Chapter 5
JAMES
The elevator ride up was ripe with the sort of tension I was certain I would never know again. The tension of a beautiful, mysterious, sexy young man at my side. The tension of not wanting to mess this all up. The tension of not letting my teeth clatter too loudly, for as nervous as I was.
And why was I nervous? Really, nothing was going to happen between us. I was just giving him a place to sleep. I was being a decent human being.
A decent human being to a strapping, gorgeous young man.
“These smell so damned good,” he mumbled.
He was referring to the doggie bag of egg sandwiches he held that I ordered to-go from the twenty-four-hour diner downstairs.
I gave him a tightened smile. “Everything tastes better when you eat it after four in the morning.”
“And you’re starved after two hours in the arcade.”
“Three,” I corrected him. And a half.
Ding.
I forgot to count the floors.
We stepped off the elevator and trudged the short hallway to my room at the loneliest corner of the seventh floor of Hearts Tower. It wasn’t until I pushed into the room and flicked on the lights that it even occurred to me.
“Shit,” I blurted out.
Lucky closed the door behind us and spun around, an eyebrow lifted. “What?”
“I …” I shut my eyes and shook my head. “Honest mistake. I—”
“What?”
I sighed and gestured toward the bed—the one king size bed. “I swear I usually get double rooms. Like, always. I get the ones with the double beds, since my friends and I share two rooms among us, normally. I totally, seriously, genuinely forgot that I … that I got myself only one king size bed this time.”
Lucky came farther into the room, still gripping the doggie bag in his fist, and stared at the bed. “That’s a big damned bed.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll …” I sighed and shook my head. “Look. You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”
At that, he frowned. “No fuckin’ way. This is your room. You should take the bed.”
“No, no. Seriously. The … The chair is comfortable. It even has an ottoman. I’ll just kick back in that, and you can have the bed.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
After a second of hesitation, Lucky shrugged lightly, threw his backpack and the doggie bag on the bed, then sat down on the edge of it. In the next instant, he peeled off his fitted hoodie and tossed it next to him, revealing his chiseled body in that same white tank top he wore when I first met him last weekend.
I don’t know how a kid on the streets kept up with a body like that. He must do pull-ups on fire escapes and bench press old discarded furniture. He wasn’t exactly a hulking bodybuilder—slender and lithe as his shape was—but he was intimidating. I doubt I’d find an ounce of extra body fat on him anywhere if I pinched every part of him to find it. The skin on his arms looked so taut, I could see the veins in his shapely biceps as he spilled the sandwiches from the doggie bag, snatched one up, then brought it to his mouth. Even the muscles at his neck and shoulders were tight and corded, flexing as he angled his neck to get another bite. He probably felt like marble and steel to the touch.
I should know. I crashed into that body once already.
All of this observation existed in the space of two seconds before I reached across the bed, grabbed my own sandwich, and took it to the chair to eat. I flicked on the TV at half volume, then flung the remote onto the bed. For the next ten minutes, the two of us watched whatever horror movie was playing on the hotel’s free movie channel while we stuffed our faces.
He balled up the bag when he finished, his biceps bulging again for my viewing pleasure, then he proceeded to stare at the crumpled up bag as his mind went somewhere else entirely.
I watched him, the rest of my sandwich forgotten. It turned out that I wasn’t very hungry after all, watching Lucky as he sat there, lost in thought. I couldn’t possibly know what was going through his head. Was he feeling thankful to have a bed tonight in a warm room? Or was he scared that I was just a question away from turning into one of those pervs he kept encountering?
Then I told myself that it wasn’t about me. I tried to imagine what might make him feel better. My mind landed on one thing as I gazed at his dirty hoodie. “Hey, Lucky?”
He looked up at me and grunted, lifting an eyebrow.
“If … If you wanna take a shower, I have a spare set of clothes you can h-have.” I almost said “borrow” until I realized how dumb that sounded. “It’s just a grey shirt with a pair of dice on it. It’s … something I always bring here for some reason but never wear. And I have a spare pair of, uh … shorts. Red shorts.”
He didn’t quite acknowledge what I said. He seemed drawn back to the balled up bag in his fist, like he was trying to lure some sort of dark, existential poetry out of it.
I had no idea how much of my hospitality Lucky was willing to accept before things got plain weird between us. I mean, I was literally offering him a free set of clothes. My clothes. I even had spare socks if he wanted them.
Was I overdoing it?
I decided I wouldn’t make him suffer the humiliation (if that was what I could call it) of having to accept my offer. I rose from the chair and pulled open my bag. Lucky watched me. I took out the grey t-shirt and some red athletic shorts, then brought them into the bathroom and set them neatly on the counter with an unopened bar of hotel-brand soap resting on top.
This isn’t weird, I told myself. You’re caring for another human being. Let it happen. He’ll appreciate it.
I came out of the bathroom. Lucky was still looking my way. “I left you clothes on the counter,” I told him, my voice soft. “And there’s a bar of soap. Towels.” I ran out of words, so I just gestured awkwardly at the bathroom. “It’s all yours.” Then I stiffly made my way back to my chair and ottoman to finish my egg sandwich, my eyes glued to the floor as I took a hearty bite and chewed with conviction, saying nothing else.
I heard Lucky rise off the bed. The sound drew my attention up to his tapered backside as I watched him—slowly, reluctantly, and without a word—stroll across the carpet toward the bathroom with his backpack hanging loosely from his left shoulder. I could visibly see the weight of his decision to accept my help by the subtle way his shoulders slouched as he went.
Then the door closed behind him.
I sat there with my half-eaten sandwich while staring at the TV screen at a horror movie that had lost all context. A scared, nameless teen in the woods, shirtless and wide-eyed, was hiding from a knife-wielding man-monster with a forked tongue.
Maybe Lucky was the scared teen.
Maybe I was the forked-tongue man-monster.
When I heard the water twist on, I looked up at the bathroom door and listened. I struggled to imagine what Lucky’s life was like before he became homeless. Considering his build and facial hair, he had to be in his twenties. Maybe early twenties. Was he kicked out of his house? Did he run away from an abusive situation? Was he evicted from his apartment and had nowhere to turn?
What if he used to live his life with pride, strutting through a gym somewhere in town (because let’s be blunt here: this ripped boy worked out) and exuding confidence? What if he was the king of his campus, all his friends looking up to him?
What if the homeless “dirty street rat” he had become was his living nightmare?
I kicked myself out of the chair and pulled out my phone, then started swiping. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Maybe I just needed something innocent to fidget with while there was a hot, gorgeous young man showering in my hotel bathroom.
In my endless scrolling, I landed on a receipt for my previous weekend. I stared at the number for too long, my heart sinking.
I’d lost a lot of money to this place over time. Thousands.
What if I really was an addict? What if I was addicted to the idea of breaking free from my life, from the bank, from the grind and the routine and the monotony?
What if that hunger was enough to make me lose it all on the high-dollar poker table one of these weekends?
Maybe I needed to stop feeling so much sympathy for Lucky and, instead, try to see him as an equal. Maybe I could end up just like him, on the streets, penniless, and desperate for help, despite every ounce of my pride refusing to accept said help from anyone.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the TV, not really seeing it. My phone hung loosely in my grip, ignored just as well. The soft drumming of shower water against the wall from the bathroom was all I heard for the longest time. I imagined what it must be like to take a shower after enduring the streets for weeks.
Or months.
How long had it been for Lucky?
I doubted a real shower even compared to the occasional self-clean-up in the sink of a public bathroom, which I imagined was his only means to maintain any semblance of hygiene.
I was giving this too much thought.
Figuring I ought to get changed for bed myself, I stood up, my fingers fidgeting, and pulled out my last remaining pair of shorts: some blue ones with a white stripe down the sides. I peeled off my jeans, tossed them over the ottoman, and tiredly pulled on the shorts. My elbow pinched a bit when I took off my shirt and traded it for a white one that had two dragons battling each other on the front. I rubbed my arm, smirking, as I kicked off my shoes, then found myself plopped back on the edge of the bed, waiting.
Waiting.
When the water cut off, I hardly noticed. The brief bursts of scary music, screeching violins, and teenagers screaming for their lives blared half-muted from the TV and filled the whole room. I’d become a statue on the bed, unfeeling and almost sleepy. Even with Lucky there, I felt like all I needed to do was put my head against a soft surface and I’d be out.
Then the bathroom door swung open.
I looked up.
My heart stopped. I was not prepared for this. Cloaked in a wisp of steam, Lucky wore nothing but a towel—which, to say the very least, hid nothing at all from my unblinking eyes.
Nothing at all.
The towel was wrapped so tightly around his waist, it made a more than generous bulge of his junk.
Is this repayment or punishment for my kindness, and why can’t I tell the difference?
Then he turned around to grab something off the counter, and my eyes glued to his ass. Oh, how that low-hanging towel cradled each of his supple, pert, dimpled butt cheeks exquisitely …
His back muscles were insane. Slender as he was, there was an incredible amount of definition that rippled over his shoulders each time he moved his arms. The smooth crevice that ran down the middle of his back led the eye to two dimples of muscle right above his ass. A tiny peek of gluteal cleavage was visible at the top of the towel, which could have made me choke on air right then.
Gluteal cleavage.
Yeah, I’m owning the term.
He bent his head out of the bathroom and met my gaze. “You got any cotton swabs?” he asked, wiggling a finger near his ear.
I coughed, shook my head, then nodded. “Y-Yeah. I have some Q-tips in a b-b-baggie.” Stop stuttering. I pushed off the bed and went for my bag, pulling out a big plastic baggie of toiletries I never bothered to set in the bathroom when I first checked in to that room countless hours ago. “Here.” I handed the whole bag to him half-blindly, refusing to stare at his magnificently muscled chest, which was still gleaming from the steam and dusted with a little hair, two pink nipples, and an army of abs racing down his happy trail toward his plentiful bulge where—
Stop it.
“Thanks,” he mumbled, noticing none of my reaction as he snatched the bag from my hand and slipped right back into the bathroom to finish his post-shower business.
I planted myself right back on the edge of the bed and stared, blank-eyed, at the TV. It was already showing the credits to the horror movie. I supposed all the stupid teens died in the end. Who knew. I sure as fuck didn’t.
After hearing a lot of things rattling about in the bathroom, I remembered something and called out, “There’s a few disposable toothbrushes in there, too. If you need one. And toothpaste.”
“I got my own,” he called back.
His backpack. There was no telling what he kept in it. I bit my lip and took a breath, willing my body to calm the hell down. I had to remind myself that this wasn’t a date despite how it felt. This wasn’t a one-night stand, either, of which I’d had so few, I could count them on a hand. Half a hand. Okay, one finger.
He came out of the bathroom.
And of course he was only wearing the red shorts.
No, they didn’t hide any more of him than the towel did. On the contrary, I not only got the shape of his junk, but now I was blessed with movement. I would put a hundred bucks down that he wasn’t wearing any underwear.
And maybe another hundred that he didn’t care.
Also, I could count every inch.
Of which there were several.
“So what’s on?” he mumbled as he climbed onto the bed, then pushed several of the pillows together and leaned back against the headboard. “Is that scary movie over? How’d it end?”
Was he seriously going to sit up in bed looking like that—his abs half-crunched, his sculpted chest on display—and act like I was supposed to just accept it without gawping at him? He had to know what he was doing. He had to be fucking with my head.
Or he wasn’t, and I was just making this all about me. Relax.
I peeled my eyes away from him, determined to act normal. Totally fucking normal. “They died,” I answered.
“Why are you all the way down there on the edge of the bed?”
I half-twisted to him. “No reason. I just changed, and—”
“Sit back here with me.”
“I was just—”
“Come on. Watch TV with me.”
Without another protest, I climbed the rest of the way onto the bed and leaned against the headboard with him. Despite all the available room on this enormous bed, there was barely two feet of space between our bodies. That was a fact I became instantly and blaringly aware of. With just a shift of my eyes, I could see his hands as they rested lazily on his red-shorts-clad lap.
Those were once my red shorts. They were mine no longer. I couldn’t even picture myself in them anymore, not without also picturing Lucky’s thighs, Lucky’s hips, and Lucky’s huge swinging pendulum of pleasure.
Those are his shorts now.
I lifted the remote and started clicking through the channels. “It’s all just infomercials and crap,” I complained.
“You’re going through the channels so fast. How can you even tell what’s on?”
“After four, it’s just diet pills, exercise equipment, and stuff in other languages.” I tossed the remote on the bed to my side. “Let’s just see what movie’s on next.”
“I know about infomercials. Shit, I’m familiar with basic TV scheduling. I just—Here. Give me that thing.” He reached over my lap for the remote.
His elbow dug into my crotch as he stretched his beautiful, shirtless, lithe body over me.
I clenched shut my eyes and let out a groan.
I knew it would be the closest I’d ever get to feeling him touch my actual cock. And the sensation was more like being kneed in the balls in slow motion.
Except I liked it.
A lot.
When he got the remote, he leaned back into his position, and his elbow left my crotch as quickly as it had planted itself there.
I couldn’t even pay attention at all as he scrolled through the channels acting like he didn’t just bury an appendage in my fast swelling nether regions. I was fighting these weird urges I hadn’t felt since I could properly call someone my boyfriend. Urges like gently putting an arm around him and pulling him against my side. Or reaching for his hand and locking my fingers between his. Or resting my head on his shoulder and snuggling up to his arm.
Or creeping a hand onto his tight, toned thigh and waking up the beast that slept in those red shorts.
Or putting my lips against his to finally learn what he tastes like.
“This looks like a good one,” he decided, landing on some sort of nature channel with a very posh English guy’s voice narrating activities in the wilds of a rainforest. On the screen was a monkey of some kind hanging one-armed from a branch, scoping the trees.
I slouched a bit against the headboard. I promise it wasn’t an attempt to get closer to him, even if the space between our bodies just decreased by an inch or two. “You like nature?”
“Yeah.” He said nothing more, watching and listening.
“Don’t get much of it here in town,” I noted.
No response. I slouched some more, then swiped the only remaining pillow and hugged it to my chest as we stared at the TV, slowly and patiently being educated about the various species that lived in the upper canopy among the treetops, closest to the sky.
It wasn’t until the first commercial break that I heard his deep breathing.
I turned, startled by it at first. His eyes were closed and his head had drooped to the side. His closer hand had opened slightly, half-spilling the remote onto the bed.
Well, that was quick. He was already out. I couldn’t help but appreciate for a moment how beautiful he looked while he slept.
Then a different emotion entirely fell over me.
It was overwhelming.
Everyone desires you, I realized as I watched him. Those fortunate enough to pass by you on the streets, they don’t see a homeless kid. They see a beauty. And they want that beauty. They want your body. They want your lips. They want your sex. They don’t care about anything else at all. They see an opportunity to make their dreams come to life … at the expense of yours.
And what was his dream? To find a family again? To find a home that he could trust? Despite trying to get to know him all night long, I realized in the end that I barely knew him at all. I had no grasp on the stuff that counted. Where was he from? What put him in this set of grueling, heartbreaking circumstances?
And what the fuck was I doing except creeping on him like the thousands of other fools who desired him to no end?
I didn’t want to be just another. I wanted to be the person who broke the chain of users who swept through his life.
I had to be that person.
Even if my cock, my heart, my gut, my brain, my mouth, my nerves, my twitching fingers, my longing eyes, and my empty soul desperately desires something else.
Ever so gently, I crawled off the bed, taking the one pillow with me. Climbing into my cushy chair by the big floor-to-ceiling window, I pulled the ottoman close, hugged tight my cottony companion, then closed my eyes to the sound of monkeys howling and a soft English voice murmuring, “With such predators abound, Atilda and her infants would not be sleeping easy tonight.”
You can say that again.