Going for Broke

Chapter 1

It is not Blaine's usual habit to stop for a drink, but the stock market has chosen this particular day to trip him, kick him a few times in the ribs, liberally use the baseball bat and spit on his Armani suit for good measure. So it is with weary and slightly short-tempered disposition that Blaine Anderson makes his way into Plonk Bar, the most expensive and perhaps most unfortunately named establishment in the neighborhood.

Blaine doesn't even bother heading straight for the counter; instead, he finds a small table tucked away in a dimly lit corner, far from any other patrons. He doesn't need companionship. He drops his briefcase with a thud, wincing when he remembers his laptop is in there, and sinks into the booth, burying his head in his folded arms.

He is so busy listing the reasons to commit hari-kari over plummeting stocks that he doesn't hear the stranger approach until he has sat down across from him and cleared his throat. Blaine raises his head, startled, only to be met by the sight of soft green eyes, murky in the low light.

"Need a drink?" The man ignores Blaine's shock and slides a glass across the table, leaving a wet trail behind on the wood. "Of course, I wasn't sure what you wanted, but hell—a beer's a beer, right?"

"Um...right." Blaine takes the drink, lifts it to his mouth without actually swallowing and stares at his new companion through the foggy glass. Messy chestnut hair (which for some unknown reason has specks of red in it), slightly pale skin, wearing tight jeans and a knit sweater—certainly not the usual uptown bar customer. He has a purple sharpie tucked behind one ear, and heavy smears of charcoal on his face. He looks younger, around Blaine's own age, and he moves his shoulders every few seconds as if trying to work out a kink in his back. He's fucking gorgeous too, not that Blaine spends much time gaping at the way his neck disappears into the taunting looseness of his collar, or the high set of his cheekbones.

"My shoes cost twenty-five bucks, by the way. On sale. Are you done?" The man smiles, only slightly mocking, and Blaine lowers his glass sheepishly. "I didn't spike it or anything if that's what you're worried about."

"Then why give it to me?" Blaine asks. He has no obligation to be polite to a stranger, after-all.

The man shrugs, hands curling around his own tall glass of amber liquid. "Looked like you could use it, and weren't planning on ordering any time soon."

Blaine frowns, and takes a small sip of the beer. It tastes normal, or at least not extraordinarily different. "Still...why?"

"Why a random act of kindness for a complete stranger?" The man shrugs again. "Maybe I wanted to be an anomaly. Break the mold."

Blaine 'hmms' and takes another sip. That can't be it. People don't work like that. He tries to study the man once again, more surreptitiously through his eyelashes. But he's watching Blaine right back, the beginnings of a smirk spreading across his impish face.

"Or maybe..." the stranger continues, "I want to somehow atone for something I've done. Maybe I killed someone. Stole from an old lady. Kicked a puppy. And I'm just trying to balance out the karma."

"Maybe you're just trying to fuck up my head even more," Blaine grumbles, but he can't stop his own smile. Just who is this person?

"There's that." The man laughs easily before lifting his glass and taking a large gulp of his drink. He thumps the glass back down and presses his lips together. "Actually, truth be told, I came into a bit of money recently, and wanted to see if rich beer somehow tastes better than the dirt-cheap crap. And you know what?" He makes a face. "It doesn't." He frowns, pushes the drink away, and props his chin up on his hands, studying Blaine's face in a way that makes the other squirm. "Tell me, why did you bother becoming rich if the beer is all piss anyway?"