“Well then kid, where are my manners? Allow me to introduce myself. Properly this time.” Benny reaches out a hand for Rodeo to shake, taking care to keep the other hand close to his gun. “Benny Gecko. Head of the Chairmen in New Vegas. Owner and Chief Proprietor of the Tops Casino.”
Rodeo shakes his hand. “I’d introduce myself, but I get the feeling you already know who I am.”
Benny doesn’t respond, so Rodeo takes that for a yes. In the darker lighting, legs crossed and smoke trailing around him, Rodeo can picture him at the head of a Casino family, barking orders then slipping into the suave, relaxed persona he’s adopted now when the need arose.
A memory arises, gossip traded around a campfire late at night when he was nineteen or so and working a Caravan group. The question comes out before he can think better of it. “The Chairmen. Ain’t you the ones folks said were eating people a while back?”
Benny pulls a face, his nose wrinkling up in disgust. “I’m offended baby. Do you really think so little of me, to stoop so low as to do something like that? The Chairmen have always had a spotless reputation.” He takes another drag of his cigarette, ashing it out directly onto the carpet. “Of course, I speak only for myself in this, but the Strip’s got class. Real class, not like the hoo-hah whatcha-ma-callit that passes for a good time around here.”
Benny frowns, as if realizing he may have upset Rodeo with this. “No offense, of course.”
“None taken.” Rodeo has no allegiance to New Reno. Look where the city’s gotten him, for Christsakes.
He watches the smoke in the room gather. He wishes Benny would offer him a cigarette, but he won’t ask first. His fingers are itching for the trigger of his gun. He needs something to do with his hands in the meantime, something to distract himself from the way they’re shaking in his chair.
“Benny Gecko. Strange name.” Rodeo says after a moment, sliding the palms of his hands down the front of his jeans. “But if you don’t mind me askin’, I’m a little confused as to what all this has to do with me.”
“Strange is the name, good business is the game, pussycat.” Benny winks. God, where did he learn to talk like that? Was this how everyone spoke in New Vegas, or just him? “I got plans, sweetheart. Big plans. And you, Rodney Rodriguez, just happen to be the star player.”
“I prefer Rodeo.” He says, a reflex honed over the years.
Benny throws the half-smoked cigarette onto the carpet, crushing out the embers under the toe of his shoe. “Duly noted. Now tell me, Rodeo.” That smile again, the rattlesnake. “How much do you know about a man named Robert House?”
When Benny gets going, he talks fast, talks with his hands. Rodeo’s always been a bit of a fast talker himself, but it’s almost impossible to keep up with Benny, with his strange lingo and nonsensical metaphors. About forty-five minutes in, when Benny can be reasonably sure Rodeo’s not going to try anything, he pours them both another drink. Good whiskey, stuff he brought from Vegas that actually tastes like oak or honey or whatever the hell it’s supposed to taste like besides motor oil.
He paces back and forth while Rodeo drinks, watching, listening. Benny’s suit jacket is long since discarded, placed carefully over the back of the chair. His gun is still by his side, within reach, but Rodeo’s decided only to grab it as a last resort. It’d make too much noise this late at night, and he’s not keen on the idea of having his nose broken in by the Great Khan outside.
Through Benny’s rambling, Rodeo’s able to pick apart the general outline of a plan and place himself in it. Take one last delivery job. Deliver a package, a platinum poker chip, to the elusive Mr. House on the New Vegas Strip. Five other couriers had been hired for similar deliveries, but the chip was the only one that mattered, the only one that wouldn’t be making it.
Rodeo reviews the delivery order Benny hands him, a copy of the actual issued to the Mojave Express. Not a bad job. The pay is good, and the route is long but not any more dangerous than usual.
“But instead of meeting with one of Mr. House’s representatives in Freeside,” He says slowly, trying to make sure he’s got all the details in order, “I’d be meeting you further South. In-” He stops, squinting to make out the name of the town on the map laid out in front of him. Say what you want about the man, but Benny did his homework. “Goodsprings.”
“Small town. Nice folk, I hear. Shouldn’t give you too much trouble. And word from the bird is that Freeside ain’t exactly the safest now, what with the Fiends and all, so you can count that too in your prayers.”
If Benny is actually expecting Rodeo to actually be grateful that he’s being blackmailed right now, then he’s got another thing coming. “Any advice on what route to take?”
Almost too quickly, Benny jumps in, jamming a finger on the paper and running it up a small line curving left and then North towards the city. “Stick to this one, Interstate Five. It’ll get you around the worst of the wildlife. And the worst of some of those Legionnaires too. The whole Mojave’s a powder keg full of dynamite, and she’s fixing and ready to blow, ya dig?.”
Rodeo nods. It’s one of the reasons he’d avoided the area, never taking on any deliveries that ventured further East than Hopeville. It was a well known fact that the Legion respected Couriers, so long as they were male, but he’s traveled a lot. Despite how the NCR liked to joke, Rodeo’s heard all too well what they do to men like him. Better not to take his chances.
Still, he’ll have to risk it now, if it means not ending up dead in a gutter outside the Shark Club come next morning. “And from there, then what?”
Benny smiles, wider than he has the whole night, clapping him on the shoulder. Maybe it’s just late, or maybe he’s had too much to drink, but Benny looks almost cute like this. Excited, his eyes shine, a few more strands of hair escaping his coif and falling down into his face.
“Baby, whatever you want. You’re a free cat. Cross my heart and everything.” He makes an “x” motion over his chest. “I’ll pay you double what old Mr. House was willing to. Hell, I might even see about throwing in something a little extra.”
‘Extra’ to Rodeo is like dangling meat in front of a feral dog. Tempting, but probably doesn’t come without an ulterior motive. “What do you mean, something extra?”
“The Chairmen ain’t just some boys club, you know.” Benny reaches for the bottle of whiskey, uncapping it and pouring a bit more into his glass without drinking. “We got a real say-so, even all the way up here. You get this job done right, and I can make this whole Richard Ortega thing go gone-zo.”
Rodeo swallows. “You mean, I could return to Reno.”
“Like I said kid, free as a cat. You wanna come back here, that’s your prerogative.” From the way Benny says it, Rodeo can tell he finds the idea unappealing. “Of course, there’s the matter of discretion. I can’t go around doin’ favors for anyone who’d be wagging their mouth out around town.”
He stares blankly, unsure what Benny’s getting at. “Mail theft is a federal crime. I get it.” He’s pretty sure blackmail is too, but he’s not about to bring that up now. “I’m not exactly chomping at the bit to tell the NCR ‘bout committing a felony.”
“Well that’s good to know. But it ain’t the Republic i’m worried about.” Benny’s fingers drum nervously against the edge of the desk for a few seconds before he stops, pulling his hand back to his side. “Mr. House has robot armies the likes of which you’ve never seen covering every inch of the Strip. He’d have us skinned alive if he knew what we were cookin’ up here. He’s had his eyes on this chip for a long time now. Longer than you or I have been around combined. Maybe twice that. ”
Benny says this so casually Rodeo almost misses it. There’d always been rumors about Mr. House, the man said to have saved the city from the worst of the bombs back when it was still Las Vegas. Whether he was now a machine or a madman, who was to say? Personally, Rodeo had always thought that the story was manufactured. Something to draw people into the strip, an illusion same as the bright lights and music from the casinos.
If such a Mr. House even existed, it was more likely than not a clever charlatan manipulating old-world tales to his advantage, adopting the persona of an individual long since dead for any number of reasons. Fear, power, money. All leagues more plausible than the idea that Mr. House had managed to overcome mortality, surviving for two and a half decades through nuclear annihilation.
Benny holds out the bottle of whiskey, gesturing to Rodeo’s empty glass besides him. With a nod, Rodeo agrees, holding out his glass and watching the amber liquid fill up to the halfway mark before Benny pulls back, capping the bottle again.
“So whaddya say, baby? You in?”
Maybe if Rodeo were sober, if the pleasant warmth from the alcohol weren’t making Benny’s words slide off of him like honey, he would have thought twice before agreeing. It hadn’t been smart of him to accept the drink to begin with, but neither had it been for him to get involved with the Van Graffs. Not my choice, he thinks, but now a man is dead and Rodeo must either face the consequence or find a way of slipping out.
Thinking of the Van Graffs makes him realize just how tired he is. It’s been a long couple of weeks, not even counting the usual exhaustion from the trip back from Sac Town. Working his way around pockets of raiders, 80s, only to come back into town and have to look over his shoulder with every step he took for one of the Bishops to come barrelling in with a shotgun aimed squarely at his head.
Quit while you’re ahead. That’s how the old saying went, but they also said that sometimes the only way out was through. Just one more job, leave the package with Benny miles away from the Strip and let him sort out the consequences. See his mom again, strolling into the butcher shop like nothing had changed.
And even if Benny was bluffing about being able to make things right with the Bishops, he’d still be four hundred miles away from them, out of reach and with enough caps in hand to start over. For the first time in weeks, Rodeo allows himself to imagine living again, not just escaping. He imagines meeting a nice guy or gal, taking up caravan work again. Or settling down somewhere, shooting Fire Geckos till his hair went grey.
He could still have all those things, so long as he said yes.
“Just one question.” Rodeo sets down his glass, crossing his arms as he leans back in his seat. “Y’all don’t have poker chips in Vegas?”
Benny laughs, taking a seat opposite Rodeo and reaching for his untouched glass. He takes a long sip before answering, tilting his head back to expose a thin white scar along the underside of his chin. “Not like this one, we don’t. Trust me.” A moment passes as he regards Rodeo, looking him up and down before deciding to elaborate.
“Like I said, the whole Mojave’s gearing up towards something. If you don’t believe me, you’ll see for yourself soon enough.” He loosens his tie slightly, pulling on the fabric till it hangs limp around his neck. With his suit jacket gone, and a few more hairs falling out of his coif, Benny looks suddenly tired. Older than his years, maybe, or just a life lived beyond them.
“This chip? It’s the ticket out. House knows it too, ‘cept he’s got his head stuck two hundred years in the past. Fat load of good that’ll do anyone. Trust me on this one, doll.”
While he’s still unsure how a poker chip is supposed to help with any of this, Rodeo gets the sense that Benny won’t be any less vague than he’s being now. No matter. He’d delivered plenty of packages before without understanding or even knowing the contents, and it hadn’t bit him in the ass so far.
“Alright. I’ll do it.”
Benny beams, shaking out of whatever apparent fatigue had overcome him and rising to his feet. “I knew I could count on you kid. You got a real good head on your shoulders. Real swell.” He grabs his drink, raising it in the air as Rodeo follows. “A toast. To the success of our future endeavours.”
“To blackmail.” Rodeo says dryly, clinking his glass against Benny’s and shooting it back. Benny does the same, smiling in spite of Rodeo’s comment and rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. His arms are tan, dark hair covering up a surprisingly thick layer of muscle and a few more scars in various stages of fading.
“Rodeo, you are one funny son of a bitch, you know that?” It’s weird to hear Benny say his name instead of baby or doll or whatever. Something about the way he says it makes Rodeo wonder if Benny spoke to everyone like that, or for that matter how he’d known that Rodeo wouldn’t spit in his face for approaching him so flirtatiously at the bar. He’d felt like an idiot earlier, assuming he was being hit on when he was really being set up. But Benny doesn’t make any move to ask him to leave, still smiling over at Rodeo when he pops the top few buttons of his shirt off to display that same dark hair as on his arms curling up his chest.
Did he talk like that in bed too? He almost laughs out loud at the idea, imagining his boxer shorts in the same obnoxious black and white checkered print as his suit. He seems the type. Probably even wears shirt stays, rubs cologne on his wrists and the tops of his thighs before getting into the sack with someone.
Great. Now he’s getting hard.
Rodeo crosses one leg over the other, hoping the movement looks natural. One reason of many as to why he shouldn’t be drinking right now. Because at the same time the whiskey is making him forget why sizing up the sexual proclivities of someone currently blackmailing him was a bad idea, it also made him remember that it’d been a long time. Since before the Richard Ortega job, at least, and fearing for your life every night after didn’t exactly put a man in the right mood.
But whether due to the whiskey or his newfound employment, that fear is gone now, fleeing with a vengeance. He clears his throat, changing the subject and willing his mind to follow. “So Vegas. What’s that like?”
Benny raises an eyebrow at him, curious. “Whaddya wanna know?”
“Well, surely you don’t get to be the head of the Chairmen overnight. You look like you’re on the younger side. Well maintained.” Too flirtatious. He backtracks, tries to correct. “I mean, you’re in one piece and all that. Couldn’t have been easy.”
Rodeo hopes Benny won’t pick up on it, but he does, cocking his head to the side in amusement. “Are you making a pass at me? Or do you just really wanna know?”
He thinks for a few moments before answering; considers the fact that flirting with Benny right now is a bit like flirting with death. Not that he hasn’t done that plenty of times. And just like all those other times Rodeo can feel the surge of adrenaline, a dangerous combination with all the liquor he’s had to drink tonight. Like standing along the edge of a cliff and feeling horribly alive so close to falling.
“Both.” is what he settles on. What more does he have to lose?
Benny grins, the snake poised to strike, and reaches for his carton of cigarettes. “Boy baby, you really are an odd one.” An observation, not a rejection. When he grabs a cigarette Rodeo does too, placing it in his mouth without asking permission first. He’s surprised to hear the flick of a lighter, hand halfway to the packet of matches in his jacket. Rodeo catches a glimpse of it before Benny slips it back into his pants pocket, silver with something engraved on it that he can’t make out in the dim lighting. Benny doesn’t break eye contact the entire time he lights Rodeo’s cigarette, which Rodeo is grateful for since it also means he probably doesn’t notice his rapidly hardening cock against the denim of his jeans.
He pulls back with a wink, taking a heavy drag before answering. “Used to be we were known as the Boot-Riders.
Ran around the Mojave, raiding and hunting and what-not. Life was pretty okay. But then Mr. House came along and made it better.”
Rodeo raises his eyebrows. “You’ve seen him?”
“Never in the flesh. No one has. That day it was just one of his Securitrons, and he sorta…” Benny pauses, looking for the right word. “strongarmed us into leaving the desert behind and picking up in the Strip. And then life became great.”
“Oh, wow.” Rodeo had assumed, based on nothing really, that the Strip families were similar to those in New Reno. Taking power for themselves instead of being assigned into it. “That must have been quite the change.”
“Not everyone was on board at first, of course. Guy named Bingo, our old chief, wasn’t too keen on the idea of wearing suits and trading in our guns for playing nice. I challenged him to a knife fight, and the rest, as they say, is history. It’s how I got this here beauty.” Benny tilts his chin back again, showing the scar that Rodeo had noticed earlier.
Rodeo blows smoke across the room, a mimicry of Benny from earlier in the evening. It feels like the first deep breath he’s had in weeks, almost gratifying enough to distract from the fact that he’s now fully hard. “It suits you.”
Though he thinks he sees Benny blush a moment, it’s hard to tell at this hour. Could just be the alcohol. Benny probably just thinks Rodeo’s coming on to him again, and he is, sort of, but more than that. It makes Rodeo trust him a bit more, knowing the man is no stranger to hardship and trying to get ahead. From a different world than him now, with the hair and the clothes, but not always.
“And what ‘bout the casinos?” He asks, flicking the ash of the end of his cigarette. “Is it true that you guys always cheat the player? You got some sort of secret system?”
“Sorry dollface, but I don’t kiss and tell.”
He laughs. “So I’ll take that as a yes.”
“All I’m saying,” Benny leans forward, swiping his tongue over his lower lip, “is if you’re ever playing Blackjack at Gomorrah, watch for the dealer on the second draw, alright? He’s got a sticky hand.” He twists his face in mock disgust. “But we’d never try something so rotten at the Tops. We’re better than that. I told ya, we got class.”
“Class? What does that mean, no hookers?” Rodeo uncrosses his legs, just barely stopping himself from grinning when Benny looks him up and down, eyes catching on his crotch. “Damn.”
When Benny looks up, there’s an almost hungry look to his eyes, still amused but also fascinated. He stands, puts out his cigarette, standing and walking over to Rodeo, who right now would have sworn up and down he could feel his heart beat in time with the clacking of Benny’s shoes against the floor. Their legs brush together when Benny stops in front of him, Benny’s knee nudging Rodeo’s legs apart more so that he can stand between them.
He grabs his cigarette from his mouth as Rodeo looks up, watches, feeling the gentle brush of Benny’s thumb along his chin as it catches on a few days worth of stubble. He wraps his lips around the filter, taking a drag and smirking. “Why, you lookin’ for a part time gig?”
His voice comes out breathy, quiet. “That depends.” Rodeo reaches up, taking the cigarette back and burning it down to the ash, flicking the butt end onto the ground. He stands, pausing an inch from Benny’s face. He’s a few inches taller, meaning Benny has to tilt his head back ever so slightly. The difference is enough to make him shiver. “Is the boss any good?” Benny runs his tongue over his bottom lip again, so close to Rodeo that he can almost feel it.
“Well lucky for you baby, I hear he’s got a real thing for redheads.”
Benny kisses like he talks, fast, aggressive, and smooth. He tastes like whiskey and cigarettes and smells like aftershave, something expensive Rodeo couldn’t name. He does his best to keep up, kissing back, wrapping a hand around the back of Benny’s neck and threading his fingers through his hair. When Rodeo tugs on it, teasing, Benny moans, pushing his weight into him so fast Rodeo almost falls backwards.
He feels hands yanking on his jacket, so he unwraps his arms from around Benny, doing the best he can to get the jacket off while still kissing him. Rodeo know that if he stops to think, even for a second, his brain will catch up to him and he’ll remember that Benny all but held a gun to his head a few hours ago and threatened to pull the trigger unless Rodeo agreed to take the job.
Tomorrow's regrets, he tells himself, slipping one arm out and then the other. Tomorrow, he can curse himself for being so stupid, too horny to think straight. But not now. Besides, Benny’s not stopping at his jacket, pulling his shirt out from where it was tucked into his jeans and sliding a hand up his stomach. Rodeo tenses at first, shocked at how cold his hands are, then relaxes into the feeling. His fingers dip under the edge of his jeans, dragging through the hair at the base of his stomach before sliding back up to grope at his chest.
Wow, okay. Definitely got the right signal from him at the bar.
“I thought you might have been hitting on me. Back downstairs.” Rodeo pants, pulling away from the kiss to unbutton his shirt, fumbling a few times before he manages to get a hold of it. “Fancy suit and all. Guess I was right.”
Benny laughs, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to put it back into shape. “Cats gotta swing baby. And this cat swings both ways.”
It’s so strange that Rodeo almost laughs himself, the noise catching in his throat when Benny pulls off his own shirt. Thick, dark hair covers his chest, trailing down below his slacks. Like Rodeo, he wears a silver necklace with a crucifix on it, hanging between pecs that were way more defined then he’d have expected of a casino boss. Damn. If there was one thing Rodeo was a sucker for, it was a good pair of tits.
Rodeo kisses him again, sighing loudly in contentment when Benny begins to kiss down the side of his neck, pulling some of his hair to the side to get at the spot right under his ear. He pushes a leg in between Benny’s, brushing up against the man’s hard cock. Benny bites down a little when Rodeo presses harder, and then both of their hands are a tangled mess at the other one’s fly, trying to unbutton clasps and pull down zippers while also moving to accommodate each other.
Finally, they manage, Rodeo taking a seat on the edge of the bed to pull his jeans down the rest of the way. He throws them in the general direction of the same chair he’d put his jacket and shirt on, not caring when he misses and they hit the floor. Weren’t worth much anyways. Benny is much more careful, taking time to fold his pants and drape them over the desk, laying the seams out right so nothing creases too terribly. Rodeo snorts at this, Benny turning back in just socks and his underwear.
“What’s so funny?”
“Just thought your boxers would match the suit.” Benny looks down. His boxers are a faded grey, nothing to write home about.
“Wouldn’t that be something.” Benny says, walking back over to the bed. Sitting like this, with Benny standing in front of him, Rodeo’s about eye level with Benny’s dick, making his own cock throb in his boxers a bit. He puts his hands on the waistband, looking up at Benny, who nods, sliding them down and pushing Rodeo in gently with a hand around the base of his neck.
It’s been longer than Rodeo would like to admit, but he still knows his way around a blow job, licking around the head of Benny’s cock a few times before sliding the first few inches into his mouth. He wants to bury his nose in the dark curls around his cock, but he also doesn’t want to gag on the first go, so he takes his time, working the rest into his mouth slowly.
Benny’s about average, which is lucky for him, but also on the thicker side, so by the time he manages it a few minutes have passed and he can taste a bit of Benny’s pre-cum mixed with his own saliva. Above him, Benny begins to whine, digging his fingers into Rodeo’s hair and pulling. He’s talking, muttering things under his breath that keep getting cut off when Rodeo sucks harder or runs his tongue over the slit.
“Aces baby, aces, oh my God-” Benny moans, thrusting forward into Rodeo’s mouth without meaning to. Rodeo chokes, and Benny apologizes, running a hand along the side of his face soothingly. “Sorry honey, you’re just, I mean - Jesus, hang on -”
Benny falls backwards onto the bed, panting, as his dick slips out of Rodeo’s mouth. Rodeo puts his hands on his knees, taking a second to wipe the excess saliva from his chin with the back of his hand.
“‘S matter?” He asks, surprised at how hoarse his voice is. Benny pushes himself up. A few beads of sweat have formed at the top of his brow, sliding down his forehead, and his face is flushed. Rodeo almost wishes Benny were still clothed, panting beneath him on the bed. Not that he doesn’t appreciate the view he has now, but it would have been fun. Pull him around by his tie a bit, see if he could get him to start begging.
Maybe in Vegas. Rodeo imagines himself reuniting with Benny in a couple months time, Benny being so grateful for a job well done that he lets Rodeo sneak back in with him onto the Strip and play the Blackjack tables for a few hours. Between the cards and the booze, surely there’d be time for another go round. Maybe on a bed that didn’t have someone else’s come stains on it this time.
“Nothin’ the matter, kid, ‘cept you had me ready to blow. Give this old cat a minute, or it’s gonna be a real short opening act.”
Huh. Maybe it had been a while for Benny too. But then again, that was sort of what he’d been aiming for, given that he had been planning for this tonight. And unless Benny had a real sick idea of what blackmail entailed, he hadn’t either. “That’s fine.” He says, “I don’t exactly have anything on me, and I got a long day tomorrow, so…”
Benny snorts. “Yeah, I don’t go around makin’ a habit outta this sort of thing.” Rodeo’s not sure if he means blackmail or one night stands. Both seemed like equally likely activities for him to be regularly engaging in.
“Next time.” Rodeo shrugs, and Benny just gives him this weird little half-smile then Benny’s cock is back in his mouth and he’s moaning again. Rodeo pulls off a moment, stroking Benny a couple of times while leaning over him to kiss him, smirking when he presses harder against the head and Benny’s back arches off the bed.
“Probably a good thing we’re only gettin’ to third base. If we had the time I’d fuck you hard enough that the whole hotel’d be hearin’ about it.” Rodeo whispers into Benny’s ear.
He laughs dismissively, maintaining composure as best he could with another man’s hand around his cock. “You wish palie. Keep dreamin’.”
“I’d ride you too. Doesn’t matter. Outcome’s still the same.” Benny groans, thrusting again into Rodeo’s hand. He lets him do this for a while, then switches hands, stopping a minute later to take off his boxers. Rodeo places them on the bed, grabbing at his cock and sliding back down to his knees. Benny watches him jerk himself off for a few moments then grows impatient, shifting his hips so Rodeo knows to get back to it.
Now that his jaw’s had some time to adjust, Rodeo returns to sucking Benny off with a renewed vigor, bobbing his head up and down and kneading little circles into the meat of Benny’s thighs. The thought occurs to him of how easy it would be to kill Benny right now, lying literally naked and vulnerable with his dick in his mouth. Benny’s gun is probably still over on the desk, loaded.The bodyguard was probably still outside, but Rodeo had dealt with worse. He could be out the door in minutes and out of whatever this was that Benny had roped him into.
Later, when he looks back on this, Rodeo will tell himself that he had been too tempted by the caps or the possibility of returning to Reno with a full pardon. Both are naive reasons, banking on the promises of a man whose word cannot be trusted, but they are not the truth.
Rodeo does not think of killing Benny because he is scared. Raiders were easy. People who ran up on you in a dark alley way were people who had it coming. And he’d killed his first feral ghoul when he was twelve using their neighbors .32 rifle. But men that called you baby, men that folded their slacks so they wouldn’t crease and made you laugh in a bar when you were alone and miserable? Even when those men blackmailed you, it was still someone you’d talked to, someone who had a face and a life and a voice you’d never be able to pretend you didn’t hear. He’d never killed a man like that before.
So he doesn’t. When Benny comes in his mouth a few moments later, crying out, Rodeo even lets him. Benny pulls out quickly as Rodeo looks for something to spit into, settling on a handkerchief he pulls from his jean pocket. He returns to the bed, feeling a bit bad about the fact that he’d been contemplating the pros and cons of murdering Benny when he was actively blowing him at the same time. If he ever got around to seeing one of those brain doctors that worked with the Followers, maybe he’d mention it.
“Wow, babydoll, that was some top notch stuff.” Benny says, still a bit breathless. Rodeo rolls his eyes playfully.
“I bet you say that to all the girls.”
“Only the good-lookin’ ones, honey, I promise.” Benny sits up, eyeing Rodeo’s dick. It’s flagged some in the past few minutes, but it starts to swell again seeing the way Benny’s spread out on the bed in front of him. “Why don’t you come over, let the Ben-Man show you a good time?”
Now that would be enough to ruin a boner for him, but it’s been a long night, so Rodeo complies. Noting Benny’s eyes still on his dick, he kisses him, getting the horrible feeling that he’s about to say something even worse about the carpets and the drapes. Whatever it is, he’s heard it before.
They kiss slower this time, Benny working small marks into his neck before reaching for his cock, now fully hard again. It’s pleasant at first, until things get too dry, then Benny readjusts so he can pop the head of Rodeo’s cock into his mouth, working slowly down. It feels good, so good, and it’s been such a long time since he’s had anyone suck him off.
Benny’s mouth is warm, tongue soft but insistent as he alternates between bobbing his head back and forth on his cock and licking the head while playing with Rodeo’s balls.
When he begins blowing him again in earnest, Rodeo accidentally thrusts hard a few inches too far down his throat. To the man’s credit, he doesn’t gag, but Rodeo still apologizes. “It’s been a minute for me.” He admits. “On the road and all. Haven’t had time.”
Benny lets off a second, coughing, then responds: “This ain’t my first trip around the block. I can handle it.” Rodeo’s not given much time to process that before Benny’s mouth is back on his cock. He grabs ahold of the bedsheets, balling it into a fist to keep from moving again. He settles for gentle motions, never thrusting more than a half an inch or so at a time. Benny pulls at the back of his thighs, urging Rodeo to go deeper. He does, playing with the little hairs at the back of Benny’s neck, as the muscles in his legs begin to tighten and the mounting pressure of his orgasm finally gives way.
Afterwards, Benny does not ask Rodeo to leave, so he takes it as an invitation to stay, too tired to make the walk back to his room. He dreams of Vegas, mind awash with the near infinite ways to spend his soon to be found caps and freedom, unaware that somewhere, a rattlesnake has already sunk its teeth into its prey.
- - - - -
Benny’s gone the next morning when Rodeo wakes up, as expected. He leaves a note on the desk, which Rodeo reads as he brushes the sleep from his eyes, the stale taste of last night’s whiskey sitting heavy in his mouth.
Thanks for showing this cat a good time. You Reno boys really know how to make a guy feel welcome. Sayonara baby. I’ll see you in Vegas. Don’t disappoint.
The note is signed, Benny’s name printed with a flourish at the bottom of the page. Rodeo shoves the note and the map from the night before into the pocket of his jacket, then heads for the door.
He’s got a delivery to make.