Dash and Dingo Page 5

  “So, the tarantulas?” Henry teased.

  “I hate to say this, but they’re actually quite tasty, if you can get past the idea,” Dingo said thoughtfully. “And the legs. But Phraya doesn’t do them here. Apparently they’re better fresh out of the ground.”

  “Damn,” Henry said, pretending to be disappointed, although he was secretly glad he wouldn’t be expanding his gastronomic horizons quite that far. “How did you meet Phraya?”

  “Just walked in here one day. The most amazing smell was coming out the door, and I was hungry.” Dingo shrugged. “How does one meet anyone?”

  “I guess it depends what circles one moves in,” Henry said thoughtfully. He leaned back to allow Maew to set down a platter of something that was completely unrecognizable, although it smelled rather appetizing. “Khurp.”

  Maew smiled and nodded, before backing away with a bow.

  Henry picked up the chopsticks and dug them into the pile on the platter, lifting whatever it was to his mouth, which was instantly filled with a spicy, savory flavor of something garlicky. It was some kind of vegetable, still a bit crunchy as he chewed.

  “You know how to use chopsticks?” Dingo said, as if amazed by Henry’s prowess with them.

  “I have eaten in Chinese restaurants, you know,” Henry said with a grin. “This is quite tasty.”

  “Hope it’s not goat,” Dingo muttered as he selected a piece.

  Henry wondered what kind of experience Dingo had had with goat, but didn’t bother to inform him that the dish consisted of vegetables in a spicy sauce.

  “Not goat,” Dingo said in a tone of satisfaction.

  While the two men ate, Maew came to the table with two bowls of sticky rice, indicating that the vegetables should be eaten with them.

  Henry identified a hint of basil, but the subtle flavors of unknown spices escaped him. He decided that he liked it anyway, and the beer complemented the food perfectly. His usual limit was two, but he was already on his fourth, although he was sure he wasn’t getting drunk. It was still warm enough that he felt he was sweating out the alcohol almost immediately.

  “What’s our next stop, and when do we leave?” Henry asked.

  “Prachuab, another stop in Siam. Then on to Malaysia,” Dingo answered. “Why? Are you in a hurry to leave?”

  Henry gave a sigh of contentment as Maew brought a dish that he recognized as shrimp with some unidentifiable vegetables. “I’ve never traveled before, overseas I mean, bar going to Paris once with my parents and brother on a school holiday.”

  “You definitely have to get out more, Dash.” Dingo grinned as he watched Henry lift a shrimp to his mouth, almost as if he were gloating over something, perhaps Henry’s lack of travel experience.

  Instantly Henry’s mouth was on fire, and he gasped in pain, breaking into a sweat. He continued to chew the shrimp, rather than spitting it out, and swallowed, which left a burning trail down his throat. He could feel heat flare in his stomach and grabbed for his beer.

  “Lao kao!” Dingo shouted, looking very amused. “I should have warned you, the shrimp are a tinge on the hot side.”

  “Thank you,” Henry replied in a hoarse whisper. “The warning’s a little late, though.”

  “I didn’t want to ruin your experience of it,” Dingo said virtuously.

  “It was delicious, if unexpected,” Henry admitted. He grabbed for the glass of clear liquid that Maew placed on the table before him.

  Dingo raised his glass as well. “Bottoms up.”

  Henry would have choked over the choice of words, but he was still in the process of lifting what he supposed was water to his lips, drinking hastily to wash away the last of the hot chilis and the visions brought to mind by Dingo’s toast, only to realize he was drinking some sort of alcohol with an herbal taste that had to be at least fifty proof. He put the glass down, sputtering and coughing whilst glaring at Dingo, who apparently found his performance quite hilarious.

  His voice completely out of commission at this point, Henry croaked, “You could have warned me!”

  “But it’s so much more fun this way,” Dingo said with a smirk. “Besides, I’m right with you.” He lifted his glass and took a sip.

  “Durn!” Henry whispered in Maew’s direction.

  “Bring us some water, nam,” Dingo said. “You’ll need water as a chaser.”

  “I’m not going to keep drinking that,” Henry squeaked as his voice began to return.

  “You don’t want to offend Phraya, do you? This is his homemade brew. He doesn’t give it to just anyone; you should be flattered that he brought it out for you on your first time,” Dingo remonstrated. “He didn’t give me any until my second visit.”

  Henry glared at Dingo. “Do you always get people to do whatever you want?”

  “If only,” Dingo muttered. Then he grinned. “Come on, be a sport. How often in your lifetime are you going to be in Bangkok? Besides, the herbs in the hooch are a kind of natural hangover antidote. No matter how drunk you get, you won’t feel a thing tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think I can feel a thing now,” Henry warbled, his voice climbing at least an octave. With Dingo looking so deliciously edible, he wasn’t at all sure that getting drunk with him would be a good idea, but a certain recklessness was growing within him. “What the hell.” He raised the glass of alcohol and took another swig. “It’s better than I thought,” he said appreciatively.

  “Keep them coming, Sway!” Dingo shouted. He laughed as Henry aimed his chopsticks for another shrimp.

  Chapter 5

  Dingo hummed to himself as he staggered into the hotel, unsteady from all the lao kao he’d drunk and from Henry’s weight bearing him down. On the last leg of their return journey to the hotel, Henry’s feet had stopped moving, and he would have fallen if not for Dingo’s grip around his waist and his arm draped over Dingo’s shoulder.

  Dingo nodded to the uniformed boy who ran the elevator and managed to maneuver both himself and Henry inside with a minimum of bruising. “Two,” he said, and the boy nodded, beaming at him and closing the cage with a metallic clash.

  Dingo propped Henry’s insensible form up against the wall of the elevator, feeling his knees give as the elevator started its journey upward. He swayed against Henry’s body when the elevator came to rest on their floor. “Got a bit of muscle under those natty suits, don’t you, Dash,” he muttered admiringly. “Dash! You awake?”

  When Henry let out a snore, Dingo grinned and said, “Guess not.” He stooped to allow Henry to fall over his shoulder, grunting as he pressed upward with his burden. “Khurp.”

  “You are most welcome, sir,” the elevator boy answered in perfect, if accented, English.

  Dingo wandered down the hall, eventually finding his room after squinting blearily at the numbers. He leaned forward to rest Henry’s weight against the wall and free a hand to fumble for his key, interrupting himself to pat the tempting rounded flesh of Henry’s bum, upturned over his shoulder. “Tasty, verrry tasty,” he slurred.

  After only four tries, he finally got the key into the lock and eventually even remembered to turn it. Pushing off the wall, Henry’s weight caused him to enter the room somewhat precipitously, and he staggered unsteadily toward the bed, where he allowed Henry to roll off his shoulder and bounce onto the mattress.

  “Gotta get me keys,” Dingo reminded himself, and he made his way back to the door, hanging onto a bureau for support along the way. He extracted his key after only a minor struggle and shut the door, sliding the bolt across. “Hot,” he muttered. He dropped his hat on the floor, missing putting it onto the bureau on the way back, and stripped off his shirt, letting it fall where it might. He bent to remove his shoes and fell forward, catching himself on his hands. “Better sit down. The ocean is rough tonight. Don’t want to get seasick.”

  Sitting on the floor, he laboriously removed his shoes and socks, unbuckled his belt and pushed at his trousers, somewhat bemused that he couldn’t get them past
his arse. “Oh well.” He stood up and took a step, tripping as his trousers fell to his ankles. “Oh, that’s where they are,” he said, observing his trousers hobbling him. With exaggerated movements, he carefully lifted each foot one at a time, stepping out of them.

  “Dash is probably hot too,” he reminded himself. He moved toward the bed with the most humane of intentions. “This is only to help Dash. He’ll thank me for it. In the morning. Yes, he will.”

  With shaking hands, Dingo unbuttoned Henry’s shirt. He hesitated to touch the smooth, toned chest, even though he wanted to. Henry was built like a swimmer, long and lean, in direct opposition to his own more tightly knit build. Dingo wanted nothing more than to caress the creamy skin, perhaps take a taste of the innocent looking pink nipples so temptingly displayed, but he had an inchoate sense that it would not be the honorable thing to do, although he couldn’t exactly remember why that might be.

  “Gotta make him comfortable. Depending on me,” Dingo told himself. He managed to wrestle Henry out of his shirt without spilling him off the bed. Shoes and socks were easy, and Dingo only jumped once when the shoe he’d tossed over his shoulder smacked against the wall. “Oops.”

  Trousers went without a hitch, and Dingo was pleased with himself. “Getting the hang of this,” he murmured as he undid the fly and grasped the waistband. He braced himself and yanked, pulling the trousers out from under Henry like a tablecloth from under the dishes. “That’s more like,” he whispered.

  A light sheen of sweat made Henry’s skin gleam in the faint starlight that lit the room, but Dingo bent to peer into Henry’s face. He removed Henry’s glasses, folding them carefully and placing them on the nightstand. “Beautiful,” he murmured.

  Henry wasn’t conventionally handsome; his nose was a little bony but his cheekbones were high, his jaw beautifully sculpted. Thick dark lashes swept over his cheeks, and his lips were parted as he breathed in slowly. He looked younger when he wasn’t guarding his expression so carefully, and Dingo liked what he saw.

  He reached out to cup Henry’s cheek, surprised and gratified when Henry turned his face into his hand, rubbing his cheek against Dingo’s palm and smiling a little. Carefully, Dingo let his fingers trace the line of Henry’s jaw, over his Adam’s apple down, to the little dip at the base of his throat. It felt vulnerable and soft under his thumb as he rubbed a tiny circle there.

  Dingo gasped, wondering if touching a man in such a simple way had ever moved him this much. “There’s something about you, Dash….” He reached up to ruffle the other man’s hair, liking the silky feeling of the straight locks slipping over his fingers. Very unlike his own coarser strands.

  Realizing he mustn’t go any further, Dingo forced himself to step away from the bed, suddenly feeling much more sober. The very idea was dangerous, but he wondered what Dash would do if he woke up to find them curled together in the same bed. “Probably give him a heart attack and then that’s it for poor old Tassie,” Dingo said, grinning at his own fantasy.

  He looked around, seeing for the first time that they were in his room with Henry asleep on his bed. At least he hadn’t given Henry time to bolt the door between their rooms before they left for dinner, he thought, and he chuckled as he weaved his way into Henry’s room.

  He might not be able to have the thrill of sleeping with Henry in his arms, but at least he could still have the amusement of Henry’s horrified face in the morning, when he figured out he had slept in Dingo’s room. Resolving to wake early so he could be having a shower when Henry woke, Dingo fell across the bed in the other room and fell asleep almost instantly.

  Henry smiled before he opened his eyes and stretched luxuriously. The sounds from the street below reminded him that he was in Bangkok, and he felt rested, alert, and ready for anything.

  He opened his eyes to the unfamiliar room, watching a tiny beam of sunlight dance over the wall where it had slipped through the blinds. He turned onto his side, thinking of breakfast, a large pot of tea, and a shower, although not in that order. He could feel the remnants of yesterday’s sweat dried on his body, which reminded him of the bath the night before. His hand wandered lower, and he stroked himself lazily as his gaze wandered over the room.

  Spotting a pile of clothing crumpled on the floor, Henry frowned. Those trousers did not belong to him. And the hat was definitely not his; in fact, he remembered quite clearly that he hadn’t worn a hat the night before.

  His erection forgotten, he sat up abruptly, staring around the room, hoping that he hadn’t done anything he might regret in his drunkenness of the night before. In fact, his last clear memory was in the restaurant with the wizened Siamese cook who kept sending dish after dish to their table.

  And then it hit him. He was in Dingo’s room, in Dingo’s bed.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, clenching his cheeks, hoping that nothing… untoward had happened. He didn’t feel sore. In fact, he was still wearing his boxers. He clutched the waistband as if they alone guarded his virtue.

  He peered around. He seemed to be alone in the room. No sounds echoed from the bathroom. So if he was here in Dingo’s room, where was Dingo?

  Cautiously he got out of bed, his attention drawn by the adjoining door standing open. Peering cautiously around it, he chuckled silently at the sight of Dingo on his bed, still in his boxers, snoring heavily.

  Relieved beyond measure that he hadn’t betrayed himself, Henry reflected that he didn’t even know if Dingo was that way, despite his effusive physicality, that it would never do to become entangled with a man one was traveling with, particularly as he needed Dingo’s help to complete his mission.

  Henry decided he needed a shower. A cold one, and immediately. But then, he would need fresh boxers. Faced with this dilemma, it seemed there was only one solution; he would tiptoe into Dingo’s, or rather his own room, secure the underpants and retreat to Dingo’s room for a shower.

  The spirit of adventure that seemed to be growing with every day he spent away from England gave his foray almost an illicit thrill as he creeped into the darkened room, successfully capturing the object of clothing and retreating back into Dingo’s room.

  Once in the bathroom, the decision of whether to bolt the door seemed insurmountable. If Dingo woke up and realized where he was, wouldn’t he wish to return to his own room to wash and shave? It therefore seemed impolite to lock Dingo out of his own room. In the end, Henry opted to close the bathroom door, but not lock it, and to hurry in the shower, so as not to be caught off guard.

  The cold water felt good streaming over his sticky skin, and regretfully Henry wondered if he could manage to fit a swim in during this layover. Most probably not, but he hoped perhaps at some point that he would have a chance to swim in the waters of Tasmania. He had read that the beaches of Australia were some of the most beautiful in the world, and with such a reputation as that he couldn’t resist the opportunity if it arose. He scrubbed himself well and stepped out, drying off before wrapping the towel around his waist.

  Because the shower had been a cold one, the mirror hadn’t fogged over, and he was able to shave straightaway, deriving a tiny thrill out of using Dingo’s shaving mug and razor. He donned his boxers and hung up the damp towel neatly, feeling a sense of triumph that he’d gotten away with it.

  When he opened the bathroom door, Dingo’s snores assured him that the man was still asleep. Henry picked up the phone and ordered an English breakfast for two to be delivered to Dingo’s room, opting for the exotic sounding Siamese tea they offered rather than Indian.

  Then he went into his own room to rouse the other man. “Dingo! Time to rise and shine,” Henry barked loudly.

  He chuckled when Dingo jerked on the bed and grabbed a pillow, dragging it over his head. “Don’t shout,” came the muffled plea from under the pillow.

  Pulling the pillow out of Dingo’s grasp, Henry shouted, “What was that? Didn’t quite hear you.”

  “Lord help me,” Dingo groaned, prying his eyes open to
glare blearily at Henry. “Don’t you have a hangover?”

  “No, never have. Besides, you promised me that filthy stuff you made me drink last night had magical herbal powers and it seems to have worked. For me, at least.”

  Henry’s laugh seemed heartless to Dingo, and he stared at him reproachfully. “If I’d known I was traveling with a bloody sadist, I’d have….”

  “You’d have what?” Henry asked, his smile fading.

  “Nothing,” Dingo said hastily, sitting up. He grabbed his head as the movement made his head start to pound. “What did I drink last night that you didn’t?”

  “We were drinking the same thing, only you had more than I did,” Henry said. “Want an aspirin?”

  “Coffee,” Dingo moaned. “Then aspirin, then ice, and then maybe a gun, so you can put me out of my misery.”

  “I’ll add it to our order,” Henry said, crossing to the telephone. He felt a bit self-conscious, clad only in his boxers, but figured that two could play at this game. After all, yesterday Dingo had worn only a towel after his bath, and men who didn’t like other men apparently weren’t self-conscious about what they were or were not wearing, and suddenly it all seemed too confusing, keeping track of what “normal” men did or didn’t do before other men. The hell with it. “Room two sixteen, I’d like to add a pot of coffee to our order. Cream, yes, and sugar.”

  “What did you order for us?” Dingo asked curiously.

  “English breakfast, buttered muffins, bacon, eggs….” Henry paused, grinning maliciously as Dingo turned a delicate shade of green. “I hope you’re hungry.”

  “I need a shower,” Dingo announced. He got out of bed and headed for his own room.

  Henry was glad to see he was a bit unsteady on his feet. After all, Dingo couldn’t have everything all his own way. “Take my towel. I used yours,” he said, going into this bathroom to get it. He tossed it at Dingo, who caught it with both hands against his chest.