Bowie went to the front desk, saying he was looking for Javier in 318. The man frowned, picking up the phone and dialing. He spoke to somebody on the other end, giving them Bowie’s name, before nodding and pointing to the elevators.
The ride to the third floor seemed to take forever. When Bowie raised his hand to pound on the door, he didn’t expect to have it yanked open before he could even knock. The man who answered was definitely not Javier. He was young, with dirty blond hair, a five o’clock shadow, and pajama pants that hung low on his hips. Bowie tried not to let jealousy eat through him but it was impossible.
“He’s not here,” the man drawled.
Lawson. His roommate.
“Where is he?” Bowie asked, hating how much he sounded like a jilted lover.
“Out of town, I guess,” Lawson said, bracing a forearm against the door like he was trying to keep Bowie from seeing what was on the other side of it. Was Javier really out of town or was he just trying to keep his distance from him?
“Family emergency?” Bowie asked, his voice snottier than it needed to be.
Lawson shrugged, like he really didn’t give a fuck about any of this. “So he says.”
“I need to talk to him,” Bowie said.
“His phone’s going straight to voicemail.”
“I know. I have his phone number,” Bowie snapped. “Can I come in, please? I really don’t want to have this conversation in the hallway.”
Lawson swung the door open. On the couch was an older man quickly attempting to cover himself with the leather cushion.
“Sorry,” Bowie said to the stranger on the couch.
“Who are you, man?” Lawson asked.
Oh, right. “I’m Bowie. You’re Lawson, right?”
Bowie watched as Lawson connected the dots. “Oh, that explains it,” he muttered, then his brows knitted together. “Actually, it doesn’t explain things at all. You aren’t even remotely his type.”
Bowie’s lip curled. “Well, fuck you very much.”
Lawson chuckled. “Trust me, that’s a good thing. But, still, he’s not here. You’ll have to find other ways to entertain yourself tonight.”
“I’m not here for a booty call. I need to talk to him. I have a number for him. What I need is a phone.”
“Like the one you’re holding in your hand?”
Bowie looked down at his powered off phone. “No, like one the cops can’t trace.”
Lawson seemed amused. “You get that you can pick one up at any corner drug store, right?”
“One that the cops can’t trace back to me?” Bowie asked, feeling a bit stupid.
“Not if you pay with cash.”
Bowie flexed his foot, the stretch of the ligaments keeping him focused. “Are you willing to risk Javier’s life on that?”
Lawson pinched the bridge of his nose as the man on the sofa slipped his shoes on. “I’m going to get going. This seems like you have a lot going on right now.” The man squeezed between the two of them, winking at Lawson. “Call me.”
“I don’t even have his number,” Lawson muttered once the door shut. “Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get that guy into bed?”
Bowie looked Lawson up and down. “You don’t look like somebody who has to work too hard to get anybody into bed.”
“Not anybody. Him. I’ve been trying to work that connection for months. Ugh. Anyway, give me your address. Your phone’s not on now, is it?”
“No.”
